it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
We are slighted by their presence
- but such is the way of diversity
If they come together, will it be pleasant
No, that is not even hard to see
As its center cannot hold
Ever coming apart, coming apart
Though pushed at every side
Fold under fold
                            Fold under fold
Of its dried out and crumbling heart
Slide then, cleft and drift and slide
And become again as of old
"Humpty dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty dumpty had a great fall"
And of that eggman we are not told
What from him hatched -- anything at all?


Will and Testament


it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
They would not had they known
But he knew they would not
He came forth as their will had shown
As one willing to be caught
His own of his own as Joseph of old
Found it just to be done with it
To have him cast alive into the pit
And thirty coins the price of him sold
A year's rent for the king of life
As those who sell their brother
To make peace with their own strife
Because he would be king of another?
And the world altogether is no more
For though it endure for a trillion year
Though to us it be more than dear
Than thirty silver - a ten and a score.
O small one, while you cast out God
For a life rich in your own pride
Or your family that you may quietly nod
Folding your hands, warm inside
One other has broken all the worlds for him
And the narrow seeing it, is made grim
At this, for ourselves we must groan
On this day, cast aside then every whim
"They would not, had they known."
a postscript is here written:
Since the time of the Apostles (in 2015, this would be nearly 1982 years) a fast has been declared on Wednesdays, in memory of the woman who poured out the costly ointment, and the disciple who sold his master for a pittance of silver in an envious response. As it is written, "When the bridegroom is no longer with them, then they will fast." Steel yourself against betrayal by mortifying the flesh with a fast.


After comparing the world to thirty silver we compare the costly ointment, worth perhaps 300 silver at that time, to all of the worlds. It was as though it was not enough for her to dedicate but the earth to God, but all of the worlds must be dedicated to him. All of the worlds will perish in fire, as a burnt offering to God; and like her, they may be remembered forever as a blessing, or as with Judas, a curse. Such is the role of material things - they are not, ultimately, 'sustainable', but are gifts to be offered back in glorious fire.


The Orator Dismisses his Accuser


it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Not I, for I am not an aesthete
In them there is too much love
For that which they cannot complete
Life is pain enough just thinking of
How crooked the boughs bent down
A merciless gaze of True Beauty
In which there is no kindness or duty
At least has the dignity to frown;

Too much love of woman as thing
The humanist; with the image of Man
A Bachanalian in his cups to sing
Of which way his last fancy ran
It is thingness all the way down
Do not objectify, but love beauty?
But if lovely, then is love duty
And to possess all but then to frown?

Even the subject is an object with Man
A mystery of two paths must go
They say it is fine for those who can
But the have-nots must all know
But God bless the child, for gone-down
Is the reaching-across that is Beauty
Drowned now in the sea of strange duty
Lost is even her ephemeral frown;

You have made it all one thing or another
But is there not a wondrous pleasure
In writing 'she', just about one other
- an alien like myself without measure?
Sorrow, fear, laugh, at the last sundown
Write whatever you think is 'beauty'
But know, you who live without duty
You will live always with a frown.


The Sage Speaks Of The Social Medium


it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
To him the digital person assails
A true fake, but a heinous facade
Though something here strikes us odd
A test of truth most quickly fails
Had he looked in the mirror of late
But yet forgotten man's constant estate

Does the medium make man deceive
Is that the message it must always send
Does anyone decode at the other end
"All sense through a medium receive"
So says The One Who Knows such
And about this he might say as much

He who knows not himself at all
Is a fiction; but that story is his own
Though his time and face be on loan
From remembrance he did always fall
Man deceives everyone without a care
And the medium of that fiction is the air.


The Good Mother


it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Kind of heart; as all gracious-kind
Not a creature of war, but of victory
What price paid would still find
What was given to us yet for free
A keeper of every needy soul
Though herself not in body great
A small, soft and clever thing
Of grace, full;

                         Of graceful
Motion, Of low and lowly estate
Of quiet, though quietly we sing
About such our words sound dull
The good mother; in labor refined
As fine silver, as the salt just mined
If she will submit to be made whole
In just a word her Man will she find.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Ruddy child of March she called
When at last we were worried
Taking matters into our hands
Were they stalled; Were they stalled
Or were we far too hurried
God's gift, on her merit stands
May her gardens be wide-walled.


Harry Lee

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
This Englishman was not 'English' at all
Though wise and sharp of every rule
Cautious of every odd garden wall
Quintessence of the English school
Before all lips had gone sadly slack
Aside faint moments of plaintive guilt
They would recognize what he had built
When English had an Englishman's back
No turning tail to find safe return
No revisiting what we need not relearn
Do what you can, though we abound or lack
Do just that well, and greatness earn.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
lee kwan yew passing