it reads:
We've discovered indeed
A place where everything is near
It seems however that
From where I'm standing at
The things which are close by here
Are not the things we need.


The Temple of Mormon

it reads:
Standing dull, sun cloud oe'r blown
A gray ghost of a sentinel
Loom is the word, and how
With angel's brass - did risk
And not sculpted this six-obelisk
As theos of old, but now
Lidless, leering, unelemental
With no light of its own?
a postscript is here written:
This structure overlooks the Capital Beltway (interstate 495) north of Washington D.C.


The Weblog

it is addressed thusly:
A lament.
it reads:
Man wastes his will and mind on thoughts
Hardly worth the thinking;
Before his screed - its many 'oughts'
His fellow stands a-blinking,

Soon he'll acquire that subtlety
To catch a man off guard
He'll speak sarcasm, uncertainty
The trick is not so hard!

'Where is the debater of this age?'
I have seen it said,
He is here, his own web-page
His fingers dipped in red.


Technique and Artifice

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
We when writing of things lost
The barren and the ocean-tossed
Of broken men and all their fear
These are really all held dear
They are incidents to the work
Whose whole subject may yet lurk

Does defect in David's statuary
Make an unworthy burden to carry?
Wordsworth wrote of brokenness,
But lament, not curse, describes it best;
And even Jeremiah wept
But Israel his love was closely kept;

So cease to search for prophecy
To affirm an ideology
Within the poet's hard-won verse
Will be wail and never curse
And if curse is found to be
You have found not poetry.




The North Wind Through Empty Barns

it is addressed thusly:
An elegy.
it reads:
O king that is no king - do hear
I, cold north wind whisper in your ear
You sleep, you sleep! But I do not
Awake man or beast upon his cot.

Here I say I see the wintertime
Of your wealth, by fair or crime
See look at the writhing streets
The rage beneath each face that greets!

O king that is no king - the tower
Of your kingdom totters more each hour
But being a king not it is not yours
Though you dwell within its doors!

The people you say, the people must
Rise up and rebuild the public trust
And idling, sit like fake aristocrats
Stalk like lions, purr like cats.

O king that is no king - we gave
The mitre mild to all the nave
To stop the bishop's abusive ways
We hoped to buy as many days:

But behold the bishop bad was one
And now a pope behind each gun
Thinks himself the royal kind
And is not, even by his mind!

O king that is no king - your hand
Still has its grip upon this land
But being ill-used and oft untaught
Fell will be its victim's lot!

Xerxes of old would have not stood
For this corruption if he could
And call all his horses and his men
Put the sick man at rights again.

O king that is no king - I know
Of Xerxes wealth so long ago
Which would fall in barn and shed
That night his soul would know the dread!

But your wealth is still, cold and inert
Xerxes' rose from his own dirt
Hide it when peace dwindles low
Spend it not, and move it slow.

O king that is no king - look for
Ways to fortify your shore:
But realise your wealth is now
What your enemies allow.

You wait for the people's voice to rise
In your mind you fantasize
This is because you're wiser than
But really more the lesser man.

O king that is no king - my word!
Know that if you truly were a lord
You would see the way to heal the land
And your own wealth would go on your command
And ride the hills and through each stand
Of trees and set right our scattered band

"But you sleep in coins and notice-slips
Which now are reciepts and gambling chips"

I blow and blow and make you cold
And soon too your money will be old
O king that is no king be poor indeed!
And in our land at least -
You may be first to lead.


The Procrastinator

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
I had a remembrance of death
It came without warning; a breath
Of profound dread and fear
Of whispering in my ear:
"Are you ready? Is all in order?"
I lay unsteady; my mind on the border
Of sleep, ready for eventide
Do keep, the old ones had not lied
Many times I had thought about
The state which follows, to be without
Life, but to have the experience
Of the life of deeper sense
Which would be what? We're told
Our life will prefigure it before we're old
What we think, yes what we do
All we've seen, and what we knew
At the moment? And I was struck
How it was the same kind of luck
To wake up one morning and find
You had missed, time out of mind
Your chance to study for an exam
And I never was one to try to cram
And what good it would do here
With chast'ning death at my right ear?


Open up!

it reads:
Locked behind bars, we all are
Here in the city
Can espy no good from afar
And isn't that a pity.


The Ripening

it reads:
I've been growing spots
And I'm not a leopard;
The specks and spots are lots--
Growing old is but a word.



it reads:
I was once satisfied
To photograph the sky
Its luminous face
Its clouded eye.

At first vapor trails
Clouds like whales
Bright pink layer cake
Night ink'd star tails.

All these did fascinate
Lens and eye rotate
And crane to find
A scene to sate.

But then each photograph
Too many by half
How to administrate
Such sheaves of chaff?

In not long I'd forgot
Dawn and night-blot
Loud tinged cloud
For what, for what?

To fail when you start,
Amid then fall apart,
Costs counted amiss
This is no art;

Not to my credit then
Is to reach just the end
Down by laziness lie
And falter again;

I had my head in a cloud
You may say it aloud:
"To not start what you've finished,
Now that's not allowed!"



it is addressed thusly:
A riddle.
it reads:
Am I not a sun, made one
I make sight, which is light
Each other star, near, far
Is just like me:
These same begotten, have forgotten
Just how to see.


The Tempest

it reads:
Have we any right I wonder
To treat each other in this way?
When a slight, a minor blunder
Might rob the sky the light of day.