The Boy

it is addressed thusly:
An ode
it reads:
This child, what language does it speak?
I would have sworn it was one of my own
A child of Albion! Or at least halfway so
If I knew of the old tongues I could break
The code the strange syllables must form
Not spoken without purpose, but purposed
This child, in erratic fashion, to speak them
A prodigy of sudden turns and mayhem
Not play as we often said when perchance
This child did things strange and irrelevant
And always of disarming anger and tension
With purpose and never at all random
Wise perhaps, but simple and violent
Though smart enough to learn anything at all
Small in stature, by the marks on the wall
Still adorable, and all quite too innocent
This child, even as it does every havoc wreak
Climbing, tearing and with a new tantrum
For every boundary met, but yet in sum;
This child, what language does it speak?


When We Speak From the Night

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
When we speak from the night
Do we say what is true, do we?
Or do we speak conveniently
As recompense to every slight?
Anger is true, if angst is falsehood
Mind of earth and heart of wood
Of wormwood, even - but what word
Does fit a measured ferocity
Against sin; for such animosity
Could make all milk soon curd
If men of Vision are all drunken
On the wine of the Spirit shrunken
To the appetite of a man, I winced -
For those who drink do so at night
And if we must interpret right
Ours is then but absinthe --!
Strong certain, but bitter-strong
A drug for the mad, not for long
Taken, for only broken men fight
When we speak from the night.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
It was time to hibernate, we thought
To live off our fat for a month or two
Or three as bears, undisturbed within
Our lair, to wake only for spring
And Christmas wine, but to otherwise
Remain somewhat motionless in
The cold darkness; do the others see
How dark it has become? We wonder
but man must work and children call
But the spirit of winter is this; to find
The tomb inviting if only for its rest
Howbeit the bed and the cave alike
Remind, and the trees retreat to their root
The world is dead, as it will be dead again
And once was dead, though the sun is
Immortal, at least by the lives of men
And the seasons of the earth; How bright
Is the darkness when the frozen cold
Entombs in ice every last thing under
The demure moon; and perhaps the sleet
Is her tears in her lonely night
And endless track across the heaven
Like the road which was and is and will
Be; sometimes but a suggestion
But now a long, tired procession
Across the chilled face of the ground
Where the cars breath without sound
Of word or idea the inner man fought
It was time to hibernate, we thought.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Love has no history, and history no love
The mystery of history is what we're speaking of
History has no care or concern for the distant way
For the voices silenced before the coming of the day;

You are my arms, my legs, you are my hands and feet
To consider a man not but a cell, would it not be meet
To curse your birth and die the death, if you then must be
A statistical consideration of a faceless history?

But man is neither a thing at all if considered on his own
Such things are no more human; such things of earth and stone
That no man is, a statue gross, single and abstruse
A supposed immortal work of art, a work without a muse;

But man is not a museum just to stir a sentimental urge
Man is a procession, a festal funeral dirge
Played along that distant way, toward the waiting sea
The stones in love they walked above; such is History.


The Weeks and Days

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The weeks and days and hours of a life
Do they pass with each stray movement
Erratically, as in but a futile strife
For a momentary improvement?

Futility, it seems does make its house
Within such disjointed and numbered days
Where man and woman cannot but grouse
As each shoe and tire frays

And they still leave us a few of holidays
To make sure we don't decay to dust
But all the attitude betrays
That all is driven but by lust;

Listen for the bells or howling gale
Listen for the water running down
For the foghorn's mournful wail
For a footfall coming round;

Man does not get better by degrees
He only gets more worn and dull
It only marks increased disease
With each tick marked on the wall

Unless he become alive again
His work is but a quickened breath
For he himself is not his end
He must survive his death.


Digital Rights Management

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
"The thieves," one said, "Each man believes
Are customers, for each man receives
Our product, but we all know if he could
He would steal from us, and who would
Not? Therefore we would be remiss
If we did not prevent his every wish
And protect our right to demand a fee
Because nothing, nothing is for free!"

And this one, in returning to their home
When they were at last all alone
Flipped a screen with no regret
To see if their movies had downloaded yet.
Thus the one who thinks all others thieves
Dishonors all, as this one receives
Freely, but hidden from the light of day
Others' goods for which they could afford to pay.


The Sage Speaks of Enlightenment

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Stretching out against the night, I see the cedar's arms
The color of this winter night's uncertainty alarms
Black spears fifty fold and hundreds more below
And what's the color of the sky, I shall never know
I guess it is a purple or perhaps it is an orange
The light of modernity, as sickly as it's strange
The enlightenment! Enow I see it in the distance lay
It bustles with effulgence that rivals now the day
But at this middle distance its brightness is quite dim
Even if within itself with brightness it does brim
Eliot's old sunset; a patient etherized
Though if withal it is -- it is one oddly sized
And nearly dead, even if a sunset as it sets
Does the pain of loneliness rise as it begets
Is it any different then the city's sour light
Or is it in the ICU, extending through the night
Its final stay upon the earth, its throes have come upon
Its light now a vomit, cast upon my lawn
An excrement of smoky light to blot out all the stars
The eyes of every tower, the eyes of all the cars
Screaming in a chorus! Blaring into space
Where their rays abyssal ways consume without a trace?
So much for an enlightened age, a newly found insight
With electric lamps showing only their own light
Against them stands the darkness, but not just the obscure
Perhaps the dark of mystery, as deep as it is pure
Unpierced by sight they pierce the night, the older things rebel
Virginal shroud; a shadow'd cloud, the music starts to swell
But it is only just imagined, in between a breath
The man and the cedar tree are only what is left
The cedar black against the sky uncertain in its hue
Beware O man, against such can but darkness e'er be true.


The Poet to the Silver Light

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
In the silver light of the winter afternoon
Those who are not sleeping will be nodding soon
Into gray twilight of the fading, evening year
Not yet a sleep of reason, but a sleep of fear

In the rising silver of the winter's graysome morn
The mists foretold a coming, the fogs were all forsworn
And in the scattered rays of a northward sliding sun
One could mistake a battle lost, for a battle won

But the veils in veiling all foretold a coming storm
A squall of coldness coming, a wind in perfect form
A warmness only made for the accidental few
With the rising sun's ascent the fog only grew;

It gathered to a greatness in a muted silver light
As long as all is vagueness, perhaps we'll be alright
The solstice swiftly coming, borne but the interlude
Of the winter's darkness ready to intrude

But maybe we won't see it, perhaps the world will warm
Perhaps by chance escape this the perfect storm
But neither fate nor loophole or plead of insanity
Can avert this new direction, this enshrouded destiny.


The Orator Proclaims the Task

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The text is not enough, the text!
Words spoken here as hexed
They were; but I repeat myself
Find me the source of wealth
Of the memory of our people
If you or I are still able
Or do we sit perplexed?

The music is old, that musical
Not a song and dance at all
But a thing, and at last a place
As though no mask, but a face
And one alive with expression
Not any ire of repression
On such may we call?

The people here are not gray
Not shifting strawmen astray
In a wasteland, but men as men
Great and small without, within
Bright and dark and somber and glad
Thought of good, thought of bad
Thought worth time to say?

Man as terrible Man, and quite not
Human, not neutral even for a spot
But never disposable in kind
No beast, but edging close in mind
Upward -- for both even and odd
You begin to see the god!, the god
Where is becomes the ought.


Five Haikus

it is addressed thusly:
For the first month of Winter.
it reads:

Depth of sun's decline
Borne in low Winter's dark sky
To south, shadows point


A promenade comes
Uphill ahead yuletide bright
White and red beside


Each package sitting
Soon finds a place not so plain
In hands receiving.


The flames burning bright
Still glow, breathing cold air now
Saving oil and light.


Sunset of the world
Sees high in the east coming
Eve'ning star and night.