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



it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
We should remember always death
Not only the body, but all of its works
They too will perish, long after breath
They too will perish, and in the murks
In the depths of time, faster than sound
Faster than the speed of a word they move
Towards nothingness they are bound
They too will perish: lost and not found.

When the ancients considered this truth
They built in stone and scarred the earth
That time would ever differ for their sooth
That time would be marked for their birth
Do you regret the little black dot of your debt
Or has the lottery still shown white as of yet
For sooth, your soul will always remember
That time would, that earth would at last forget.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The child watches the dancing candle-flame
Waving as though to say hello
On the wick a bright hand without any name
A wave does she then bestow?
Or does she watch it still and silently
What is to a child still a mystery
Living creature, sword turning to and fro
Eden's flaming door, flung open suddenly?


The Time of Iron

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The massivity of metal, and its man
Melted down and reformed
In a furnace of earth, and his demand
To be perfect will not be foresworn
As clear as in the mind of Mani
The voice of the People against him
Masked multitude, unknown and grim
Strive for freedom valiantly;
But he is the Image of Man, a mirror
Did they remove their masks to see
Narcissus had not seen it clearer
The time of Woman come, ironically
Speak low, and speak not as you can
Already the fibers grow, an unknown hand
Pulls a thread of gold to bind slowly
The massivity of metal, and its man.


Another Canticle For Stories

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
To some the truth is the truth
And a story is something else
They forget a lesson of youth
The lesson faerie and elf;
A tale is not falsehood unless
It tells a truth we despise
Though of course we confess
Some tales are naught but lies
But truth hides itself from the crowd
And a true fable is never allowed
But in a word both strange and wise
Though silent, it is said out loud.