The Stone on the Shore

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
Time passes, I am but its witness
The steady sound, the pulse suggests
A cycle which must go on unless
There is an end to what now exists
My heart yearns for what is more
Reaching as it were, just beyond
Despite this, halting just before
Haunted by the suggestion of sound
What motions would I offer in turn
I who know nothing of nothing at all
I must go back; and begin to learn
Even back before I can recall
The sea under the autumn's color
Which I have never before seen
A leaf alights; and what befell her
Under this - a peaceful scene?
Is it my mother, or her mother before
In my body such things never were
How can I remember anymore
That which to me did not occur?
The sea's inchoate sound rises
A lapping like a clock's wound
A motion of unseen devices
A breath of a child's sleeping-sound.
We do not know if it is day or night
The sun is full of clockwork mystery
We are not blind, who have not sight
But still we are waiting at the sea;
And then the voice of one singing
-- is heard above its comely rush
One's own voice, the wind bringing
The echo's call to a distant hush
To remember sight is like seeing
For that is how man must watch
The time which is past being
Drawn into the sea and lost;
Behind is a sound of another kind
But we turn not to see its source
In this place of peace we find
Will to let things run their course
The song is faint; but it is our own
It still knows what we cannot confess
Whence we came, what is our home
Thus time passes; and I, its witness
Have heard the wind and water groan
Those with ears and eyes saw less
And I- yet I! Am but a stone.


Twelve Types

it is addressed thusly:
it reads:
When at last on all sides hard pressed
Stanislav Wartzen gathered to a greatness

Little Raeleen Fontaine is more than she seems
Her life - a shame - was the substance of dreams

The maker of troubles unheeded - first and last for herself
Rose Red timely plucked, needed saving from no one else

Having forgotten more, true or false, than any other had known
Arkham Charon swore revenge, but instead was called home

Clever fingers spin, remember pain, remember bliss
Elizabeth Richardsenn, ever jealous as her God is

As calm as empty skies, bearing Heaven's Mandate
Jurai Nakamoto, without eyes saw the end of fate

Thinks not as he seems, though not this he understands
Gad Gettrick dreams, though the power is in his hands

Lance Richardsenn of stature great, no harm wrought
Not to man nor machine, the weight of glory he sought

Toranchless, once-god of thunder, regained his crown
And for both glory and love, again cast it down

Mary-Elaine troubled the waters, when love bore her fury
First among Caspar's daughters, once bound, now free.

Master of the stars, living on though he is long dead
Baltasar could escape all, but never escape his head

A machine of God, sent to judge his contest for Men
Warden unseen, Doex -- impartial to the End.


Seven Canticles For Prudence

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
In the time of poverty
We vied to sell our days
- our hours, that liberty
be ours for prosperity
"the free is he who pays."

Who lied to us when
In that revolutionary murk
They made gears of men
For freedom, and then
"man has a duty to work."

Who would buy a hand
Even if the price is right
Does our burden demand
A return? But fallow, and
"man's work is his right."

Freedom other cannot be;
For the poor, his rest;
The freedman, property;
The noble, all history
"He who works for free is best."

The time which is not sold
In evil days yet to come
As it was still of old
Is worth more than can be told
"He who inherits is a son."

But what is left to give
When all is sold to pay
The poor, for a time to live
As kings - but a sieve:
"Do not pearls before swine lay."

You, with the upturned cup
Does it have a bottom too,
Even when made a top --?
Here, once more fill it up:
"The poor you will always have with you."


Sun and Shadow

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
When the summer rain came
And I was the darkling cloud
With bluster bold and loud
The end to make declaim
You were the dawn hinting
On the east's slight surmise
A twinkle of hope, glinting
In the time of sunrise;

When the winter was a pall
Of gray, hung funerary
You were the gathering, very
Anticipating the end of all
But then I was the noonday
Breaking winter, making done
With a hope less white than gray
- look on high and carry on.