The Future

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The future is found in the poetry of things
Not in the curio the specialist brings
Stuck still where your poetry is stuck
Poor man, so you remain out of luck
No loss of rhythm or dearth of rhyme
Can somehow pull you out of time
How many fans in a flying car
To make a horse-cart travel that far?
How many ways can a desktop be
On the wall in the hall, or on your knee?
OId symbols, of iron hard-forged
Once on knowledge the mind had gorged
Windmill, waterwheel, window-pane
Thinking different but being the same
You lose! In the revolution died
In its victory low and wide
Thought itself, to make beautiful
Now to conceive a separate whole?
You are convinced it will soon be here
Between perversion and moral fear
Is prose that neither paints nor sings
The future is found in the poetry of things.


The Song of The Shacks on the Shore

it reads:
The houses, of both small and great
Along the shore, participate
In florid color of the south
- to the sea, the western sea -
a springing flower-box in growth
a form as low as it is free?

How many pigments, perfected there
Also graced a portrait where
A saint or noble face edicts
- a bright decree, solemnity  -
Gold and rose alone depicts
Against the blue; the waiting sea.

The season for them never ends
Time, though, summons other winds
To fleck them worn and silvery
- summer's blue, that ever-blue -
In them catch solemnity
But laugh, because you always knew.


The Song at the Great Chasm

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
In the world a hole a mile wide
The wise of old had testified
A hole thus shaped as man is shaped
From such thought man, he had escaped-
 That guillotine! that parliament!
  Cut down every worthy soul
 And good and ill were elsewhere sent
  With none beside to fill the hole;

A progressive great men never make
Though steps of 'progress' some do take
To hope and wait for future's boon
Is not for will fulfilling soon
 So pour, pour - when it rains it pours
  Salt with fire, you thirsty soul
 The salt of the earth by tens and scores
  With none beside to fill the hole;

And as many sands are in the sea
Were once those in nobility
And justly wisdom, believe or not
Does send them through a fire hot
 Yet build it now and they will come
  Greatness save a noble soul
 You think I jest; but yet, in sum
  None besides will fill the hole.


A Canticle for Flight

it reads:
He who loves his freedom -- must he fly?
His axiom is taking to the sky --
Simple path for those, who bearing wings
And knowing not the weight the earth then brings
Feet and hands of those who stand upright
Yes you, whose strength must make the weather light
Chase the stars while God still gives you time
And notice where they've put the exit sign.


Hall of Mirrors

it reads:
When I see my own reflection there
Repeating without end
Time is turning on itself and where
Going round the bend
Rising silver glass without a face
Taking on my own
Though I'm walking in a crowded place
I am yet alone.