Under the Sun

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
So shines the sun
Which shines on everyone;
On good or bad, otherwise
Even those who haven't eyes
Makes some so to believe
Justice but equality;
But those on earth's darkened side
Might aid us in how to decide
And that some from it burn
May also help us yet to learn;
For equal is the trial made
On those who step outside the shade;
All must cope in their own way
With that unconquerable day;
As God above gives more
To whom already had before
Only those who have in truth
And so it is, the just and ruth
Restore to those of worth
The wholeness of the earth
Only known by his bright eye
Whenever 'tis they live or die;
And to usurpers, caitiffs all
The sun will wilt and make them small;
Even if in living now
They were shown so great enow;
Justice equal for equal be
But for the rest -- inequality.


The Words of the Companion

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
In her ear, the crooner sings
And though his voice is singing
Her own words is yet what rings
When sound is finished ringing;
The bards of old, perhaps could tell
If secrets they were telling
A way to sing they knew so well
Of feeling's deep up-welling;
To steal a voice without a sound
Though voice must still be sounding
Something odd is turning round
While harmonies are rounding;
Why'd Danny Boy a man yet cry
When it's a lady's crying?
Each lamenting, every sigh
But a man's doing the sighing;
A voice is heard, the vowels fall
To hear it once we're falling
Man and woman, each other call
Deep to deep is calling.


To Sickness

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
When one is sick
The world is thick;
Thick with burning light
Which burns bright
As the burning sun is bright;
A hardness there
As sound in the air
All thunders, is thunders
In the brightening air
The world is both heavy and light
And thick, both the day and night
You could cut it with a knife;
If a knife you could lift -
What strife!
All of that movement about
Each motion a ringing shout!
Stop, for the heavens stop
Tell me what you're moving about
Best -- now rest, be still
I think, you are not also ill;
Let me shade my eyes
And be wise
The thin world forbade
Sensuous pride
Thin of sense, narrow, not wide
Thin like an arrow
It must pierce and divide
Heavy sense is dull
The head with it is full
But the heart burns
A different flame
Learns words not given name
Not yet, past shock
And awe all the same
Patience names the state
Where we lie in wait
Stop! Wait to light the wick--
When one is sick
The world is thick.


A House Divided

it is addressed thusly:

An imprecation.
it reads:
A sad day, where blood is wasted
Men who could face evil are instead
Puppets; swung about by the head
A phylactery of offense is pasted
The long thorns the carotid piece
And but for show are they fierce;
The bull, though now full-hated
In his fight is honored in that lot
Not being a creature of thought
And in his glory is well-sated;
Men are still slaves. But perfectly
Because they believe they are free.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
baton rouge slaughter


The Longest Mile

it is addressed thusly:

A vision.
it reads:
Even the foolish have now awoke
It was not as magic, as though I spoke
And woke them; with word or charm
It is now the sound of full alarm
"It is later than you think" he said
That father of ours, rests his head
And awaits with us the rising sun
Will yet they flee the sounding gun?
Boom! Boom! It is war's report
Yet rumors mark, of this sort
Not the end yet, but far too late
A summary of our present state
In words and bodies of the dead
Mostly bodies, but as he said
"Get your house in order O man"
We shall not live, but if we can
We will die in glory, a brightling flame
For we would not blaspheme His name;
And if life shall be won from death
We shall steal it from the breath
We alone who see that Light
Or know of it, in darkest night
Arm your spirit, for this I've spoke--
Even the foolish have now awoke.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
Nice Terror July


Gun Control

it is addressed thusly:

A thought.
it reads:
In the system that they propose
We may discern a theme recurs
It is a thing that no one knows
Not doing so each man prefers;
No man steals what has no worth
Or kills what has no power of life
What is there that has no birth
Worthy of no pain and strife?
A thing unspoken, when once said
Is not forgot, for now he knows
There is no reason to shoot the dead
In the system that they propose.


To Silence

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
We have had enough of words
Will we fill the heaven with them
All of them that Earth affords
And none of them are wisdom?
Listen and you can hear with me--
Truths plural - which it is not
- A minotaur's mask, we might see
Yet waiting 'neath our chaotic lot;
Not truth! A man sees a thing plain
And says, "I ought to lie about it"
Since he fears offense, and pain
For truth-telling he cannot be fit;
But who is left for which speech
Is elucidation - instead of a thought
"We thought it charity for each
Whose words we sold and bought?"
I speak as one quite truly mad
But silence is a thing unalloyed
Unmixed with the drugs we've had
A clear and quite heavenly void;
A sky! In it we pray the stars
Have not in our fugue gone red
We who thought to end all wars
Who would fight for one so dead?
Clear to us, the night and sun
And such speech lifts us not a whit
Not to moon or stars, to any one
Of the stars, and heaven is full of it!
You will remain, perhaps by vote
On Earth - by vote! By waves of men
Which were elected, just by boat
And you now must take them in;
The doors! The doors! Closing fast -
Trim the lamp, and sharpen swords
To know what comes, know what past
We have had enough of words.


The Song of the Mirror

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
The beautiful woman smirks;
She alone knows what works --
The pretty flutters or preens
Perhaps she is what she seems
Perhaps not -- from what round eye
Would these, the accusations fly--
All can smile, if they wish
A grateful face deserving a kiss--
If kisses can be given, and so
About this matter we come and go;
Many are cute; few are quite hirsute
But here - known by the astute
A law, simple and without flaw
No epistle of straw;
Every warp and weft man provides
These many, beauty survives
And beauty, knowing the sum
May wish to remain mum
While those else emulate
- but mostly mutilate
And so a slight thing to mar
Throws her into relief by far
As she alone knows what works,
The beautiful woman smirks.