it is addressed thusly:

A thought.
it reads:
Things move at their own pace --
We are ever-prepared to start
To simply jump the whole race
Why--!? Has not an athlete of
Would-be renown failed his art
With a false start - Lord above!
It is not for us to set seasons
Or not yet - if we do not grasp
Those which are set with reasons;
Here we are, breathing down weeks
Or days or hours in furtive clasp
But it is perseverance that seeks
And finds; long suffering so called
The stomach and eyes want fill
Of every good and ill, and stalled
Are we by sleep and eating and talk;
Will velleity become a constant will
When previously it always balked?
Walk; not random, we never outran
Our prize, it is not of mankind
In his best, truest or most grand
To always dash, or quickly race
When such fruits ripen in time--
For now, give them some space;
And when at last they are refined
Pounce! Before that window is erased.


O Thou Light of Good Cheer

it is addressed thusly:

A hymn.
it reads:
O thou Light of good cheer
In which God doth draw near;
His most sacred glory which is
Of our Father in all blessedness
Undying in heaven most high
Holy and blessed Jesus Christ;

Now that the sun hath hid his face
And evening's light in its place
We behold and now see fit
O Father, Son and Holy Spirit
One God, to sing but to Thee
In voice meet for Thy divinity;

O Thou only God's Son
Who granteth life to everyone;
This song the world shall raise
To thy glory and in Thy praise.
a postscript is here written:
The name of this actual hymn, which is perhaps 2000 years old, is 'Phos Hilarion', often rendered "O Gladsome Light". Mine is a paraphrase. It is the Hymn of Evening which is sung at Vespers wherever it is served. This arrangement is intended to be set to music, not dissimilar in character to that of Henry Purcell.


Verses for Economy

it is addressed thusly:

A thought.
it reads:
I canceled my Paypal account today --
It was not an occasion for an ode
Nor, speech of any kind or mode
That might make wise in its way;
We find ourselves embattled now
On every side, the Chinese running
The business poorly as we allow
Into the ground, and shunning
The light of day, no one speaks
Our language first, except freaks
Of nature, we assume, gunning
Or gunned down amid the breaks;
Sold out, was the term they said
When I was a child, for music-men
Thought highly of integrity then
Though they were authentically dead
We were purchased for small change
Twenty silver would be a king's purse
In exchange we hope, though strange
For something better and not worse
But they're all a little cracked in the brain
John Walker, he surely had a name
Before he was put in a hearse--
For his deal with old scratch amain;
But as deals with devils always are
We cannot but guess the coin
Was gilded lead, a simple purloin
Of clothing-weights, and not far
From a jade that is but a stone
Such potential wasted on folly;
But when that wish has but flown
We pull the lever, and by golly
We will have what we willed
Even brass coin slyly filled
Not even gold! Probably;
And for this much blood, spilled.
Trust is low, that liberal scrip
Which makes prosperity run
A place well, even under the gun
Why should we trust, let slip
That we were sold out, that we
Were not the better America
It isn't good for technology
Which no one carries very far
For it is carried for our enemy
Though love we must, do see
We cannot trust, low is the bar
And boundless is the enmity.


Water Under the Bridge

it is addressed thusly:

A thought.
it reads:
All art is a political act somehow
Although some may desist
The power will every artist cow
How can but man resist?
To flow underneath that irksome sight
Is to claim that power has no might
A political act - I must insist
And who do we believe is right?

Just some water under the bridge
Of nobody great's concern
A fly, a flea, an ant, a midge
Here is a lesson to learn:
If you wish to resist, do not believe
That you will be given any reprieve
Because mere politics you now spurn?
Law will not keep you at your leave;

To avoid, for certain, that folly's law
Where service is given for free
To powers whose silent and open maw
Promises return of a fee;
If an ugly 'truth' you will but allow
Or a 'beautiful' lie - we're talking now!
You risk final obscurity --
All art is a political act, somehow.


The Milling-Stone

it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
Though still, the millstone turns
Turning in itself, within the mind
Its harp, its furrow remain refined
Though worn dull, vagueness spurns
The great stone, each tiny crease
Delicate, the grain it must release;

A sign of glory's inviolate weight
Hung about the neck like an albatross
To sink, then return to old chaos
Or else, be broken of early or late
Cry out to the stones as you must
Those who remain it will grind to dust.