The drink will grow cold
Sitting so long untended
The cup left idle
Better a cold coffee mug
Than a throat left parched too long
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Many are the rules
Written by the fools
Who have become the tools
Of those they will not see
They say we must obey
Each word that they will say,
Comply without delay
Or else we will not be
Such methods to resist
As somehow still persist
May not for long exist;
Who can fight or flee?
But while there is a way
Let us go without delay
Do what we can today;
Tomorrow, we shall see.
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One thing done and
Just enough time to
Take a breath before
The next thing has to
Begin and
I find myself pecking away at the keys again
Though I have never been able to play piano well
And there is no reed to which to put my lips and tongue today
Still
There is music in it
A strain and refrain and another melodic line
Carrying through the lot as I
Hammer out some idle percussion for a few bars
Until another audience arrives that
Paid for a different show entirely
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It is the truth that some few years have passed
Since of this observation I wrote last
And marked how lines bespoke such showers sweet
As rise in spring. I then still thought it meet
That I should speak as with authority
And not as penitent, making a plea.
Now, though the Ram is not quite halfway through
The course it runs, and it is not as true
That people long to go on pilgrimages
As they once were, the season still engages
Thoughts of reverdie as flowers bloom
Brighter far than any painted room
And many mount on wheels to pass them by
And marvel at the ground-held sunset sky.
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I seldom dream of any dreams
Best or bad; I make no boast
Of visions to voice-bearers.
The words of wonder that wind through ages
Scribed into stone and standing on leaves that
Fell from no tree–no great feat, that–
March in their masses as must well be done
While I, not worthy, watch them pass by
Saluting those soldiers, sentinels of lore,
Yearning for years to yoke myself to them.
They walk through the world, while I
Remain here, rooted. They rove
And carry their contents, commanding attention,
Gift I, too, gave them, and gladly I did,
Hurt that they heeded no hope that I held.
They pass on, proceeding, a parade through ages,
Trudging through ticker-tape, teasing the mind
With wonder of what might have been, were things otherwise.
No axle-span asks me what I would offer,
Bespeaks its forbearance, bids me be patient
In dreams in the darkness, when my lights are dimmed.
No gold or gemstones glitter before me
In inward eye-work, no eager wood
Speaks of its strength and surrender to will
Of the fruit that it, fertile, felt compelled to avenge.
No such man am I to have such a vision
And the words of wonder that persist in the world,
Beauty in bard-craft, betray all the changes
From their time to this, as might well be thought.
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He would often sing of a man from Abas
Whose nethers were somehow constructed from glass
And those gathered ’round would give him a pass
Though that little song was well without class
But I am no better who have my own song
That I bellow out, all day and night long
And in all that lowing hope I appear strong
Though I do but writhe upon fear’s fork’s prong
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I like to dine on shrimp at times
To peel away the fitted shell
To put my lips to that sweet meat
Breathe in the swelling, tempting smell
I like the sauce it sometimes sports
To have upon my tongue its taste–
And should I feast upon some shrimp
I’d linger; I would heed no haste
Such succulence is savored best
When it is taken leisurely
With bosom company along
Who hope to dine at length with me
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To scribing tasks, I set my hand again
As I have done at times since those years when
I thought myself advanced well in my ken
And looked at others as if from on high.
The years since passed have given that the lie,
Have shown such haughtiness was but a cry
A child voiced in the woods when left alone
That called not help, but made those nearby prone
To staying far away. The years have shown
That haughty cry did all too well its task,
And now, when it might be that I ask
For aid or comfort, show a thinner mask,
I am refused. But this is only just;
I have thus trained, and thus do this, I must.
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She sent me a message
Let me know that someone we’d known
Someone I’d worked with
Had retired
And we chatted for a while afterward
She noting that she was going
Up for a job
Me noting that I have one
Each remarking that things are going well
And they are
And it was good to be back in touch
There is some talk of getting together again
Marking the decades that have passed since we met
Since we parted
Some of us staying where we had been
Others flying away
Still others lingering around for a time until
Circumstances changed and we were
Called away to other lives
They aren’t bad words to have said or heard
Even as the years have passed and
Paths have been trod that will never open again
There is some comfort in being recalled
Fondly enough to be seen again
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Harken and hear how the old poet sang,
The Heodening hearth-man Heorrenda replaced,
Of troubles that took place in times ere his own,
Found in them and faith for himself some ease,
Knowledge that nobody is not without troubles,
And others will often endure far worse,
Recited a refrain that rings down the years.
Dear child, delightful in all of my days,
Cold is the comfort in moments of conflict
That words can work, however well made,
But better a blanket that bears the night’s chill
When put on than none, for when it is worn
And the longer it’s lifted, the less is the cold,
The greater the gain of good warmth in it.
My body has borne that blanket not seldom,
Sought for solace in scribe-works of old
And makings of words from more modern days.
It gave to me gifts, the greatest I have,
And treasures far truer than troubles in life,
Even the evils that evince themselves.
Those passed away; so too may this one.
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