echoes of the prosper road

the nightly croaking from the pond

recalls another time and place

the sounds do not quite correspond

but have an equal sort of grace

 

what’s winter here has turned so mild

that we can see the forceful green

reminder of the nearby wild

just inches past the window screen

 

those arguments that we have made

regarding mother nature’s pain

seem all at once a sad charade

as weeds spring up after the rain

 

what we have learnt is very clear

about the cycles in their course

of tropic or of temperate year

they have the same gigantic force

 

the frogs that croak in pond or tree

ignoring us proclaiming life

for their short passage do live free

and teach us something about strife

Eighteen cents a gallon

Prices are rising, driving us all mad,
we all agree that no one can relax;
this is the worst condition, things are bad,
and we can’t bear up under these attacks.
McCain says “Cheer up, every lass and lad,
don’t shiver in the face of these small cracks!
There is no reason for you to be sad.
We’ll just remit some eighteen cents of tax!”

No one could doubt that someone would be glad
to send old John an email or a fax,
explaining just exactly how to add
some more gravitas to his ancient tracks.
For while we suffer he still has to pad
around selling ideas taken from mouldy sacks
and smelling rather worse than day-old shad:
“We’ll just remit some eighteen cents of tax!”

by what command

by what command we do not know
the words are written and remain
answer has come but very slow
we do not hope to see again

just what the truth was in the press
or who began the count or why
the answer was it no or yes
the reason was it truth or lie

songs that were sung by hasty sorts
have been forgotten but regret
has worked its triumph through the courts
the road is marked the path is set

master and servant disagree
on how the wages shall be paid
one says the other shall not see
the outcome of the final raid

what’s eaten is not any food
that we would choose were we to pay
the price is what had once accrued
upon the ones who chose the way

so marching on the road of choice
we lacked the sense to sit and weep
others were fated to rejoice
we were the ones who had to sleep

approaching midnight

as we sit and face the future

there’s no one knows just what we’ll need

anger breeds on edge of suture

fire declares itself with speed

rhyme and reason fade in panic

fire and water meet in peace

not a one who waits is manic

yet not a one could blame caprice

grant the fire will burn the clover

and mighty flood will cleanse the vale

nothing’s left here to recover

none of the wise will hear this tale

shallow paint the world in colour

make the choices come out flat

things will seem to come out duller

the night belongs to angry bat