radical druid

The Same Old Song: a ballade

2010-11-11T16:28:14Z

Each night we play, you come to catch the show;

to see and be seen seeing, more to fact:

to smile like you alone are in the know

regarding "hidden treasures" like our act .

Let's hope the grand veneer won't start to crack,

and everyone will want to sing along

when next week, at the same time, we'll be back

to play, almost by heart, the same old song.

Your faces melt in constant ebb and flow.

Sometimes, there's no one there; sometimes, it's packed.

The seasons change as students come and go,

but we remain to strum right through the slack.

Some nights, we're less on stage than out in back,

yet no one says a word or thinks it's wrong.

You only wonder just when we'll get back

to play, almost by heart, the same old song.

It's a grand institution, we all know:

a music that will always take you back

to when you felt alive and free to grow,

before you learned the social art of tact,

to multiply in silence, and subtract

each year when it arrives, and shuffle on,

another faceless drone, fresh from the rack

to play, almost by heart, the same old song.

Another night: we're on, and you've come back;

the rhythm, like a river, moves us on

and on again, along life's winding track,

to play, almost by heart, the same old song.

11 NOV 2010

Simpleton's Tune: a balada

2010-11-10T16:03:34Z

The simple truth? Who claims to know,

except to judge how the wind blows

first from the east, and then the west;

and who's to claim which way is best?

To spend one's time defining right,

without the benefit of might,

seems like a fruitless enterprise

best left to fools, not to the wise.

Breathe in and out, then out and in

Let go of lose, let go of win

And once your head ceases to spin

Wait just a while, then start again

The straightest fact? Who's measured it,

except to their own benefit,

in gain or loss to their own side;

to question this, is suicide.

It's to the victor go the spoils:

religion, history, and oil;

And those who dare stage a revolt

are branded heretics or dolts.

Breathe in and out, then out and in

Let go of lose, let go of win

The rope is fraying, old and thin

Just wait a while, then start again

The highest ground? Who's standing there,

in some great, self-appointed chair

to pass their judgments from on high

and use their post to justify

that some have more, while most have less

and must in the next world redress

what grievances they would repair;

might just as well live on pure air:

Breathe in and out, then out and in

And let the world's slow tilt and spin

Remind you time and time again

There is no end, only begin.

10 NOV 2010

Toy Dog Soldiers: an awdl gywydd

2010-11-09T21:50:54Z

Our two small dogs are barking;

how they sing out with concern,

alarmed by the street traffic:

an old sedan's quick u-turn

down our lonely dead-end street!

I hear their feet scrape the floor

as they scramble to the sound,

some new thing they've found to sic.

09 NOV 2010

To Live Unveiled: an anagram

2010-11-09T19:37:20Z

If there is evil in the world,

some vile persistent force for ill

that while we live pursues our souls

in secret, behind beauty's veil,

I wonder at its silent spells.

Because when all the world is still,

when you can listen close enough,

there is no dark-masked murmuring

beneath the roar of living's sea;

and even on life's jagged coast,

where quiet inlets wait, unmapped,

to enlist unwary travelling ships

and lure them into mire and doom,

I've found no trace of infamy,

nor any signifying mark.

09 NOV 2010

For the Goddess: an anacreontic

2010-11-08T16:58:50Z

I put my faith in the divine,

when its word turns to flesh like thine:

with each curve and unbroken line

a glimpse of something pure and fine;

and on your lips, like sacred wine,

I long to linger and recline.

Let others long for love, and pine

away for paradise - you're mine,

and need no churches, texts or sign

to prove the worth of your design.

You are the source, the heart, the spine

of all that lives, sweet womankind.

08 NOV 2010

Overslept: an amphigory

2010-11-07T16:57:13Z

Well, fiddle-dee and what's the stuff

of which I have had quite enough:

the spring's been spring, the fall has fell,

the echo's back from wishing's well.

Oh well a dell a dill a day

Quite overdrawn, and hell's to pay.

Well, riddle me and jump the gun,

who's loaded, and who's set to run

along the lane despite the pain

of up and sleep and up again?

Oh gee a fill a dill a dee

Who's overslept the night with me?

Well, rumble tumble grimp and gyre,

one spins and spins, and then retires

to whence the winging whimper wrings

and takes its place with other things.

Oh pish a dish a dilly damn

You is, you was, you were, you am.

07 NOV 2010

Butterfly Wing: an alcaic

2010-11-06T21:58:21Z

The smallest gesture multiplies instantly:

a careless murmur, effortless whispering,

with armor piercing force, it thunders;

delicate palimpsests shudder, helpless.

The silence of an infinite solitude,

in just an instant, changes its character;

and shouting, loses shape and substance,

wallowing uselessly out from nothing.

06 NOV 2010

The Sound of Her: an alba or aubade

2010-11-05T15:23:18Z

Below the quiet hum the waking world makes

as earth turns slowly sunward each new day,

before the civil bustle starts in earnest

and clutters the ear's palette with its play,

in those few silent moments, as I lay still

beside her sleeping form, just listening

in awe to the low murmur of her breathing,

I hear the universe begin and end.

Not much, nor of much weight, these precious seconds;

and yet, to me their worth is beyond price:

what mere religion claims to be worth worship,

what lesser dreams envision paradise.

05 NOV 2010

No News: an ae freislighe

2010-11-04T21:52:38Z

The news can be troubling:

there's always some fresh unrest,

some great tension bubbling.

Each day, I hope for the best,

but still I keep wondering:

how wise is that course today?

Must we keep on blundering,

pretending to know the way?

04 NOV 2010

Election Day: an acrostic

2010-11-03T15:29:45Z

E ach of us would make some change:

L eave off those evils of the past,

E mbrace some thread of common good,

C hoose what is best for all, not one.

T his thought in mind, we cast our vote

I n hope that it will do some good:

O ne straw can break a camel's back, or

N urse to health a dying dream.

D ecide: will you in silence grant

A stranger rights to make your fate?

Y our life is yours. Choose for yourself.

03 NOV 2010

A run through the poetic forms

2010-11-03T15:18:55Z

As much as I laud those who attack National Novel Writing Month with great zeal, I am a poet not a novelist. So in my own parallel to NaNoWriMo, I've decided to once again work my way through each of the poetic forms identified in my old standby resource, Lewis Turco's Book of Forms: Revised Edition starting with the acrostic and ending with the virelai - hitting all the Irish, Welsh and other forms and meters along the way. I've done this in the past - I'll try to post a poem a day, which may take us through the new year.

Bargain debasement

2010-07-14T22:32:49Z

Always thought that I would be

important to humanity;

save the world and all that kind of stuff.

And if the end came, when it did,

I'd be right in the middle of it

Talking loud and acting kinda tough.

But that was then, and this is now,

and standing here at last, somehow,

it doesn't seem to matter any more:

The high road's seemed to wash away

(it wasn't that great anyway)

and I'm not all that keen on keeping score.

Kings and pawns are all the same.

Nobody wins, it's not a game;

No trophy case, no "win one for the team".

And any kind of evidence

That any of it makes much sense

Is either mild psychosis or a dream.

So let the world come crashing down,

right now, while I am still around;

I knew that I would witness the demise.

And if it starts right down the block

I wouldn't be at all too shocked;

I've met the perpetrators on both sides.

And when it's over, what is left

to steal, or burn, or somehow wreck,

won't tremble at the mention of my name,

but more than likely, for a sec,

will just breathe deep and then reflect:

the more things change, the more they stay the same.

JUL 14 2010

A song for a star

2010-05-19T22:12:06Z

You say I’ve never sung you songs
in all this time —- ten years along —-
which proves, to some degree,
how much I love you.
You’ve found the time, you often say,
to write about and sing and play
so many other topics;
is that not true?

And when I offer in defense
that love is an experience
which falls beyond the edges
of expression,
you laugh and say, such an excuse
is, in its own way, living proof;
that there is no song
is its own confession.

But if my love could be contained
in some trite, overwrought refrain
composed to please the ear,
I would not claim it.
Inside a thousand symphonies,
in whispered wind through ancient trees,
no simply melody would dare
contain it.

So I will write no other song;
and if you think me in the wrong,
or simply without feeling,
I can bear it.
For my love is no simple verse
for greeting cards, or even worse;
What good are words?
They only can declare it.

You say I never sing to you
of how my love is strong and true,
and wish for me to come
and serenade you.
Under your window, in the night,
beneath the moon’s soft glowing light,
you wish a lover’s tune
that I should play you.

But if my love could be so sung,
each drop of life thus from it wrung
in sentimental tones,
how could it move you?
unless you felt the singer’s core,
and knew that there was something more
than simple words,
would it not just pass through you?

My song for you is ten years wide;
I cannot split or subdivide
one hour or two apart
to try and woo you.
I sing it every day and night;
the verses may not be quite right,
but they each speak
about, and of, and to you.

I love you. Is that plain enough?
I have no masquerade or bluff,
no other way than what I am
to show it.
And ten more years are not enough
to finish it, it is still rough.
I only hope that in your heart
you know it.

19 MAY 2010

I am so sick of poets

2010-05-10T18:42:29Z

I am so sick of poets, in real life and found online;
how they tend to wax poetic, and pretend to be sublime
when describing some quite minuscule and unimportant thing:
the dewdrop on the lily, a mosquito’s lacy wing.

With pretense they have pretensions, and expect to be profound;
particularly when their fancy talk has drawn a crowd around,
and every word that drops like nectar from their honeyed lips
is guaranteed to break a heart, or at least, sink a ship.

But worse are poem lovers: those sad, sycophantic thralls
who quote their favorite bards by name whilst walking through the halls,
and without grace or courtesy, expose the world to verse
that often only merely stinks, but sometimes, is much worse.

Not everyone can hold a tune, or expect that their voice
will earn them any supper, if the listener has a choice.
Likewise, because you cast in rhyme a metaphor or two,
and hang a shingle (or a website), does not make true

that you are either poet, or can recognize the same;
such things are proven over time, and not by just a name
applied by those who dare not prick your bubble of esteem
for fear their own imagined greatness will be robbed of steam.

I am so sick of poets; every single one I’ve met
is either spent and sick and sad, or hasn’t happened yet.
In either case, I have no interest in their point of view
unless it can be spoken in a simple phrase or two

that doesn’t count on me to picture some fantastic scene,
and waste my time imagining I know just what they mean.
Dispense with all that sentiment, and vivid imagery;
a life that needs a poet is a boring life, indeed.

Art is required

2010-05-05T20:26:10Z

If you would this sad world improve: a battle cease, a mountain move, or seek to build up or destroy a single thought of fear or joy, there is one place alone to start. You must teach all your children art.

Imagination is the key.

By thoughts alone there come to be great mysteries, faith and belief in gods and demons, kings and chiefs; in justice and equality, in separating I and Thee.

So teach the arts, and music, too, in your religion, path or school. To have adherents worth a damn, they must imagine what "I AM" you would propose designed the world, created life, or wrote the rules.

Imagination is required.

Without it, none can be inspired to see beyond their own small selves, or care for something else that dwells beyond the sight and smell and touch; and such a life is not worth much. It does not toil, nor hope nor try, imagining no reason why, nor answer worth the seeking out.

Art teaches balance: faith and doubt; without it, gods are merely rules: like architecture without tools.

Teach art to all your children, then; for they must learn how to pretend if they would use your sacred texts for more than mindless genuflects or rote performance of some rite
that without teeth, has lost its bite.

Imagination is the key.

Without it, all gods cease to be. Existence becomes drudge and trial, an endless chasm of denial where anything we do not see does not exist and can not be.

05 MAY 2010