Proverb, Refuted

Men descry a sitting horse

And applaud its faith to lair

Its owner shows no remorse

For its ache from lying there

 

The master chides the fretful bird

For it craves not here, but there

Pinioned and cuffed, lines are blurred

Between bird and flightless hare

 

Lamps do envy stars so bright

How they float without a care

Dance like suns across the night

While the lamps move not a hair

 

The lord toils hard, fast grows old

The world his burden to bear

The vagrant has his youth to hold

For he goes where no men dare

 

Empty sayings people toss

But they weigh less than their share

Rolling stones collect no moss

But mossy stones go nowhere

To Be Afraid of Broken Glass

To leave good spirit when we pass

It means to tread on eggshells and

To be afraid of broken glass

 

It is indeed well-hoped en masse

That we, our dreams to mankind lend

To leave good spirit when we pass

 

But those who do will see at last

How we, to dodge missteps, must bend

To be afraid of broken glass

 

It is a burden made of brass

For one to flawless garden tend

To leave good spirit when we pass

 

To fight for right, with strength of Mars

It is, at core and in the end,

To be afraid of broken glass

 

For one to grow green future grass

Must take both yield and toll in hand

To leave good spirit when we pass

To be afraid of broken glass

Ineffectual Wishing Well

Young child stands at edge of well and asks for room to breathe

Coin shines bright in sucking night: thin glow of pale belief

Exhaustion nibbles at blurred sides and tides of anger seethe

Feet grow cold and socks grow mould but feet want not to leave.

 

Winter comes with brighter dark in clumps of Christmas wreath

Spring arrives and changes lives – forces turning of new leaf

Well stays silent as sun turns violent and brings child no relief

Child grows old at well’s rough edge with forever more to achieve.

Weary of the Sea

Weary of the sea I sit at the helm

Of a rotting ship pecked dry by corvine pest

Tired, this vessel, its crooked bones groan

Of a dying song that has carried me from cradle –

Now to grave

 

Weary of the sea I watch the dark waters

How they rise and fall as they like, on a whim

Tired, my eyes, as I strain to see the mind of sea

How foolish of me, to try predicting the unpredictable –

Charlatan!

 

Weary of the sea, the swimmers drift with me

Screaming for their lives for they had built no boat nor map

Tired, my soul, as I wave them goodbye

Screaming why oh why does drowning quickly sound like fun –

Ungrateful

If Madness Must be Paid for Wisdom Sweet

If madness must be paid for wisdom sweet

If tax be levied over strength of mind

Then strike me down, oh populist elite!

 

I would the filthy egos of mind meet

And let them spit revile and flame in kind

If madness must be paid for wisdom sweet

 

If crime was building the ignoble fleet

Of thinking words to teach and show, remind

Then strike me down, oh populist elite!

 

I would my mental demons defeat

Despite the curb of pinions confined

If madness must be paid for wisdom sweet

 

If questioning your groupthink was deceit

And breaking status quo so unrefined

Then strike me down, oh populist elite!

 

Your chaos dooms us, resigned to repeat

But I myself won’t read tomorrow blind

If madness must be paid for wisdom sweet

Then strike me down, oh populist elite!

A Phony Icarus

He thinks the world enamoured by

his singular opinion

His gait: the walk of kings descried

ensconced in their pavilion.

 

He is the sort to bait the crowds

to listen to his ramblings on

the state, the gods, the birth of clouds

the things he sets his eyes upon.

 

He’d make a sort of Icarus

if wax wings were of pixel and

Intangible nothing to us

And if the sun were concrete land.

Your Place on the Road

Life is a long road trip

In a car built for four

Where an old man takes the driver’s seat

His fingers trembling like twanged rulers

Eyes searching for old roads like a mantis would its father

A middle-aged man takes the passenger’s seat

Behind his map, a newspaper

Behind his smile, uncaring bone

Both your friends recline in the backseat

Ears plugged by toxic metal

Throats plugged by apathy

And you, you take no seat

Dragging a red trail on the bitumen

Mouth gagged

Skin burning

Wrists tethered to the exhaust pipe by vindictive rope

And the engine patters on.