MELTED DREAMS

The melted dreams of yesterday
Are fuel for the fire
That burns with flame so strong to form
The next day's proud desire;
Thus, deep within the crucible
Of time, life, age and youth,
The old wants with the new will fuse,
Still searching for the truth.

TWO

Guilty as charged was the jury's call
For the man with the murderous past;
My body's my own was the mother's cry,
Give me leave to go to the clinic.

Impassioned pleas to show compassion
Prevailed on the government's conscience;
The convicted man was pardoned at ten,
The innocent died at midnight.

AT A CORNER

Behind the brick-faced bushes
Near the wilderness of choice
Lurked the self-named defender
Of the sanctity of life.
Crouched righteous for the advent
Of the birthright foe, he spied
His prey of clinic-keepers,
Sprang civilized to the crowd,
Patted his automatic
Soothing messenger of truth,
Pulled it from its pocket womb
And opened fire.

IN THE WAKE OF REMEMBRANCE DAY

They fought the obvious enemy
Which swept across chromatic freedom,
Obliterating level borders
In a jealous open tide of fear,
Propelled by overbearing guile and
Zealous creed of genetic destiny.

We must contend with a subtler foe
That worms its way into coded laws,
That would erode everything they won,
Hacking into presumed innocence
To programme seizure without arrest,
Trial without court, penalty without proof.

It denigrates opposed opinion,
Sponges away the qualms of conscience -
An enemy without and within;
Let there be balance in our vision,
Let there be reasoning in our thoughts,
Lest we sleep dreamless through the next attack.

SALAD DAYS, GREEN IN JUDGEMENT

Peach thrills anew
To the gift of life,
The memory
Of its blossom days
Bobbing with it in the morning breeze.

Rhubarb squats stolidly
On the flat ground,
Its second season coming;
Experienced, it knows the terrors of life
And the pain of lost appendages.

Sunshine on garden soil is a siren's call
As lettuce surges skyward,
Proudly pushing back the mighty earth,
Exuberant youth in every leaf
Bursting to trumpet a song of joy.

But hush now!
Try to be brave,
Attempt to endure,
To calm the tremors and control the screams
As a vegetarian approaches.

TO GO AGAIN TO SALISBURY

Dry wine when we meet,
From an empty automatic press,
An embrace of ice,
Cold as the nave of that ancient cathedral
Where the Great Charter
Of our shared life was sealed long ago
When I did not dream
Love could ever be entombed.

Is it light or lack
Thereof that tints your eyes to such dull grey?
Oh that I could draw
The blue back into your eyes by deft brush-strokes,
And caress your brow
To its erstwhile shimmering lustre
That lifted spirits
As the floodlights lift and float that tall church-spire.

It was our church-spire
When we strolled through its grounds in our honeyed month,
Before stone silent
Barriers obtruded in our midst,
Origin unknown,
To preside over love's slow decay
Like the towering
Sentinel rocks on Salisbury's plain.

We owned all the world
When we had nothing but ourselves
And the face of hope
For long bright years together.
Perhaps cathedrals
Resurrection-sites may be; if we return
Love may rise once more --
Can we go there again?

NATIVE LAND

Skilful hands began to plant the factories,
Other braves sowed the seeds of machinery;
Sinuous warriors danced up rain pollution,
Overt hunters captured fossil fuels.

Forget about your claims for compensation,
The owl knows when nests are past repair;The eagle keeps his eye upon the future,
The beaver builds a house from broken trees.

BLACK TIME

White swallows black and you're raucous,
Raging, refusing to trade;
Time for a change, is your focus,
Time that the payment was made.

Black snuffs out black and you're silent,
Stridently holding your place;
It isn't a matter of darkness,
It isn't a problem of race.

TIME TROUBLED

Oh I am worn and wrinkled
As I peer into my glass,
And trace the tracks the crow has left
To score the years that pass.

Time now leaves an ugly press
On my bruised and broken frame;
This stooped, slow-moving, humbled form
Will never be the same.

Youthful plans to win the world
Gave way to lesser vision,
Great grand schemes were narrowed down
To paths of more precision.

What have years of weary trudge
Achieved towards my ambition?
The shrieking winds gasp for breath,
All screaming in derision.

Strands of empty shorelines swept
By breakers lie behind me,
Sands wiped clean of any mark:
No follower could find me.

But doubts can fade to purple
In the early twilight hours,
Chased into the shadows by
My few remaining powers.

All has edged to this one point,
All that's left revolves about
The need to leave some lasting deed
Before the tide goes out.

AFTER THE TEN O'CLOCK NEWS

Spare us, Uncle,
Not another tiresome tirade
On the great eternal mystery
Of men not learning
Anything from history.

We too well know the past mistakes
Of our fellow human souls,
And we could counsel them, we know,
Were they now here,
Not six below.

There is not one of us who, from the shore,
Could not dam a river's course,
Yet the swimmer caught by undertow
Can but strive against the current,
Cannot stop the flow.

No, not one here who cannot solve
The maze and find
The riddle's gate
For all events
Save those in which we now participate.

JUSTICE

She was blindfolded in her prime,
Eyes cleared from the distorting smiles
And grimaces, the contrived dress
Cloaking deceptive supplicants
Who charmed and courted for redress.

Handsome liars were forced to press
Their claims in logical debate.
But now she stares out open-eyed
At videos and cameras
While balanced wisdom's pushed aside.

GAME IN, GAME OUT

Should not little boys play cowboys?
Parents loathe such violent games;
A generation weaned on cap-guns
Grew to shun the sight of bloodshed,
Now the Indian wins.

As the human race leaps forward
Youngsters play at space invaders,
Zap whole planets to oblivion
With the flicker of an eyelid
In the name of progress.

POLICE CAR

The black and white has turned to yellow;
Is this the fading of all ages?
Has justice withered like old parchment
Brittle from the press of hopeless years,
An archaic concept past its prime,
An elder monarch in failing health?

Or is it jaundice, symptomatic
Of a bilious indigestion
All the citizens are forced to bear?
The urban liver's vital functions
Cannot cleanse the entire system
Nor store a nutrient sweet enough.

Yellow once was the colour of fear;
Perhaps patrols have yielded power
To the set that brooks no arm of law,
That dreads displays of strength of purpose.
Were the black and white too starkly drawn?
Too much clarity, too intensive?

POLICE CAR -- FIVE YEARS LATER

To gain a greater recognition
Pervasive white replaces yellow,
A contract bleaching primed and aimed to
Sweep out colour and reflect all light.
This pristine coat you sport is set to
Sum the spectrum within your precincts,
Arrest the eye on your successes
And conceal the darkness drawn along.

Yet your side reveals a snatch of blue;
Was that some artist's inattention?
Or do you hesitate to deny
Impurity, and seek to soften
Your dazzle by addition of a touch
Of ice, a hint of melancholy?
You carry as well a dash of red --
A mark of health, but is it also
Warning against too much exertion?
Is your commission's makeup traced by
Your periodic changes of face?
What paint will you wear five years from now?

CHANGE

Gauge your steps before you take them
Nor advance while too uncertain,
See effects before you make them
Else is change the final curtain.

REBUTTAL

Many branches cannot be seen
When a path is first in vision,
The place one holds may seem serene
But they survive who change position.

CHOICE

To note what's wrong, must be removed,
And not to fear ideas strange;
But history has quite disproved
The notion everything should change.

IN DECISION

Lost in thought without a road map,
No known route to open action --
Stymied by imponderables,
Stunned by pressing abstract questions,
The scanner strains for throughway words.

Missing signs for the express lane
And clutching now at catch-phrases
The planner spins to side-track paths,
Veers off soft shoulders to become
In inconclusive prattle mired.

A nettled navigator prompts
The necessary reversal,
The long roll back to new designs,
The measured tread of tireless
Ideas lined in solid planes.

GRIEF

You wear your spectacles loosely
So you can read the world at will;
For now your angel's footsteps have vanished,
But you believe you hear her still.
Why do you persist in tracing
Shadows in the park,
When many need your beacon
To thread the needling creeping dark?
A child without a hand
Has no strength left to stand.

THE BUSINESS OF LUNCH

One little - two little - three manhattans
Chase the ritualistic exchange of cards;
Neglected menus languish pining
By orphaned bread-and-butter plates.
Food defers while sharks go fishing;
Conversation takes a tap-dance
Round tables of percentage, prime,
Dollars and no sense,
Adequacy of rate,
Efficacy of reserve,
A host of other subjects that deserve
The homage of the guests assembled.
Hawk and hawker warily spar,
Seeking, probing, nodding, shaking,
Trading glances, measuring chances,
Searching for a common ground.

Three-quarters time has suddenly vanished;
Systems growl an urgent message
That breakfast was eaten an aeon ago,
And a junior aide seizes the moment
To bark to the servers to bring his reward.
Orders are hasty, fourth cocktails are quick;
Waiters conduct their deals with cunning,
Moving in when demand is anxious,
Stepping out when supply is high.
Mouths which lately spoke all hollow
Fill with rare untasted feast;
Knife and fork are frenzied flashes,
Jab for profit, cut at cost,
Appropriate the assets fast;
Declining stock is swallowed swiftly
To rouse from slumber ulcers, angry.

Minor officials who'd prefer calm chewing
Must pace with the man who'll be paying the bill;
With splashes of coffee and smiles of thanks
The members rise for their next appointments, late.

Small matter no bargain was struck today,
That was not the meeting's foremost intent:
All are aware that the business of lunch
Is allowing the parties
To see one another
In an easy, relaxing environment.

SUITABLE FOR FIRING

Gnarled, twisted, defiant,
Obstinate, unyielding
To all saws,
Not even fit for trim,
You crouch on combed earth and
Flaunt your flaws.
You never could have been
A chair, for you have not
Couth enough;
You might have made a board
But it needs much more than
Being tough.
No desk for you, nor will
You fill a door except
In exit;
Oh dull and senseless block,
The axe will fall on you --
No respite!
Black will be your finish
When your termination
Is required;
Cold weather marks your end --
One strike, and come winter
You'll be fired.

ON THE BANKS
OF THE WHYBASH

They gush glibly about
Customer service
Even as they hurtle
Their compatriots,
Their domestic clients,
Into a rapids of
Ever-rising charges --
Fees for drafts, for current balance,
Fees no less to make deposit,
To splash the fund of liquid assets;
And while the banks yet gorge on fees
Their swollen stream of crushing profits
Rushes on to lend its force
To large misshapen leveraged buyouts --
Dug from plans in shallow pools --
Already flung beyond control
And struggling now to stay afloat.
On and on that stream keeps surging,
Headed next for foreign waters
To revere the global tribute aerie
Perched aloft by swimming minds
Heedless of defaulted nations,
Oblivious to eroded credit,
Bent instead toward turgid trade.
Those atop the crests of banks,
Fattened by their creamy pay-scales,
Bask in torpor on the rocks.
All this cash outflow disquiets,
Rips the life from retired folk,
Drains the salt from honest labour,
Kills the seed of intelligent growth.

Poised to avoid the long flight south
They wheel and rush at speedy trucks,
Or loiter on the asphalt soil
To stare and dare all sporty vans;
They linger in a rising swing
Or hop across a hot rod's path;
They swoop to block a pick-up's route
Or dance in front of sleek sedans.

Can they not judge the thrusts of wind?
Their scatter-patterned failed escape
Suggests they were not taught the moves
To aim away from looming grilles.
They've too much trust in human brakes --
Or do they choose to self-destruct?
It's only fools and fledglings who
Chase after thrills with too few skills.

MAN OF THE CITY

An ancient tribal instinct gnaws his nerves,
Reminding him he has an open flank;
The home he left this morning still preserves
Its quiet calm, its honest face so frank,
That speaks of labour earning comfort there,
Where no degree of lock or theft alarm
Is adequate to make one less the ware
Of threat of vandals, thugs and other harm.
And when his woman goes about the streets
Will she be safe from greedy piercing eyes?
Must she mistrust each stranger that she meets,
Examine every phrase for covert lies?
The city gathers in its troubled clay
And struggles through another frightened day.

IN RETIREMENT

How appropriate, a golden watch
For watching all the seconds
Of all the days
Of what are blithely called
The Golden Years.

This timepiece has a numbered face
Much like mine with its measured markings;
The difference is,
When my hour is up
I'll have not the luxury to go round again.

Waterproof --
I'm said to be some seventy-five percent
Composed of that compound,
So I doubt I'm bothered by water,
Except that what man is
That it is which destroys him.

Stainless steel back --
Yes, there's a brace
I'll be forced to wear.
Shockproof, too --
I have that feature,
There's little left that could jolt me now.

Dustproof --
Ah, now there I differ,
For I will surely yield to dust
And not be proof against myself.
Self-winding, guaranteed
To last a lifetime --
I too make that idle boast;
I've been winding up
As long as I've been living
And what is a lifetime but that which one lasts?

KEEP THE GAME GOING

Keep the game going,
Deal the cards again,
Let me bar the daybreak
From this night of pain.

I was dealt in king,
Soon turned to a knave;
Heart came after diamonds,
Much too late to save.

Aims have gone amiss,
Not the way I planned;
Playing without feeling,
I have lost the hand.

Deal me not a spade,
Deal some other ace;
Light comes after darkness,
Light that I can't face.

Many clubs have come,
Many players gone;
I know all the rules here,
Nothing else beyond.

So keep the game going,
Deal the cards again,
Let me bar the daybreak
From this night of pain.

IF NOT FOR A SUMMER'S DAY

If not for a summer's day
One would think all time had ceased,
Since the fall winter spring are
An endless procession of grief;
And the light in her eyes was
A rainbow; a mischievous thief
Was her smile, stealing my sight
And my mind -- not my heart, which
Always belonged in summer
With you. Now the fall winter spring
Grow a grey garden round me,
For time is a pitiless thing.

FLIGHT TO NOWHERE

She wore the suit of vaunted nothingness,
With blank face and hypodermic-pocked arm.
Ringed by thrall and bloused in self-absorption
She glazed through halls she thought she danced, 'til a
Door slammed and terror crept through the keyhole
To jacket her world with shapeless colour.
Nameless tones collided with her hearing;
She swirled in the skirt of brimming floodlight,
Drummed by a distant moaning, emptily
Indiscernible from her surroundings,
Cast among the spirit fragments, senses
Fugitive and screaming for the return.

THE LINE NEVER WAVERED

When I was young the line was clear;
No one wondered, no one doubted,
We knew no quandary of right
Or wrong, the truth was silver pure --
And the line never wavered.

Mathematics taught me asymptotes,
Hyperbolas, parabolas;
Ideas range in wider arcs
As the mind becomes less finite --
Still the line never wavered.

Crime and justice were not functions
Of remote mislaid equations;
Mercy often tempered judgement,
Yet guilt was not unrecognized --
And the line never wavered.
But that was all too long ago;
Different years have left their tread,
Confusing markers mar the path,
Vision's blurred, the route's obscured --
And the line is scarcely visible.

Let me return
To the art studio of my youth,
And be again fresh canvas
Waiting for the play of colours,
Free from the frames
That pronounce completion,
Ready for tinges and splashes
To enrich the pattern.

This visit may provide time
To erase errant strokes,
To change dark shades
That point to darker corners,
To brighten hues
That heighten understanding,
To alter the elements
Being gathered for the gallery,
To deny the inevitability
Of the collection's final composition.