Feelings

I ought to care that Margaret Thatcher died
Because I follow all the chattering
That tends to talk of all that she implied.
But somehow I can't see her passing mattering
Except to those she loved, and who loved her
For whom it must be pain, despite her age
Which we should not forget. I wish it were
Truly momentous when we turn the page
On lives that are significant, but I
Cannot repress the feeling that, in truth,
The deaths that matter do not often die
At full extension, but instead in youth
Or middle age, or late, but by surprise
Not quietly in a hotel high-rise.

De Verba

To say I love is insufficient. No;
I love, am loved, exist suffused with it
As is a cherub by the holy glow
Of the Most High, beside whom they may sit.
I am no mere possessor of this love
Nor am I simply one possessed thereby
To mark the nature and condition of
My being is a futile task to try
Unless it be considered as a whole
All one, and all enraptured in the state
Of love, wrapped in it to the very soul
And far beyond that verb, a mere substrate
On which the true state's image may be shown:
Love is myself, and not merely my own.

Hobbiton

A hobbit-hole means comfort, yes indeed,
And wine, and tea, and crumpets piping hot;
It means good conversation, over seed-
Cakes, and a little bit of what is not
Present anywhere but in the Shire:
Good solid folk, all unaffected by
The world outside and all its sticky mire:
The evil tinging every view, the sly
Calculation that goes deeper than
The silver or the deed, and dives into
Darkness and dark action. In this, man,
Elf, dwarf, and all the other crew
Excel, beneath the glamour and the gleam.
Only hobbits are the way they seem.

Coffeetime

Caffeine and I are not the best of friends
Especially when I have eaten little;
I know the way this story always ends,
Yet have not changed my ways. No, not a tittle
Despite this. I am foolish, I admit
But everything is just so bright and clear-
So I, although I know I'll have to sit
Calmly sometimes, refuse to ever steer
Away, and let my body self-reset.
Instead I simply ride the caffeine wave
Which splashes me about and leaves me wet
And has not yet whirlpooled me to my grave
Even in the side-effects and crash.
So I must scratch, although I feel the rash.

Slow

The mind I have can only work so much
Except it really should be more than this.
But hey, I've done all that I need. As such,
The slightly more I can afford to miss
Until the day the more itself falls due
And my remission into laziness
Becomes its own reward, and turns the screw.
But until then, I really must confess,
I do not feel the need, and cannot make
My mind imagine that it ought to be
More pressured than it is for its own sake.
And so I wander through life lazily
Always so close to falling off the brink
That I can see the drop. It makes me think.

City Lives

Some cities may possess a quality
That makes them feel familiar in the soul,
As if they held a superfluity
Of citiness, and bound attraction whole
Into the streets, the smells, the very air.
In such a city, I could walk for miles
And never cease to joy in what is there;
I could explore the canyons and defiles
Defined by cliffs of glass and steel, and walk
Down boulevards that lift my heart on high,
Hearing no language I could ever talk,
Or reading signs I cannot translate. Why
Would I desire to be elsewhere, when
I could be in that cityscape again?

Fantasy Novella

Queer is the world that bears such company

And strange the day in which I wish them here.

But odder still the way it came to be,

And yet more wonders are en route I fear.

So I will meditate upon the past

And bear my spirits up with former charms

Lest I should feel the dark and chilly blast

Of worry wash across me. Future harms

Cannot be voided by the mute appeal

Of my nostalgia, but may be reduced

And so I think of what I used to feel

And not what that in latter times produced.

Spare me from such companions, yet be sure

To spare me also from the threats they cure.

Blaze

The sun, no longer at its noontime height,
Still beats incessantly upon the road
And turns my eyes against their very sight
By pushing them into an overload.
I turn aside, only to see reflected
In every surface too much sun to see;
By which my eyes feel almost self-directed
To close themselves, for their security.
Yet even as I close them, purple flame
Mixed with a yellow fire, closes 'round
And everywhere is lit up just the same
As if my eyes had never gone to ground.
I cannot flee the sun, until at last,
The day falls down, and nighttime's spell is cast.

Relative

With every foolish thing I do
(And oh my god there are so many)
I try to find a point of view
That finds them serious. For any
Given act, or thought, there must
Somewhere in the multiverse
Exist a point of perfect trust
That thinks it necessary. Worse,
For every such existent point
A series of related ones
Claim that, though it is out of joint,
A chord of greater goodness runs
Through it, and makes whatever's done
Justified. Think this, and run.

Blech

I cannot work
I cannot tell
Why I should shirk
Except for - well,
The basic fact
(Regrettably)
Is that no act
Appeals to me
That any way
Resembles my
Work, so today
I simply lie
Unhelpful, still
Devoid of will.