One hundred thousand ginger-headed troops
Abandon ranks and hide behind the rocks
While down at them a flock unfeathered swoops
Of blind, yet guided, wingless silver hawks;
They take the soldiers, each one to his death,
But not before they bleach their bodies white,
Delighting in the odors in their breath,
While spent grenades mourn silently their plight.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
The Middle of the Road
The icy weather these past few days has got me thinking about how much extreme cold and extreme heat are like each other. You know what I mean if you have ever been exposed to the bitter cold for a while: your skin takes on a fiery sensation owing to the dryness coupled with the cold. That in turn made me wonder if the real dichotomy is between the middle and the two extremes, for the two extremes tend to blend into one.
There's something very odd about
My journey on this street:
Its absolutely cozy in the middle;
But if I wander to the right,
I feel a burning heat,
Like walking on an unforgiving griddle.
I venture left and there, I feel
The razor bite of cold,
It cracks my skin, and makes me gasp and wheeze;
And if I linger long, I'll meet
Those poison daggers rolled
In fire, forged within the wretched freeze.
And so I hasten to return
To where its warm and bright;
The middle of the road is where I'll stay,
Away from where the scalding touch
Of ice and fire smite
A man who wants to be upon his way,
Extremely in the middle, if I may.
There's something very odd about
My journey on this street:
Its absolutely cozy in the middle;
But if I wander to the right,
I feel a burning heat,
Like walking on an unforgiving griddle.
I venture left and there, I feel
The razor bite of cold,
It cracks my skin, and makes me gasp and wheeze;
And if I linger long, I'll meet
Those poison daggers rolled
In fire, forged within the wretched freeze.
And so I hasten to return
To where its warm and bright;
The middle of the road is where I'll stay,
Away from where the scalding touch
Of ice and fire smite
A man who wants to be upon his way,
Extremely in the middle, if I may.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Song of Silence
I drive a noisy car,
Its even noisy on the highway,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
When I'm thinking my way.
I'm in a room full of people,
And everybody's talking,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
When an idea comes knocking.
As I lullaby this baby
Into the arms of the night,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
If the song is just right.
But when I stand up in the silence
And enter into prayer,
All my silent self-absorption
Makes a noise I cannot bear.
I have to remember well my Lord,
And forget myself some more
That all the silence become silence.
Its even noisy on the highway,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
When I'm thinking my way.
I'm in a room full of people,
And everybody's talking,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
When an idea comes knocking.
As I lullaby this baby
Into the arms of the night,
Its funny how noise becomes silence
If the song is just right.
But when I stand up in the silence
And enter into prayer,
All my silent self-absorption
Makes a noise I cannot bear.
I have to remember well my Lord,
And forget myself some more
That all the silence become silence.
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