My Expression

I cannot, will not love you any more
The way I loved you many years ago
When I was younger. There are things I know
Of which I was so ignorant before
That I loved freely. If I could restore
My innocence, my open heart would show
In my expression: a soft smile, warm, slow,
The air of willingness that I once wore.

I love you now, but not the way I did
When I was younger. There are things you've done
That changed the way I love you. You have run
When I was hoping you would hide, and hid
When it was time to run. When others bid
You to silence, then war should have begun.

Warm Hearts

I have a calling, but voices of gods
Don't reach me, only songs of wrath and woe.
My father warned me that I ought to go,
But I remained, among the bards and bawds,
To manufacture ink, sing holy lauds,
Divest myself of feathers, make a show
Of building warm hearts' havens in the snow,
And fighting on, always, against the odds.

I don't know what this calling is, but soon
It will announce itself, and I will rise
To meet my destiny. Don't catechize;
That's my employment, once the amber moon
Fades into nothing, like an old cartoon.
My heart is warm, although it isn't wise.

Not an Adventure

We marked our progress with the bits of bread
That are traditional: the squirrels, birds,
And insects followed us in hungry herds.
So I remembered what Aunt Gretel said:
"Don't worry. Something will turn up." Misled
By feckless optimism, empty words,
And tuffet-sitters with their whey and curds,
We walked, calmly. We should have run instead.

This was not an adventure. We were lost,
Alone and friendless in the tulgey wood.
We left our home, our own safe neighbourhood,
To wander uselessly. A bit of frost,
A little sleet, a sudden holocaust,
The whims of Fortune played. We understood.

Wake Children Wake

Poor lady! She has eaten all the plums,
And they taste good to her. Yes, they taste good
To her. As I walked through the neighbourhood
Behind a wagon with a dead man, drums
Were not heard. Now, in rocky Actium's
Great bay we dreamed that dream you said we should,
In burning ships, made of such tender wood,
Danced naked in the north room, flapped our gums.

Wake, children, wake up to the bruit of friends,
Take variable feet and saxifrage,
All the accoutrements of middle age,
Old age, life, death, and fruitless hope that rends
Our wretched, cloud-wracked selves. So much depends
Upon a few words written on the page.