Would you could come

Gary Winfield - Faces in a Crowd III - 13949280859_209a97dd37_k.jpg

Would you could come
     along with me,
How happy I’d be
     —and we together!

Loving ever
     at our leisure
Till the end
     —and we together!

But now wherever I turn
I see your face again
—in crowds,
     and worn by solitary men—
Turn where I will
     I see you everywhere!

Would you had stayed
     with us, with me,
And things were as they’d been

Or would you’d come along
     with me—

And we’d have time at journey’s end
To spend our lives as we were meant:
With all our beautiful things arrayed
And everyone happy, no one sad.

 

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The Earl of Rollercoaster

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The Earl of Rollercoaster found
It inconvenient to expound
On why it was he loved to race
Continually from place to place
Whilst whirling rapidly around —
Now here, now there, now soaring high,
Now falling freely toward the ground,
And screaming all the while.

That’s why he built those crazy trains
That bear his name:
It’s easier to experience
than to explain.

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No matter what

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The tall man stood on the island
Blunt-faced, facing the wind
With his eyes as wide as a child’s eyes
And his clothes flapping about him

And the seabirds cried like ever
Just as if he were nought but a stone
And the wind rushed heedlessly by him
Till the sea rose and mothered him home

His blunt face is long since forgotten
By his people long scattered and dead
But all the same he stood there once
No matter what nobody says

 

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As an example

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As an example
of ingenuity,
you told me:
“but you can survive
on unseen lives;

Modern science can simulate
many effects
by using
culture.

Humans
are the key:
they help to  seed
the future

But can also be
tricked
into work.”

 

 

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Why are you still here?

(after Li Bai)
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It’s spring, you say – Why are you still here?

The lichens are slowly turning
The mountain rock to new dirt,
The snowmelt is carrying the old dirt away;

Why are you still here?

I smile; my heart
Beats as slowly as the mountain’s heart.

A peach blossom, ripped from the twig
By the pummeling spring rain,
May be carried by freshet, by gully,
By stream, by river – clear to the sea, maybe;

So too me:
ripped from heaven,
Halfway to somewhere else by now.

Which is why I have no answer.

 

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Nuisance crow

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Nuisance crow
on an old fencepost:

green field behind;
brown hills in the distance;

gravel road,
deadleaf trees,
white sky,
world all around —

when did it all become
not worth a mention?

I fear my sixth decade
will make me an old man yet.

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