December 31st, 2011


My first ever sestina

Atlantis 1

And at the end our towers were not as high
As the new seas that rushed in on the land
Towers we thought high enough. That stood in pride
but folly was their name, in folly drowned
And at the end we danced, dance was despair
But still was beauty right up to the end

We did some deeds of grace right at the end
Freed slaves who drowned as equals, climbed as high1
And danced with kings and queens the same despair
Not just our house slaves, those who worked the land
And former slave and free on towers drowned
And held hands at the last, in equal pride

But in our glory days we knew such pride
A pride that stayed with us until the end
As comfort. Some were humble.They still drowned
It did not save them, and they met their end
Along with towers, and cities and the land
The humble with the proud all met despair

There is an honesty in deep despair
As honest as humility or pride
We saw the waters over-run the land
And knew that we would dance before the end
dance on the highest towers. The sea rose high
And as we danced, we stumbled and we drowned

We lived in beauty, but when we all drowned
there was no beauty in our last despair
Some deeds of grace. Parents held children high
above their heads. There was a sort of pride
that chose to drown and try still at the end
to act in death the honour the land

The children drowned and all forget our land
though there are tales of some lost land that drowned
That other lands remember at their end
And use our tale to comfort their despair
And dance like us, like us retain their pride
Even as blood or water rise so high

Their last sight of the land before the end
The blood and water high in which we drowned
Like us they share despair, but dance in pride

A new year poem

Sestine- the year 2011

It was, like all our years, a year of war
a year of death, and sorrow, and of greed
of crowds that fought through danger to be free
of sudden kindnesses and random grace
of love and hatred, parched days and cold rain
and smouldering from long-neglected fires

Much of our works will die, perhaps in fires
or smashed collateral of some vast war
We stand faces upturned and look at rain
except for those whose eyes are fixed through greed
on other's disadvantage, have no grace
Their greed must go, or we will not be free

And we may die before we stand up free
our bodies cast by thousands into fires
and yet through struggle we reach out to grace
We hold each other tight. Around us war
may rage, and profit those who live for greed
but all that rage will quench and die through rain

the rain that lasts past death, the fertile rain
that's cold and wakes us. Wakes us to be free
wakes us to fight the ones who live for greed
wakes us and helps us to put out the fires
in which our dead burn and the dead of war
the rain that is just water, feels like grace

And if we die, we live again as grace
we fall as tears on friends, we fall as rain
we last though dead beyond the years of war
we last beyond our work. Dead we are free
as rain and tears we will put out the fires
and last beyond the ones who live for greed

My curse upon a world that's killed by greed
My blessings on the sudden random grace
of love for comrades, sisters. Through the fires
some will survive and struggle. And the rain
will fall, bring grace to them, they will be free
washed of the ash of fires, the filth of war

In fires we will see burn the life of greed
With rain we will be washed, the tears of grace
At last we will be free, beyond the war.