Monday, August 15, 2011

Killing a Crow

Something moves, then the collision
Everything follows from indecision                                    
All was lost, except for the beginning
And what people could remember
There was a sound the wind made in the ruined trees
The same in spring as in December
 Silence down in the dirt and leaves
 Something rotting beneath the eaves
 Progress brings new disease
 Where would the rats be without the fleas?
 Black dog out there, prowling around for me
 Next time we meet, will be number three
 Kill a crow
 Change the season
 But when you kill that crow
You can’t have any reason


Man's Angels


            That old sun will rise
           In a child's bright eyes
             Time always flies


On Listening to Like a Rolling Stone

Thunderous fairy tale
With a simple motive:
Beware the perils of prosperity
And the falsity of compassion
You don't know how it feels
Unless you've been there
And you can't visit
To have only yourself is freedom
And terror 


When I understood how I could be broken
I became as stone

A Perfect World

A perfect world might be so imperfect
You might not want to live in it at all
It would be harder to get rich or stay poor
People would still die too soon, for the worst reasons,
               and it would rain too much
In the cities and not enough on the plains
Love would not aways last, and the night would be long
When sleep would not come, and short when we rested
Children would laugh too little and cry too loud
Some would be sacrifice to our distractions
Music would be as dear to us as dreams
Ghosts would hold the lonesome from their friends
Wildflowers would hug the roadsides without choking
Orphans would find solace in the arms of strangers
The prisons would be full, and the people would be free
No one would know the names of the rulers
Day would follow the night, and darkness the dawn
Wind would drive dry leaves skittering through the alleyway
Our imagination would be insufficient
Clocks and days would be no measure
The desert would desire snow and a rose the sunshine
Mercy would be less in evidence than sacrifice
Justice less wanted than compassion
And order more highly regarded tha chaos
In the howling wilderness would bloom a garden
Until the dust and beasts again overtake it
Most of the news would still be bad
And most of the people would still be glad
All this would be true of a perfect world
To remind us of what a rare thing it is