Poems

The white death came, and then it left,
its scalpel neither swift nor deft….

The world is weary of the past
Oh, might it die or rest at last…

But something is recalled,
My conscience or my vanity appalled.

'Lives of Quiet Desperation'

Most lead lives of quiet desperation,
so vainly seeking divine inspiration,
ignoring the smile of a child just kissed,
the scent of roses after gentle mist,
the robin's song across the morning lawn,
following the soft-blazing orange of dawn…

She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone…

We have seen it all, what will be,
Yet no one else will turn to see.
We have written out who will fall,
Yet no one else will care at all.

We have no figures on the screen
no way to prove what we have seen
and so the earth will end its days
while ruled and rulers seek self-praise.

The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
To balance with this life, this death…