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Tag: balada

The World’s a Mess: balada

Published on April 16, 2025

The world’s a mess, some folks will say –
at least, it often seems that way,
the lines are blurred and hard to see
sometimes, and we may disagree
on what we should and ought to do,
what’s plainly false, and mostly true.
Oh, let us chart the proper course;
First put the cart behind the horse.

The world’s a wonder, others state,
it’s our own fault, we can’t blame fate
for what effect comes from our cause;
we choose the fools who make our laws,
and have no right to kvetch and whine,
you on your side, and me on mine.
Oh, let us divvy up the blame,
and likewise share some of the shame.

The world’s is magic, true enough,
beneath the petty surface stuff
that helps us want to disengage
from wonder, and rely on rage
to fight each other without end
and win – at least we can pretend.
Oh, dance the dance until we die;
that’s all there is unless we try.

The world’s a mess! That may be so,
but life goes on, and even though
we seem to love to fume and fuss
there is still hope for all of us.
Pick up your broom, right here and now,
and clean what you can reach, somehow.
Oh, to begin you need to start;
and each must try to do their part.

16 APR 2025

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The Dance: balada

Published on January 12, 2017

And there upon a hardwood floor
the dancers gather, to once more
repeat the steps and spin around
betwixt mid-air and solid ground,
their minds affixed on meter’s mark,
the breath between time’s light and dark,
a march toward a last release
that once begun can hardly cease.

And how they shimmer as they twirl,
girl clutches boy, boy clutches girl,
each entertaining joy, and fear,
extending now, then drawing near
in measured movements circumscribed
by time, convention, and their tribe.
The consequences? War or peace,
that once begun can hardly cease.

And if the dance should slow or stop,
the dancers, much like spinning tops,
would falter, falling to one side,
let loose their partners, and collide,
and while the gentle music fades
forget to maintain the charade,
the vain illusion and caprice
that once begun dare not to cease.

12 JAN 2017

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Simpleton’s Tune: a balada

Published on November 10, 2010

The simple truth? Who claims to know,
except to judge how the wind blows
first from the east, and then the west;
and who’s to claim which way is best?
To spend one’s time defining right,
without the benefit of might,
seems like a fruitless enterprise
best left to fools, not to the wise.
Breathe in and out, then out and in;
let go of lose, let go of win.
And once your head ceases to spin,
wait just a while, then start again.

The straightest fact? Who’s measured it,
except to their own benefit,
in gain or loss to their own side;
to question this, is suicide.
It’s to the victor go the spoils:
religion, history, and oil;
And those who dare stage a revolt
are branded heretics or dolts.
Breathe in and out, then out and in;
let go of lose, let go of win.
The rope is fraying, old and thin;
just wait a while, then start again.

The highest ground? Who’s standing there,
in some great, self-appointed chair
to pass their judgments from on high
and use their post to justify
that some have more, while most have less
and must in the next world redress
what grievances they would repair;
might just as well live on pure air:
breathe in and out, then out and in,
and let the world’s slow tilt and spin
remind you time and time again:
there is no end, only begin.

10 NOV 2010

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What Dreams Remain: a balada

Published on April 2, 2004

When I was young I sought to find
the furthest reaches of the mind.
Now at the edge of the abyss,
I find it’s simple things I miss.
There is no comfort in the mist
that once I found hard to resist.
  What dreams remain when we grow old
  determine how our story’s told.

The challenge of my younger days
was seeking behind nature’s ways
a science of the hidden climes
I would discover, given time;
but now I find my logic skewed,
all my grand theories of no use.
  What dreams I had when young and bold
  are stories not worth being told.

With complicated schemes I’ve sought
to find ways to be sold and bought.
The price of freedom, and of fame,
I’ve learned and sought them, just the same,
despite my failed and shipwrecked plans
to conquer truth and understand.
  What dreams I had were smoked and rolled
  and are just stories that I’ve told.

So now I’m still adrift at sea,
a flyspeck to eternity;
but I have joy and mirth besides,
though aged by season, wind and tides.
I do not know the primal cause
but still I dream, and hope, because
  What dreams remain when we grow old
  determine how our story’s told.

02 APR 2004

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