Tag Archives: chant royal

Lines from Our Epitaph: chant royal

’Tis morning, for the cock at dawn has crowed;
and in the bustle of the waking day
each wipes away the sleep and takes their load
from where it slept – and moves along their way.
Some burdens may seem lighter than the rest,
mere trifles, more akin to happiness
than heavy sacks of lead, that like regret
retard our steps to what’s not happened yet,
and on that journey teach us not to laugh.
Each morning thus compels us to forget
when we erased lines from our epitaph.

’Tis midday, for the luncheon horn does blow;
we clamor at our labor’s too brief stay
to gossip cursed luck and need to know,
then guess what waits thru the rest of the day.
In blind and muted prophecy, the jest
of some wild, mad extravagance suggests
of universes far beyond us yet;
eternity, with lies, makes us forget
the vanity of hope, prayer of our past,
the time before this toil, and work, and sweat,
when we erased lines from our epitaph.

’Tis twilight, for the sun is falling low;
we wander aimless home at break of day
and with the last of energy’s brave glow
lay down our burdens to escape the fray.
For some, the pause is the part they love best:
the proof of having passed some trying test.
While others, in the dull and sticky sweat,
self-medicate to soothe plaguing regret
that their grim lives just slip away so fast,
still filled with what were dreams not happened yet
when we erased lines from our epitaph.

And now the sun at last is finally set,
its golden hours replaced by hues of jet
with just a few pale lanterns on the path,
to hint at what had not quite happened yet
when we erased lines from our epitaph.

7 FEB 2017

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The End is Near: a chant royal

The end is near, and what is worse,
it looks so very much the same
as the beginning. How perverse!
We’d best start handing out the blame
before the opportunity
is past, and we are forced to flee
elected our own scapegoats. How
I wish we’d planned much better, now.
We’re stuck with everything, it seems,
and all those swords we forged from plows
have severed us from our own dreams.

The end is coming, like a curse
or the last seconds of a game
we played half-assed; seeming to nurse
an old war wound, we acted lame,
and in the name of being free
insisted all should “be like me”
and praised the sweat on every brow
that bowed down to our sacred cows.
We’ve ruined everything; the cream
has curdled and is worthless now.
We’ve lost access to our own dreams.

The end is on us, and the purse
we thought to win, the wealth and fame,
has dissipated; while we nurse
our young so long they grow up tame,
and “being all that they can be”
decide on “nothing” as the key
to great success in life, somehow.
We’ve earned it all; but what it means?
No clues, until our final bow:
that fond farewell to all our dreams.

It is the end; no furrowed brow
lost deep in thought will help us now.
The fabric’s worn, split at the seams;
as does the tree, so goes the bough.
we’ve nothing left of all our dreams.

27 APR 2011

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