englyn cyrch – radical druid

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Published on May 22, 2025

You’ve a chair there at the table;
food for all – that ancient fable
doesn’t take into account
that no amount, for some, is able

to fulfil their need for more.
Never mind others are poor
and just take up too much space;
their place is outside the door.

Put a roast in every pot;
we hear that old line a lot.
You gnaw the bones or chew the fat:
it’s like that. Tell me it’s not.

Look around the room some time:
how far did you need to climb
to crawl up in that soft chair,
from down there in the slime?

Just who did you leave behind,
thinking that they wouldn’t mind
giving you their portion too?
You know it’s true. You’re not blind.

22 MAY 2025

The Threshing Floor: englyn cyrch

Published on March 6, 2017

Give an answer, if you can,
where doubts plague each fighting man
weighting healthy action down
and distracting from good plans;

where blind fear is laying waste
to fresh brick and mortar paste
shielding helpless, sick and poor,
from the pike and bonfire’s baste;

where to live alone is brave,
which makes heroes from mere knaves
who seek glory for all time
in some lines from poet slaves;

where faith falters, and belief
in war’s leaders and great chiefs
leads to slaughter fresh new lambs
who learn firsthand of despair;

where if love is found at all,
it kneels at the wailing wall
and drags on through endless hours
hoping honor breaks its fall;

’til what lives to fight once more,
taught to win despite the score,
lays its weapons down and dies,
chaff dropped on the threshing floor.

06 MAR 2017

Simple things make me content:
knowing where my money’s spent,
poems written, letters sent,
feeling good the rent’s been paid,
evenings without things to do,
working ’til the work is through,
reading a good book or two
‘neath a tree’s new morning shade.

Children play along the walk,
neighbors come to sit and talk,
flowers bloom along the block:
roses, phlox and marigolds.
No advantage to be sought,
Only groceries to be bought;
Smiling at the others, caught
where I too once was so bold.

Day turns into night again,
phone calls come from kin and friends;
happiness for me, depends
on how I spend such days.
Simple, yes, but never stale,
these nothings make grand things pale:
seasons changing without fail,
the thin veil of nature’s ways.

Offered more, I would refuse;
Lest by chance, this life I’d lose.
Let it humor or amuse
society – I don’t mind.
I will walk by my own path;
that shall be my epitaph;
Let those who’ll grieve on my behalf
keep laughter and I entwined.

Simple things, like life and mirth.
These are treasures of great worth,
pleasures of our time on earth
that nurse our souls to health.
Money, fame and power, too –
all will fade when life is through;
what remains, and stays as true
defines what you have as wealth.

14 APR 2004

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The Threshing Floor: englyn cyrch

Simplicity: an englyn cyrch