ends
each moment
it separates desire from desire
deed from deed
giving one takes the other away
the shiny fades
the ancients rise
revealed is the truth of all that could be obscurred as it begins again
why write poems that make no sense, or, public language fails private feeling, or, take that, Wittgenstein, or, not just an enlish failure
that study of so much
heaving and grasping
the price of perception dear
knuckles tap temple
rub twitches
inexplicable self consolation
of pixel world stationary
momentary
subsidiary
solitary
drinking deep of
this cup f(what was I going to say?)
i shake and curve and heat
who knew
the feeling bit my tongue and bled
before i noticed
it rushed and like a globe
it spun
not a world but a shadow
of wishes
spent upon eternal moments gone
except this one with
shaking legs tingled muscle sparks of stillness
confessions of a poet
at night
i haven't told a soul
i write
this secret tome
belongs me
to this fight
fraught with the ins and outs
of the fulsome fearsome tongue
my mother
and father too
impotent and giving
all life
as pain turned suffering reflects
the glory of
brain type
left hand slower
than the right
despite
focus
on it
fingers
cascading
exit
come
again
over notes
letters
lines
computer
locks up
can't keep up
with the
drift
over across
throughout
..scapes?
let it come
again
that slow
connected
me with all
at table
clothes dissolved
before the
complete empty
whole
spin slide fade
(computer still locked)
he can ask
what they'd never met
what if he'd kissed her sooner
what if he'd kissed her better
what if they'd had another
day
what if they went the same
way
but all the what if's
amount to naught
as the is confounds
the ought
but he has trouble
letting go
that has so little
to hold
It's not poetry this time I'm just putting down some mind to anchor dear hated world my being is wound so tight above this vast freedom I can't handle they're incompatible and I am left feeling lost at the sea in me who knew (I should have) that one moment would leave another hole that still I would not trade for anything
exactly what I needed
everything I wanted
more than I imagined
nothing I deserved
the universe's joke is on me
but only I can get it
lonely and elated
i should have kissed her sooner
but she just became the one
i should have kissed when i did
i should have kissed her better
but i did not know what
a good kiss was until her lips
mine learned
empty slip
across the pier
confounds
but a moment
now an age
ago, away
she
on a ship
i cannot
place in
space or time but
here that spark
burns bright
despite
having sailed
horizons away
the void of a thing
gone yet
that was never
held
to laugh or cry
who can decide
at the least
and greatest
moments alike
a kiss too late
as dawn
pushes
too soon the next
for which a day
ago
we could not wait
to see the minute through
and missed
that now
while old boys
check their numbers
investments
and piss
we weep
faith in convictions
falls too easily
and hard
in love
and despair the philosopher
the fool
for none
know her mind
that other
but mine
is that
no other lass
can meet with air
so warm
as here
is now
gone
dogs go to heaven
as faithfuls
bestow memory
sufficient
to glories enduring
heaven is
found near in
the stories
the souls
of every beast
that breathes so well
storms blow and wreck
the plans of men
yet little tides bring
little gifts now and then
Orien's belt sets
over seas in her eyes
while the breeze in their hair
but imperceptibly sighs
docked for a day
son of Northern lakes
from Scotland's daughter
parts the opposite way
on unfathomed waters
the plans of men
yet little tides bring
little gifts now and then
Orien's belt sets
over seas in her eyes
while the breeze in their hair
but imperceptibly sighs
docked for a day
son of Northern lakes
from Scotland's daughter
parts the opposite way
on unfathomed waters
stuck nowhere alone next to everyone else right here on the way to fame
the whole webscape opens wide
as an abyss
feet drag along worn paths
to the places one goes, precipes
from which to stumble again
down the desolate slope
clanging noisily still ringing hollow
finds every mountain and valley smooth
sparse trees brightest green no breeze to sway them
but in this garden
all things glitter
as dead as gold
never peace in the middle east
only news of growth that kills
passion rises to sinking hate
the network is that of one limp hand
clasping a million atrophied others
across a million miles
where the thickest book of faces, faces, faces
exhausts all but one
that breathes and sobs next door
"Only", the film
Childhood triumphs with quiet joys even while relegated to the interstices between adult problems. Down-to-earth and close-to-home, yet universally (and very) Canadian. Simple, but poignant. Slow, but engaging. Lonely, but joyful.
To be faithful, not believing. Acting out who you want to be without knowing how God or the rest of the world is going to be, how it's going to pan out, how they're going to respond, whether God or justice will show up, triumph. Whereas I'm not seeing God work, so doubting the tenets, so not walking the way, I should just walk the way, watch for God, and not worry about believing or doubting "this" or "that".
judgement
that which keeps me from loving
keeps me from being loved
yet
my flaws are
my perfection
what else
stands between
here
and the
eternal
there?
ceased judgment
judgemental ceases
Divorce for Doggies
Introduction
first and last
family photo
why didn't we take more photos
we look happy
to those
who don't know
that it's over
but we knew
and behind those smiles
lies bewilderment
in the shapeless face
of a future without
this silly
little family
normativity paradox? equilibrium
To be attached to a value is to suffer from failures to live up to it--either one's own failures, or those of close social relations. NOT to suffer, is to be detached from that value. There is little in between. (Unless the value is a purely pragmatic one, arguable, reasonable... no... it will still be attached to emotions... because what is pragmatic derives from living needs, which are inherently emotive in the creature. )
Imagine the satiation of some desire that is considered by one to be wrong (perhaps through tradition), and yet difficult for another to abstain from, perhaps precisely because not obiviously hurting others. Those values in relationship, produce strife both when the value is lived up to, doubly when the value is not lived up to, but not at all when the value is abandoned... if "no one gets hurt." Of course, if someone is sometimes hurt, or always hurt, or many people always hurt, the suffering might impress itself, in proportion of its visibility to the value-holder, upon the value and its maintenance.
So there is a pull and push, a dialectic, that amounts to a pressure toward some morality, for any given form of life, that is in equilibrium between the minimization of the physical suffering and the minimization of socio-psycho suffering.
self pity
fascinating, that
having so many things to love
one might remain without touching any
but those sleeping dogs that lie
(like so many)at a half-way
between the loved and loving
he lost
track of time
most
when he got
lost
in the least
track of time
and that is how he lived so much
in so little time
ends of MAN (unfinished)
Why believe in MAN's evolution toward a work-free ratiocratic warless civilization? Because you bought groceries and put gas in your car today? Because that is your hope for the future? If things really are progressing, getting better, why not believe that evolution would continue along the line that MAN has already followed to the "top" of the food chain, a movement wherein all of life is evolving out of entropy, conquering it by co-opting those same forces toward maximum organization, utilization of resources to the utmost, painlessly unto the maintenance of the metabolocratic form of life theoretically at the maximum of the universes' carrying capacity... and might not include "MAN" at all?
Athol
Late on a starry summer night, as campfires die low, and distant laughter echoes through the dunes and across the waters on either side of the outlet beach, the inevitable sigh of campers, full of the day’s sun, seems to coincide with a sighing of the whole surrounding countryside. The sigh, far from relent, is a deep exhale that anticipates an equal inhale of crisp air that has dropped its dew—the day’s satisfaction anticipates a bright morning. The fact that the sun rises over points of eastern land, rather than the water, is a small price to pay for the ever changing and always faultless light of each day’s westering sun. For some, the early shade leaves cooler tents for sleeping in. For those appreciating the dawn, the morning air lingers just long enough to smooth the waking of tranquility unto the activity of the day.
Nearby Cherry Valley and East Lake give the impression of being equally addicted to such summer nights. Little homes, like year-round cottages, must sojourn in peaceful sleep under snow whose melt awakens the lakes that once again revel in reflecting the various lights of the sky.
For those who venture from the beach, climbing out of Cherry Valley, southbound on County Road 10, and beginning the slow descent to Point Petre on County Road 24, the weather usually changes. If it’s raining in Picton, Point Petre is probably sun bathing. And while residents along 24 might be snowed under, the roads of Hallowell are probably dry. Along Soup Harbour, down to the point and the southernmost shore of the County, Athol is a silent place. If the coyotes don’t outnumber the people, deer certainly do. Even the cow population is sparse.
The haunting dominance of shallow-rooting trees like juniper and sumac, betrays the nearness of limestone bedrock. Pockets of elm, giving way to oak and maple, starkly indicate the underlying bowls and fissures, where soil and water collect. Along an uneven shore that alternates between shale cliffs, slab shoals and pebble beaches, some of these withered oaks look as though they have witnessed long years, while waves, migrating birds, human hunters, and ships have passed by—some dead or wrecked, and some, perhaps, whose bones or hulls are yet to be found. The point and southern shoreline stand as the unmoving first landfall of travellers from the south, seeking the lush lands of sheltered river valleys further north. South of Army Reserve Road, government-managed land lies desolate and unkempt, as if the land itself rejected the permanence of anything but the interface of waves and stone. As if knowing this land was a place for passing through, ancient Iroquiois peoples buried their dead in mounds along this shore.
Visitors are aware of their visiting. Breathtaking as the stroll along these remote shorelines may be, home eventually beckons souls to shelter elsewhere. Back at the Outlet’s campfires or the hearths of Athol’s homes, the glow of firelight inaudibly whispers stories long forgotten, but nonetheless, “rest well.”
i'm sorry I could not go
where I tried to go
i hold my breath
to hold back th.. . . . . . . . .
.. . . ... . . .. . . . . . .. ... ... . .... . ..
.. . . ..... . . . . . . .. .... . .... .. ..... . .
mind the gap
do not enter
no exit
{he hates his life}
mountains of space
in megapixels
he can only
stare at
never fill
function he_hates_his_life(thereandthen:object):void
{
if (anywhere_but_there > thereandthen.here && someday > thereandthen.now)
{
light_bathes_a_greening_world_around_his_shrinking_grey = true;
}
}
he googled someone to love him
and heard a radio hum
felt the poverty of
a digital touch
if to belong is to be
then where he is
he is not
now
out again
but not standing out
conversing with chatter
itching for somewhere
not knowing where
later
alone againavoiding existence
conversing with sadness
wishing everything
capable of none
still
she has
the neck he'll never kiss
the eyes that smile
but not for him
she has let go
until
he drifts out
where every dawn is dusk
eyes shut by the sun
through shining
inky yawning ages
the one
this one is close
in all her dark and light
so much darkness bounds
the only light near enough to see by
another is distant
a face all but imaginary
a pretty face is all I know I know
at the end of knowledge that never was
hope survives its wreck again
she might be perfect
and then there is perfection
faceless
still pretty
neither distant nor close in time or space
but dimensionless
unyielding for direction
neither dark nor light
but sightless, yielding
not even ignorance to toss blindly in
not even darkness to stumble through
nor so much as a word beyond
the words--the fairytales--
that give her all her form
there's a secret somewhere here
that even i don't know
it's something of the touch
some of the deep that goes
way back
but not a "mind" thing
not a secret made of words
it sits just where
"knowing that..." is as useless as
a single word when words innumerable
do not suffice
do not grasp
(ie,
when an expected apex of culture lies down in pointlessness
not having taken care of living)
... so that the secret
is told best by nothing like telling
The thing about home is, like so much in life, you can't choose it. Home already is what it is before you've even learned to practice this notion of freedom that we chase--just around the bend. Home isn't just around the bend; it is steps retraced--over and over. The paths of the niche wear into the being of the creature that treads them down, creates them, creates itself in them without the design that later appears to seekers. Home is a voice that never needs words. It does not temp sweet dreams, but listens to the would and could, repeating the is as is, remembers the was becoming again, and recommends nothing more than these. It breathes, holds on, persists, but gently. It is Nova Scotia. It is the shore left behind when Jesus builds and wrecks and fixes and sails off again. Home is where we are left by promises that never quite break under the weight of waiting. It is the saddest of true happinesses. Home is rarely exciting, by definition never exotic, and as such, it is always easier to leave than to find again. It is just where it was left, but the leaving dismantled the amen resting there until, in longer time than convenient, the resting sighs amen again.
we built a fire too big to control
I was consumed and badly burned
I feared for us both
but with just a spit and a kick she put the whole thing out
now it's the appearance that she has no wounds that keeps mine from healing
love death by living
It is no paradox that we kill what we love--it is but one side of the phenomenon it extends, which is antecedingly paradoxical "in itself," verily: living. Love is first of all living, loving itself. Life loves to live but lives on life, must kill, affirms killing by living, and so hates itself, negates itself, contradicts itself in the very moment that it loves itself, affirms itself, builds itself.
not now just yet
not finished yet.
not unbound from her.
not done feeling.
not stopped loving waiting hoping crying.
not wanting that we're the same.
not expecting that she's perfect.
not caring if it all just fits.
not done feeling.
not stopped loving waiting hoping crying.
not wanting that we're the same.
not expecting that she's perfect.
not caring if it all just fits.
just want.
just carole.
just now.
March to summer
out my window
and through the woods
over the lake
the clouds are on fire
in a still, slow burn
bathing the frozen earth
in a cool pink kiss
that already promises
light on the other side of sleep
in the house
the stove coals burn low
waiting to be rekindled
to stave away the wind of night
in my stomach
dinner settles
heat seeps into each limb
as sleep creeps over the eyes
in my mind
a woman's laughter
the touch of her lips
the press of her breasts
the squeeze of her thighs
and the smell of her hair
linger
even longer than the sun
or dinner's spices
all the world seems warm
though winter clings to the fields
spring is unstoppable
as the sun arrives
a little sooner each passing day
and through the woods
over the lake
the clouds are on fire
in a still, slow burn
bathing the frozen earth
in a cool pink kiss
that already promises
light on the other side of sleep
in the house
the stove coals burn low
waiting to be rekindled
to stave away the wind of night
in my stomach
dinner settles
heat seeps into each limb
as sleep creeps over the eyes
in my mind
a woman's laughter
the touch of her lips
the press of her breasts
the squeeze of her thighs
and the smell of her hair
linger
even longer than the sun
or dinner's spices
all the world seems warm
though winter clings to the fields
spring is unstoppable
as the sun arrives
a little sooner each passing day
her skin
endless for unending touch
she asks
nothing more than all this warmth
our sigh
depthless for unfathomed dawn
endless for unending touch
she asks
nothing more than all this warmth
our sigh
depthless for unfathomed dawn
Ghosts of Soup Harbour (unfinished)
Ghosts seem to linger near the sea. The sea is, after all, the nearest worldly abyss, taking of life as often as it gives.
The sea at Soup Harbour was as ghostly as any, I felt, even if it was fresh water. With sixty kilometers of waves between my porch and Rochester, the water might as well have been the Fundy between Digby and Saint John. Well, no. Because those tides, at least, yield better fish, and the villages that break the Fundy's cliffs seem to have changed little, as if the sea had accepted, at least, not rejected, a small but stable population that has remained since its arrival. The shores of Soup Harbour, on the other hand, have the marks of past lives that remain but as marks. What life there is seems transient: birds find no shelter from the wind, and those pickup trucks that brave the rutts of unpaved roads stay only long enough for a few beers and as many broken bottles, or to dump a load of garbage. The odd dog-walker, drawn by the vista, returns but unsustainably, for no matter the vista, if surveyed oft, fades dull.
Our house, for instance, is an old farmhouse, now a cottage, the barn having been torn down, perhaps old and full of years, but more likely neglected, a failed life. The farmhouse, by the light of an evening fire in the little stove, seems cozy enough. But in the endless gray of cloudswept days, or even by the faded sun at its pitiful November zenith, the drab old floors reveal cracks that can never be cleaned and a long. long.. winter. We never did see the summer at Soup Harbour. We never could eradicate the fleas.
But Soup Harbour was beautiful. And that was half its haunting. Our stretch of beach, that is, the one nearest to the old farm house, was by far the most beautiful, perhaps, that I'd ever seen. A gentle curve of great Aspens, looming directly from the steep slope of rounded limestone pebbles, faced the Westerlies and persisted daily, meditating upon the waves, until each setting sun they greeted, with not so much as a nod, now for the eighteen thousandth time. They, I felt, had seen many ghosts, and yet they commanded respect, which the dead gave, and the living generally not, so that, though living, the aspens seemed to lean toward the past rather than the future, though they endured its wind. For past winds are presently still, but future winds are blows hanging in mid air.
Glimpsing what I thought could only be the shape of the chipped white paint of the old hand pump above the well, Ellis would bark frantically. Reassuring him, I would, that it was nothing but the same bit of cast iron that daylight made utterly disinteresting to him, I could not help but shudder at the possibility, that his senses were better than mine. After all, I could see but little and be deafened by the unyielding wind.
The sea at Soup Harbour was as ghostly as any, I felt, even if it was fresh water. With sixty kilometers of waves between my porch and Rochester, the water might as well have been the Fundy between Digby and Saint John. Well, no. Because those tides, at least, yield better fish, and the villages that break the Fundy's cliffs seem to have changed little, as if the sea had accepted, at least, not rejected, a small but stable population that has remained since its arrival. The shores of Soup Harbour, on the other hand, have the marks of past lives that remain but as marks. What life there is seems transient: birds find no shelter from the wind, and those pickup trucks that brave the rutts of unpaved roads stay only long enough for a few beers and as many broken bottles, or to dump a load of garbage. The odd dog-walker, drawn by the vista, returns but unsustainably, for no matter the vista, if surveyed oft, fades dull.
Our house, for instance, is an old farmhouse, now a cottage, the barn having been torn down, perhaps old and full of years, but more likely neglected, a failed life. The farmhouse, by the light of an evening fire in the little stove, seems cozy enough. But in the endless gray of cloudswept days, or even by the faded sun at its pitiful November zenith, the drab old floors reveal cracks that can never be cleaned and a long. long.. winter. We never did see the summer at Soup Harbour. We never could eradicate the fleas.
But Soup Harbour was beautiful. And that was half its haunting. Our stretch of beach, that is, the one nearest to the old farm house, was by far the most beautiful, perhaps, that I'd ever seen. A gentle curve of great Aspens, looming directly from the steep slope of rounded limestone pebbles, faced the Westerlies and persisted daily, meditating upon the waves, until each setting sun they greeted, with not so much as a nod, now for the eighteen thousandth time. They, I felt, had seen many ghosts, and yet they commanded respect, which the dead gave, and the living generally not, so that, though living, the aspens seemed to lean toward the past rather than the future, though they endured its wind. For past winds are presently still, but future winds are blows hanging in mid air.
Glimpsing what I thought could only be the shape of the chipped white paint of the old hand pump above the well, Ellis would bark frantically. Reassuring him, I would, that it was nothing but the same bit of cast iron that daylight made utterly disinteresting to him, I could not help but shudder at the possibility, that his senses were better than mine. After all, I could see but little and be deafened by the unyielding wind.
this how is it
I doubt not that art would be less common if everyone "stopped and smelled the roses." As a distillation of perception, art comes as "no surprise" to those who practice perceiving. Of course, many do not, and are amazed by art; it reminds them to look, listen, feel, pause, and breathe again. But even we who do notice, have not "the same" perception as each other that does: theirs is a "different" notice. Noteworthy, then, is the ink that takes familiar material and forms a poem. After all, the sounds of a song are familiar sounds--"mere" frequencies--and there is never a "new" colour of paint under the sun. But the artist says, "this is how I see it," or, "this is how I see it," or, "this is how I see it," and this "how" is "it": art.
Photographic Truth
A photographer uses the slogan, "The Complete Picture."
Doesn't he realize that his claim--that a photograph could not just play a role in, but somehow perfect (complete) communication (or does he mean perception?)--is like calling some yellow, the "yellowest" of yellows? Every yellow is self-absorbed, but especially the yellowest yellow: they all define themselves by themselves, and the circular reference is meaningless. Such is (pre-?)modern perception, still tacitly, quietly obsessed with Beauty and Truth. So wrapped up in itself as to be unaware of it's shaping of itself: the photograph. An invention of truth-telling, to be certain. As certain as may be.
The photograph fucked modern vision, and their children still fuck each other. They make babies that are beautiful in their own eyes. I'm not sure what difference it would make to visit the Taj Mahal, Machu Picchu, Mount Fuji, Stonehenge, or Yosemite. I've already seen them all. I could have myself transported theres--hurtled through the air in a tube of metal, faster than you can read a decent book--but to describe it would prove nothing. I'd have to take a picture, just to prove to myself that I'd been there. And then I'd have nothing more than I already do: the world reduced to a click.
The foremost lie told by the photograph is that it might be true. But the photograph sees nothing more than it has created: a frame-severed patch of colours that contains so little of the life it is cut from as to be without life. Relics, of course, are fascinating for the stories they leave to mystery, but they are so far from being history that when the photograph stands in as memory, the dead, no, a bone fragment, captivates the living. Black-and-white is more honest about its shortcomings, at least, because nothing is black and white. The photograph's something can only amount as the photograph is admitted nothing. It is a way of seeing nothing more than its own way of seeing. But seeing, I suppose, is as legitimate a life process as digestion, and farting.
Doesn't he realize that his claim--that a photograph could not just play a role in, but somehow perfect (complete) communication (or does he mean perception?)--is like calling some yellow, the "yellowest" of yellows? Every yellow is self-absorbed, but especially the yellowest yellow: they all define themselves by themselves, and the circular reference is meaningless. Such is (pre-?)modern perception, still tacitly, quietly obsessed with Beauty and Truth. So wrapped up in itself as to be unaware of it's shaping of itself: the photograph. An invention of truth-telling, to be certain. As certain as may be.
The photograph fucked modern vision, and their children still fuck each other. They make babies that are beautiful in their own eyes. I'm not sure what difference it would make to visit the Taj Mahal, Machu Picchu, Mount Fuji, Stonehenge, or Yosemite. I've already seen them all. I could have myself transported theres--hurtled through the air in a tube of metal, faster than you can read a decent book--but to describe it would prove nothing. I'd have to take a picture, just to prove to myself that I'd been there. And then I'd have nothing more than I already do: the world reduced to a click.
The foremost lie told by the photograph is that it might be true. But the photograph sees nothing more than it has created: a frame-severed patch of colours that contains so little of the life it is cut from as to be without life. Relics, of course, are fascinating for the stories they leave to mystery, but they are so far from being history that when the photograph stands in as memory, the dead, no, a bone fragment, captivates the living. Black-and-white is more honest about its shortcomings, at least, because nothing is black and white. The photograph's something can only amount as the photograph is admitted nothing. It is a way of seeing nothing more than its own way of seeing. But seeing, I suppose, is as legitimate a life process as digestion, and farting.
Long Time
He is a good dog that waits for me
As I stare off at a point of light
Trying to smoke a pipe
It's bigger than a star, from a bush
So it is smaller, obviously
But the pipe won't stay lit
He has no idea what I'm thinking about
Thinking about the future
He waits, not for what I think
But for what I will do
Go to bed, he hopes
It is night after all
And his unapologetic exuberance in daylight play
Deserves his guiltless nightly sleep
But I...
Keep thinking
As I stare off at a point of light
Trying to smoke a pipe
It's bigger than a star, from a bush
So it is smaller, obviously
But the pipe won't stay lit
He has no idea what I'm thinking about
Thinking about the future
He waits, not for what I think
But for what I will do
Go to bed, he hopes
It is night after all
And his unapologetic exuberance in daylight play
Deserves his guiltless nightly sleep
But I...
Keep thinking
November speaks
in grays and hushed blue
now drowned out by demon-
possessed December,
with flashing red
and dyed green,
whose true whites are painted over
with whiter lies
in grays and hushed blue
now drowned out by demon-
possessed December,
with flashing red
and dyed green,
whose true whites are painted over
with whiter lies
Belief in God is a kind of hope for a happy ending, that justice will prevail. A good hope. But that there is "a" Justice that could prevail is the hope reified into to a single and simple ideal, its platonic form, found nowhere but in being a shorcut from everywhere. The sad, self-contradictory part of that simplified, singularized perfection, is its propensity to be raised above its present, complex, unsigularizable life, and made eternal, to the detriment of whatever imperfect happiness and justice may be possible now.
nothing seems
to happen when
I think
a lot seems
to happen when
I blink
Life is in the blinking
"Man" is in the thinking
Bumpersticker idea #9:
"In case of rapture, I'll still be DUI."
(Yes, I realize how offensive that is, but isn't "this vehicle will be unmanned" even more abhorrent?)
is there something about memory
that distills the past, rarefies emotion
purifies delight. lonilneliness. hope. wonder... textured all, and
somehow evaporated are discontentent
ennui
and the present banality of the very same(? aforementioned) sensations
such that the present is so short-changed as to force the question
is it something about neurons?
what a question, given that once,
beside a love
I saw a shooting star tear
the whole sky from top to bottom
is there something about memory
that if I eschewed my present love,
eternity would crown her queen of every tomorrow's past?
what synapses, holy
holy
but my paradigm tells me it was actually a meteorite and that
for all I know
all the stars might already be dead
so,
if I say,
whatever interacts is part of a greater whole
is that bar one of a grand metaphysical narrative
or am I practicing English grammar?
or can't it be both
each sunrise all rise seeming new
yet same blue sky persists in blue
come clouds again again comes gray
til older sun stains old war’s day
yet same blue sky persists in blue
come clouds again again comes gray
til older sun stains old war’s day
