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Our English guest departs, leaves poems

I took Coleman, our English house guest, to Jerusalem.  He will continue his journey.  That may be the last time that we will see him on this trip, or ever.  He left a few of his poems, scribbled from memory on notepaper.  (He never publishes, but has occasionally given recitations.)  Here are three of his poems:

Inside the Trojan Horse

This day was the sky clear of sails

gleamed there no tents in the morning sun.

our scattered camp fires were the sole remains

Alert, we heard the waking horn

sounds of wonder, the singing and the dance.

Now we few, we silent few

for silence is the very work we do

by strategem, have burst through the stubborn walls

that not courage nor honesty could batter down.

Oh cunning artificer

from the living wood to hew

this subtle engine finally to gain their curious hearts

We are the last chance, the risk not covered

the midnight knock

We are the oiled key in the Trojan lock.

The Undying Swans, a legend

It seemed they lived and moved in kingly state

Beings as though upon some royal errand bent

without beginnings, and had no end.

That legend now is ended

not though, in secret chambers of the mind

but, in solid and apparent air

for rays in flight, on distant purpose

thrown from off the sun

their journey being done

now find, quite out of reach

their target long intended

for or [or on] the beach

the swan has died.

Their eyes wear scales

that lamp now fails

on which that light, had bended.

Dwelling among Antiques

Some stories are more easily told in places

where the light streams on upturned faces

Here where shadows dwell

where continuity has cast so strong a spell

where quite dismissed from human kind

in the attentive air

the traces of a plot unfold

Whose secret none may hold nor share.

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