Tag Archives: utopianism

I Prefer Sitting In An Old, Comfortable Armchair

I prefer
Sitting in an old, comfortable armchair,
Reading traditional rhyme
As my clock’s regular chime
Speaks of a more ordered time,
To the idea that we must
Forever thrust
Towards some utopian goal
Where my soul
Is nothing when
Compared to the common good
Of collective men.
I would
Rather sit in my armchair
Or, out of my window stare
not at some abstract “common good”
But at a fine old tree
That will outlast me
Unless some vandal destroy that tree
In the name of a better society,
That will never be.

How Pleasant It Is To Dream

How pleasant it is to dream
In the pristine
Groves of academe,
Where the hard
Fact of a messy backyard
Is rarely, or never seen.

When The Squire, Sitting By His Fire

When the squire
Sitting by his fire,
Rang the bell,
Who can tell
Whether the servant, summoned by his call
Had any desire
For the great hall to fall.

How easy ’tis to condemn
Past men.
But tell me
would you reject
The established imperfect
For a future that can never be?

Ivory Tower

The poet in his ivory tower
Has not the power
To change
This deranged
Where the lunatic’s face
Flushed with belief
Brings the world to grief.

Those who think themselves sane
Cudgel their brain
And impose dreams
(which they call schemes)
For the improvement of man.

When dreams fail
The believers wail
“We will get it right next time”.
Or, for shame
They blame
The poor
Gardener who asks nothing more
Than to be left alone to cultivate his garden.

The poet begs pardon
To be excused,
With an amused smile,
For there can be no denial
That time spent in rhyme
Keeps him safe from humanity’s grime.


The weather is drear
And none save my dog is near.
The new year
As seconds
Are here then gone.
The clock’s hands move on
Towards twenty-seventeen.
I have no magic screen
To gaze into the future, but stupidity
And that age-old vice cupidity
Will, I venture to maintain
Continue to reign.

The human race
Has a face
Half devil and part divine.
There is a fine
Between the two.
Looking through
History one finds dreams of utopia turning to hell,
Yet one can not tell
The idealist that he is wrong,
For he will answer you with the same old song,
“If everyone did such and such then all would be well”!
But we are saints with feet of clay
And the utopian’s way
Leads many to stray
Down the path to the ever lasting bonfire
Where the desire
To do good ends in the Gulag and the stamp
Of the fanatic’s boot in the concentration camp.

Small acts of kindness matter
And oft times achieve more than the chatter
Of those
Who would dragoon
Humanity into neat little rows.
And believe there is a man in the moon.