The first September week was barely past
When he was born. The way the seasons change
Is catching, so perhaps it is not strange
That his first tongue and nation weren't his last.
But though a tree may shed its autumn leaves
And be reclad in spring, the trunk remains.
And so it is with Serge, who still retains
The core of whom he loves, what he believes.
( Read more... )

The first days with the flaming sword, I swore
I'd break my arms, or burn my fingertips.
My palms were blistered. Skin came off in strips.
At sunset I'd be weary to the core.
And now I can, with joyful spirit, tell
How when my widespread wings were newly fledged
I lost control, and ended my flight wedged
Inside a cliffside crack (from which I fell!)
In ( Read more... )

The ti bon ange wakes and sips its tea.
The day awaits, the curled-up sleeping man
Lies ready to inhabit, so it can
In all he does, express divinity.
In cyberspace, the greater angel stirs
And spreads its bit-fledged wings, extending far
Beyond a body's reach. The shining star
Of Coming Light unfallen, it confers
Upon its willing agents powers thus:
The ( Read more... )

A single strand of silver wire entwines
Among the gems and beads, and twists around
The finest one, a secret treasure found
Among the curves like fruit among the vines.
And when the gem is lost, the shining wire
Preserves intact its shape, its outs and ins
The places where it widens, where it thins,
Reflecting, still, an echo of its fire.
How painful for ( Read more... )

We stand between the darkness and the light:
The balance-point, when coming day reveals
Details that the darker time conceals,
And watch the sunlight overtake the night.
This equinox marks more than balance struck
Between the darkness, velvet cloak swept back,
And gold-robed daytime, mirroring the black.
This is the coming of the light. What luck
This ( Read more... )

Assembled masses dance and shout "hooray".
The trumpets blare. The church bells start to chime,
As we delight in one more gift of rhyme.
Another writer coming out to play!
Like him, we doubt that our poetic voice
Is adequate to match the standards set
By those who came before. But let's forget
Our worries for the moment, and rejoice.
And as for content, I ( Read more... )

Today the Fluorosphere will mark his birth
Whose gravity, when he has cause to write,
Can draw us all together, while his mirth
And musicality yet make us light.
His passion and his politics infuse
Discussions with his sense of what is right:
When someone challenges his deep-held views
He argues with uncompromising might.
And yet that passion is the lesser ( Read more... )

The Fluorosphere, its multicoloured light
Projecting over information-scapes,
Auroral in the year's initial night,
Is dazzled by the glow Steve Taylor makes.
The choirs, both those who like their Tallis neat
And those who want a dash of Williams in
Together sing his praises, voices sweet
As fruitcake (with no weasels added in).
The poets cast their laurel ( Read more... )