The Field of Irony

The verdant Field of Irony
Has always got new growth;
For words and actions will diverge
Till neither mirrors both

We set our stake upon a ground
That is no way our own;
And talk about a flag we fly
That isn’t one we’ve flown

We long to join the rich in words,
Where wealth is metaphor;
Down in the Field of Irony
There’s always room for more

Born Desiring

We are born desiring, wanting;
Seldom does that really change.
Though our scenery may vary —
Furniture we’ll rearrange —

Never does the longing leave us,
Nor our restless hearts feel full:
Everyday the pushing, tugging,
Every breath, the constant pull

Of a striving deep within us.
Reaching for, and reaching past
Every happy thing around us
For some other that will last.

Though the morning sits to greet us,
Though a lover waits at home,
We are born desiring, wanting:
We are born to break

Our own