Bote

[Note: the word is pronounced “boat”. – Owen]


The true bote of our guilt and shame,
The expiation of our hate,
To own the truth and take the blame,
And not to self-exonerate

These medieval virtues seem
And ancient wisp or fading dream:
For now, all innocence is bought,
And our one sin is getting caught


From Middle English bōte (“advantage, benefit, profit; relief, salvation; atonement, amends, expiation; cure”)


Picture credit : Yung Chao Chen

Past Paris

Past Paris, out near Claye-Souilly,
Beside a small and blue canal,
She had me stop so we could see;
Such was, I think, her rationale —

We then we went to a hotel bar
And drank our fill of Pinot noir,
And laughed and sang and swayed and played,
Past Paris, where mistakes
Get made

The night in showers came to war…

The night in showers come to war,
The flags of passion everywhere;
Beneath the lights of give-us-more,
The savage battle raged unfair

The pounding drums the whole earth shook,
With this field lost, and that hill took,
And every last report, a lie,
For what do soldiers do
But die

Smaller Things

It’s smaller things that mean the most.
We find that out as time goes by;
When in large nothings we’re engrossed,
That never seem to satisfy —

And then we find a moment true,
When what’s important – love – shines through,
And we can see, amid it all,
That what means most is mostly
Small