To lie or not to lie? - that is the question:
tis never  nobler to belie the truth
nor ***** out its light in the dark,
and by so doing spark pain for pleasure.
Or, by opposing both affects quite end them
and by so doing gain unwanted reaction.
To lie, deceive - no more - and by a secret  
code say what we want to say unvarnished
by pitting  truth against all lies
that fall from lips - 'tis an infection
to be avoided  by all. To lie, deceive
perhaps too much. Aye, there's the problem.
for in deceit what further hollow lies may come?
When we have caused such rank displeasure
from one perceived lie, must force us thought. That's the reality making chaos of such an error.
For who would hear or speak an ugly truth,
to cause a love go wrong to fiendish trash,
Why give them heart ache? Who would give them  hurt to bear as unwanted burdens?
But the chance they would enjoy the truth,
The unknown glee from fate's unlucky victims
For the victim's rebuff confuses the liar
So conscience makes the  liar want to speak truth thence rather see that redeeming reaction  Aye.
Thus turning dissembling into soothsaying
And then the addicting infection
is cured with the balm of truth,
so contagion seems less appealing
With this regard the suspected lies soon stop
And lose what effect they once had.

Tobias

Choose in life the tranquil path
paved with peace devoid of wrath
where every  woman and man
love makes welcome hate does ban.
Once found - you can never stray
from the quiet tenor of its way.
.
Great your burden, heavy the load:
weightless it feels upon that road
where briar, thorns and bramble
give way before you as you ramble
along a route of stingless nettle
and calm and joy upon you settle...

Dispelling sadness, soothing pain;
cooling your ires as gentle rain.
They, who would this pathway find
are those who caring ever mind
their neighbour, known or strange
through all this worldly range.

Dry your tears, greet the smile
bravely face each yearly mile;
be calm, be kind and you will never lose
sight of the pathway that you must choose.

Tobias

God! How will it all end?
In the hour glass,
grain by grain,
the sand is falling
unchecked, relentless.
I’m running out of time...

I shut out the clock’s
steady tick and stop
it hands. But, the sun’s
rise and fall cheats
my  deliberate denials.
I’m running out of time…

Seconds, minutes, hours
days, months, years are
measured out  in full.
Any chance of a lapse
or even an extension?
I’m running out of time….

My doctor gave his diagnosis
it was a shock prognosis:
“Six months, maybe eight,
if you watch your weight;
It could be longer.”
I’m running out of Time…

Yes: I’m running out of Time:
But does it have to be a race?
“Time like a rolling stream
Sweeps all this life away.”
So runs the hymn apace.
I’m going. Please God at a tortoise pace.

TOBIAS

The fallen leaves that spun in leaps
and bounds at every chattering gust
now lie trapped in rustling heaps
or whirl about as drifting dust.

These leaves that once the sound
of wind moved in whispering green
revealed those birds that found
cover in their shifting screen.

Lone in a park’s summer shade
a single homeless man has found
some shelter – his bed he made
safe under bushes dry and sound.

Weeks into months he slept unseen
and squirrels peeped from drey
on sheltered form as the green
canopy thinned to brown and grey.

One Autumn day as gentle breezes flayed
the leafy blanket off the man concealed
top deck bus commuters saw revealed
the curled up body in death decayed.

TOBIAS

A ticking clock.  Footsteps.  Wind.  Applause.
               Homeless:  after midnight.  Sheltered in this cold
               church  doorway.  I can hear a clock
               ticking  in  its tower.
               Rustling  leaves, tossed  along  wet pavement
                in a callous wind
                sound  like approaching footsteps.
                In  famished  sleep  I dream  of  former  glory.
                Me.  A celebrity. Yeah!  – big time.
                All I  have  now are  fading echoes
                of  cheering crowds. Some comfort.
                The applause dies.  I awake: alone with
                 sounds.  A  clock ticking.  Leaf  blown  footsteps.
                 A  cheerless wind.  
                                                                            
                  TOBIAS

They Did Not give Their Lives:
                          Their Lives Were taken From Them.

The boy soldiers formed up in line:
the Sergeant inspected each in turn.
Colonel Forde (retired)
took the salute; the cadet’s
drilled colour party moved off.

Towards the village Cross
the troop marched on,
and as the band struck
up the tune “Blaze Away”
flocks of pigeons rose
from misted fields
exploding into flight
spreading like shrapnel
to enfilade the distant trees.

Crackling gunfire
echoed in the woods
and pheasants beat
from cover plunged
to earth, killed
in fern and bracken
by weekend shooting
party’s fusillade.

On the war memorial wreathes rested
where villager’s names inscribed on stone
are listed Unforgotten. The church bell
chimed an end to silent minute. A bugle
call died away as birds sang out an anthem.

Tony Brady

September Face Remembered
A year ago September
two strangers briefly met
joked, laughed, talked awhile
that day was wet;
Yet it's her smile
that I still remember.

I can't say why
that look so rare
recurs then lingers new
in my thoughts. Care
flees, sorrows are few
one year's gone by.

Eleven months, thirty days
mindful of her glance
I watch with pain
waiting for one chance
of meeting her again
passing along my ways.

Waiting: looking for some
sign of her. Last
year it rained. Wet
streets anew today. Past,
Present, pause. I fret
anxious. Will she come?

TOBIAS  The Other Being I Am Sometimes