Master the New

He’s a new master open to time.
catching language by the tail
Mounting it for auld lang syne.
Among old friends fall in line.
One noisemaker lapping another.
Some knew what should be feared:
A fallen body out of the sky.
While all about the straight and weird
failed to see parallels in the eye.
Who will come and what will go.
Some machine might let us know.
The fields ablaze will require
Jack in the beanstalk to expire
And Jill on a slant board drooping down
denying gravity in the round.
Ceaseless bragging from either side.
Bound together in the mounting tide.
The sea’s in turmoil. The shells speak.
They tell us blessed are the meek.
Wave after wave coming and going.
Fit to be tied from knowing not blowing.
Voices aren’t enough. Better yet.
Hand over mouth at sunrise-sunset.