All Show, No Action

A corridor of students is a constant unease,
They invade one's sound waves, one's
Space so, with their opening doors
Their telephone rings, their shouts
And squeals and runnings -
No quid pro quo does, no caesar's
Fate, they're all too gay, too
Damn noisy and bright,
Young bright things with your
Light stabbings, such undimmed
Fight in you, the faceted
Hardness of a gem the sun
Shines on, all fire and brimstone,
All show and fashion,
All those years left to go, poor things,
That grind the edges down
To make you smooth and mellow,
Quietened on the outside,
A surface unobtrusiveness
The eye slides off and no sound to
Lock the ear's attention, no,
The older fire within is 
Compressed, directed, certain,
A furnace-blazing harnessed-in
Controlled and fuelled by gain
And loss, loss and gain, the stuff of years
Chucked in the collecting tin
And smelted into
Tarmac at your feet, your road
Your own steam rolls you down
To destination and
All stops between
With no ostentation, no 
Outward show,
No deception to the eye, no fluttering,
The pure cored heat is
Charged, released,
Charged, released, 
It fires your pistons' sleek
And smooth momentum,
Life's real feat is an inward one,
The gut's fire unhindered 
By youth's preening and its ego,
Prismatic light charged so
It bends in, feeds the cycle
Of all action - no peacocks, no rainbows -
It just gets you where you want to go.

previous poem