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On Reading Homer (Poem)
When young I would walk,
Wandering the back streets and alleys.
But I did not see the asphalt under my feet,
Nor the begrimed buildings that I passed.
Instead, I saw the blinding words before me
Echoing with every step:
μῆνιν ἄειδε θεὰ Πηληϊάδεω Ἀχιλῆος
οὐλομένην…Sing the destroying wrath, Goddess,
Of Achilles, Peleus’ son!
The creak of wooden ships, the smoke from a burning city,
And the cries of the dying were all around me.
No prophet I, yet still possessed,
Thrown into another world by ancient text.
Even today, in my dimming years,
I recall my transport.
The shattering ecstasy reverberates still,
Remaining, remaining, remaining.
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Melancholy (Poem)
I seek the lorn streets, the derelict ways,
That run unbeknownst
Behind businesses that died long ago.
The broken pavement and shuttered facades
Echo my desolate mien.
Bleak skies with lowering clouds
Add uncertain rain and chilling wind.
I do not walk alone on my solitary path.
Ghosts and memories accompany my each step.
We suit each other well.
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Panta Rhei: A Heracleitian World (Poem)
Time and memory are fluid,
Running through us with marbled colors,
The psyche as malleable agateware.
The bayous and cypress trees of childhood
Exist vividly alongside now-beloved mountains draped in smoke.
The Shearwater cup that held tea,
Then favorite pan-fired gunpowder green,
From which I sipped early in the musky mornings before grade school,
Sits still on my mind’s shelf with successive handmade tea cups.
The paintings by my father and other local artists I see on the walls,
Together with current pieces of artwork.
The past is never that, though we can try to pretend
And even attempt to banish it from our being.
Better I’ve found, to accept this and embrace a multidimensional life,
Observing the interflow of old and new with detached curiosity.
Such mixture will inform all that we experience, however we decide.
I choose awareness. Let this bring what it will.
All things always in flux.
