the wine-dark seas
as the wind pushed his aging bark—
now starboard, now port, now starboard again—
past the sultry lure of siren song
which could spin the very clouds into lust.
He was young and then old, full of piss and vinegar
and then weary of even his own tales twice told
of leveling the the once-mighty parapets of Troy.
Upon returning to Ithaca, beard falling to his waist,
his second wind caught a second wind.
There would be no caring for the household gods,
and once again he set sail upon wine-dark seas.
I mow the lawn, put the groceries away,
and arrange my books from the tallest to
I have leveled a good many years along the
by simply waking up and spinning the hours
like a wheel,
each with a hundred spokes, a hundred
that rarely called me to draw a metaphorical
or adorn my chest with imaginary leather
Still, there are evenings when the sky rolls
and the linnet’s wings beat a clear rhythm
Then I am full of piss and vinegar again
and hear the long-forgotten call of a
I walk to the shore without turning back
so that I may, with a beard longer and
sail upon unknown wine-dark seas.