The Poseidonians forgot the Greek language
after so many centuries of mingling
with Tyrrhenians, Latins, and other foreigners.
The only thing surviving from their ancestors
was a Greek festival, with beautiful rites,
with lyres and flutes, contests and wreaths.
And it was their habit toward the festival's end
to tell each other about their ancient customs
and once again to speak Greek names
that only few of them still recognized.
And so their festival always had a melancholy ending
because they remebered that they too were Greeks,
they too once upon a time were citizens of Magna Graecia;
and how low they'd fallen now, what they'd become,
living and speaking like barbarians,
cut off so disastrously from the Greek way of life.

What a waste
It is to say
I care.
How silly of me
to think you'd share.
I Can stare with you
For hours as
we lay there.
But without a care,
You whisper I'm the spare.
As your heart lies in despair,
Over a line of states.
Now I'm here with tears.
Wasting away
with silly little
Words of love.

Variegated Summer constellations along
the Eastern gaze , Sagittarius , draw your bow ,
shoot a star Earths way
Big Dipper , extinguish the thirst of Greek heroes ,
Ursa Major hath quelled the passion of Callisto ,
the tail of Haileys Comet filling the night
with wishes and tender innuendo

fearsome
red tail hawk
dive
through
thick
blue sky
to
capture
her prey
and
back to the sky