Bring a goat or sheep
or the accused or the mad
or a hostile woman-
so near the knife’s edge of the sea
that their blood will spill into the brine.

The sea is bountiful,
but it must be fed.
Dark clouds gather.
You will smell it before you see it-
a black column of rain
blowing over the horizon

And the twisted bodies,
will roll in the surf
like empty shells
until the tide pulls them out.

I heard you sing, siren,  
words that made my loneliness fade  
one dusk on a summer night,  
a green flash along the horizon of the world.  

Your song stopped my thoughts,  
and I floated high above the white-capped sea  
through deep, blue shine, silver moonbeams,  
echoes of the sun,  
leading me peacefully through the dark,  
leaving behind the noise of my past,  
the weariness, the struggles, the hard parts.  

And I flew  
away—  
far away I went with you,  
where my heart didn’t ache and time didn’t pass,  
where we wouldn’t grow old  
watching dreams through broken glass,  
where beauty couldn’t fade,  
and fear couldn’t separate twin souls,  
soul mates.  

But now,  
lift the cool night air from my blue feet  
tucked under the soft edges of a warm quilt.  
The music of your voice  
must be filling space beyond here  
I lie in—this fleeting moment,  
alone.  
Out the window I go—  

I no longer see the stars  
behind the shadows of the trees,  
but the night smells sweet—  
wet dirt, cool in the dark,  
coating grounded feet.  
To tread on lilies, clovers, mossy stones,  
breathing life into my bones.  

This is where you’ve left me—  
as you sing around the world—  
standing at the edge of black abyss,  
where death is nothing to fear.  
And I could slip away forever  
should I once more hear,  
mid-song, mid-breath, mid-tear,  
the waves of your music—  
anything but this sharp silence  
whistling in my ears.  

You, siren, were different—  
your voice will never fade.  
You will echo through the cosmos,  
off the concrete basement walls,  
forever writ on digital and analog.  
Your music will outlast us all.  
You make me feel so very small  
standing here  
looking up at… it all.  

Was your song real, my love?  
Or just a dream?  
My memories are fading now,  
rolling waves lap on the shore,  
and here I am again,  
alone, unsure—  
Will I love again?  
No, not ever,  
not without you now.  
No, never,  
no more.

The Sailor’s love for the sea started at the age of thirteen.
From there he embarked upon a journey,
wondering what his life might end up being.

A mighty crew, and a great Captain too boot, they sent forth, looking for all the loot.
By the age of nineteen, the Sailor saw a lot.

From drunken fights which ended with no love lost,
to great bouts of strength between rivals a plenty,
while losing not much,
from great storms waged with such might,
and lovely beauties who roamed the night.

Yet the Sailor was not happy,
seeing the world was full of plenty,
an ache for the soul,
which left him to toil.

He set off at first light,
without any worry nor fright,
to look for an adventure, an Odyssey,
and look for his own Penelope.

High and low he scoured,
looking what his heart desired,
even went to the countryside,
for by chance his heart could reside,
in need of desperate respite.

Yet he could not give in,
to the trouble burrowed deep within,
an ache he missed,
a way out of the mist.

Once he came back he worried,
what would they think or would they leave in a hurry?
Just then the Captain saw him and said,
“The sea is great, plenty of opportunity,
so don’t you worry, the sea holds aplenty.”

And then he saw the Truth,
to have such a crew,
the mighty Captain too,
is when he knew.

The sea in its eternal blue,
holds many clues,
for those who seek,
amongst the wreckages,
treasures can lie within different avenues,
and still look for the great Muse.

Reading the Odyssey,
By Greek poet Homer.
I finally realized,
Not all heroes are heroic.
And some aren't heroes at all,
Often the monsters in the story,
Aren't monstrous at all.
Most times they're simple farmers or townspeople,
Upon whom the hero welcomed themselves to.
And when they retaliated,
The author makes it look like the hero did nothing wrong.
Heroes aren't humble,
Not at all.
They waste the lives of their crewmates,
Trying to do the impossible.
And, Odious,
Really *****.

Where would a Hobbit be,
struggling alone in his long quest,
without the second set of sturdy feet?

How could a Hobbit
stand a hope
had he to face the eerie taunting of the Ringwraiths,
the haunting, blazing evil gaze
on his own?

How could a Hobbit see
some good in the world,
something worth fighting for,
without those earnest eyes that
speak of stars, of tales that endure,
of light persisting, of promises pure?

And how is it possible for any man,
let alone a Hobbit,
to tread to Mordor’s smoking pit,
up to Mount Doom where nothing but shadow looms,
to bear the unbearable—
the One Ring that whispers its seduction,
too enticing, too powerful,
as to rule creatures and all—
without a friend against all enemies,
whose loyalty as deep as ancient roots?

Impossible. Unimaginable.
Yet however unlikely to win against the odds without aid,
the Hobbit shall stand and brave the gathering storm,
even if the fellowship ceases to exist,
for it’s the Masterful Weaver who holds fate’s thread,
He crafts a tale where heroes small find victory as He intends
No matter the trials, the losses, the cost,
the Hobbitses shall not be lost—
even in the sorrow of parting’s riposte.

Not all tears are evil, some guide to the Undying Lands
where peace harks and wounds find complete healing.