Smoke filled dens of drifting ***** scent,
Imagined worlds dancing behind the eyes
of the laying men.
Heads fall back and pupils roll to face brow,
revealing a cloudy unseeing white.

What lies behind the eyes of laid men
that makes them respond to the sweet song of
lotus flower time and again?
Are they taken to that Mediterranean isle visited by
Odysseus in his journey, the idle isle where time lazily flows
and sunrise and sunset have no meaning at all?

If I was bunk mate to Odysseus on his mission home
and our boat met sand on this secluded cove,
would I see it for what it was?
After tasting my first sweet lotus petal, offered
to me by beauty divine, could I resist a second kiss?

Would I have bravely boarded the ship away,
eyes hard and mind set on my destination,
or would I have planted feet firmly to sand
and wave as the brave ones sailed away to face
the ever abundant misery of reality?

Odysseus, we greatly praise you
From your strength and wisdom
The greeks are lucky to have you
And so is your kingdom

Such great adventures, king Odysseus
Its a shock you could survive
The journey was very dangerous
But at least you're still alive

I am in love with Nobody
And Nobody loves me,
When I roll over in my bed
It’s Nobody I see;
Nobody cares enough to stay
And hold me when I weep,
And Nobody will dry my tears
To soothe me back to sleep;
Nobody is a friend to me
When I am feeling down,
And Nobody knows what to do
To get rid of my frown.

As I go through my average day
Nobody’s by my side,
Offering his company or
proffering his guide.
Nobody is my only friend
Sent from the gods above,
But now it seems that fate has tried
To meddle with our love.
Tomorrow night, my Nobody
Heads back to his old home;
He has a wife and child, he says,
Who know not where he roams;

Nobody has been travelling
For years from shore to shore,
Traversing through Ionia
After the Trojan War.
Oh, I will miss my Nobody
With all my giant heart,
I cannot bear to dwell on thoughts
Of us being apart.
Nobody holds my hand and says,
“Polyphemus, don’t cry,”
But I can’t stop the massive tears
From welling in my eye.

I sometimes wield the pen in spite
Of why I am convinced I write
The poetic words that I spill

Spill like a glass of water
That’s been stirred to overflow
By my feelings and thoughts or so
I have gotten to know
The will of the flow
The direction that it wants to go
That’s what po-
etry is all about, no?

Because poem starts
with a P for personal
Not popular
Or populous
Not for the people who prefer prying
Pickpocketing or playful plying
In the placid plains inside
It’s for the persons who pray
To the poet’s plight

To go out on an odyssey,
with an O, the second letter
Not omniscient
Or omnipotent
For oscillating with your own
Is only for ones once overthrown
By an onslaught of hydrogen per-oxide
Those ostracized and odd
Off, yet open to the outside

E is the third letter
And it stands for emotional
Or extorted
until emptiness
Extended
after the excavation had ended
and emotion was evacuated ere
The embodiment of ecstasy
Had been enterred here

Lastly M stands for me!
Me, myself and I!
Not the masses who maim
My mind and meticulously aim
For the mark on my midbrain
Just the men and wo-men who make do
With musing about the mechanisms of
Mother Earth and her miracles too

Poetry is a gift
Out with it to be at ease
Especially for yourself
May it help you find peace

Nervous that way I take peanut butter from the jar
where blinking and licking overlap
messily and focus is the last thing on
my mind.

There, just there scooped
is where the thought
returns.

No high flying; no explanation
just back, and the jar gets
put on the shelf of the
cupboard
of wood, the oldest part of the house,
and I cannot recall to write it the smell of
peanuts jarred and ant poison and southern
yellow
pine.

Things have changed,
And I know I shouldn't.
But it's already too late
My hopes, caught the tide.

What difference does it make,
Across the endless sea between.
Then there is time, which comes,
Take it as you see fit, and heal.

I'll hoist this flag, tattered and all,
Singing a chanty of foolish dreams.
Be well, think of me, as I was or am,
Into the dark waters, I return..