And You Brought Me Home


I wandered for years under neon signs,
exploding dumpsters that marked my life,
believing words were stronger than actions,
solitude more comforting than any kind of love. 

I was wrong. I could never survive in Las Vegas 
or the swirling tempests of the Cyclades. 
The moon was no savior, and being alone
just an excuse for being afraid. 

Afraid one morning I might wake, 
pleased I had no one to warm my bed. 
Odysseus must have travelled this way
through battles, monsters, and jealous Sirens.   

Yet I am no Odysseus, not brave enough,
a regular man propped by drunken dead promises.
But the winds changed direction,
to coin a cliché, and I discovered you,

half goddess, half mortal, a figurehead
leading me gently into foreign ports. 
I dropped the suitcases of my introspection,
tore away labels of loneliness,

tracked you toward a safer horizon, 
where natural light and solid earth peaked.
I crawled out of the sorry gallows below,
followed your beckoning sway home. 





Hellenic Garden
A visit to the cemetery, December 2015

I’m a little jealous
someone else got to you first,
left plastic red roses
on your front lawn.
I know I haven’t visited
for a very long time,
though, to you, time
must float by like a feather,

but I’ve been trying not to smoke,
nor dwell anymore in the past. 
Someone told me a truly happy
person lives in the present. 
I believe only what I can see,
wish I was more like you
than mother with her hard ground.   
Plastic roses won’t grow on her behalf. ​