The Lotus Eaters (revised)

we are become as lotus eaters
in which our suffered graces
are numbed to true sensation,
force fed with base esthesis.
Imprisoned by unreal desires
blind to the world around
behind walls of false design
shackled hostage bound.
Dare we look at all beyond
that which is placed before us
for in searching is release
from the bland anonymous.

We are no longer who we were
devolved as much as lost today
where once the world had bloomed with sweet perfume
here now the lotus eaters play.


I miss my river
grey though she
ebbs and flows
slowly lapping
with a kind
of resignation
as she dwells
upon her glories
past and famed
but still
I miss her sounds
her accent rare
and noises off
banks north and south
the songs she sang
and those not sung,
her lack of airs
despite her graces
which other
grander courses
of well renown
present, these
only make her
feel right
and me feel right
in turn

Unfinished Birdsong

the throstle wakes
as so must I it seems
her song invades
yet not disturbs my dreams
there may be clouds
uncertain in the dawn
yet the song thrush
seems to minds not
and greets the coming morn,
but will her lover
duet to her cries
soulful from the barest trees
beneath these youngest skies
or has the night before them
driven death’s dark veil
between her plaintive arias
sung sweet to no avail.