He was not a wanderlust at heart,
Yet he felt his hometown's cozy air
Was slowly turning his soul into mush.
He was not (as rumored) a siren lover,
His queen's body was warmer and suppler
Than a scale-studded frame by any standard.
He was not a diehard dog-hater,
But his loyal mongrel was becoming
Quite demanding and sentimental.
He was not a home-wrecking drunkard,
But his domesticated only son
Was aping his every vice and virtue.
He was not a swashbuckler, sir.
O how he despised one-eyed dreams
And tried to allay the sea-god's wrath.
Yet each time his ship was windblown shoreward
And he red-eyed, spent from his latest escapade
Abroad, homesicklonging for his wife and dog,
The mere sight of Ithaca's familiar port
Filled his heart with uncontrollable yearnings
For the shapes and sounds of newfangled things.
© Felix Fojas
| poets' bios |
There Is No Silence
Orange Grove Road
17 Ways of Looking
at a Brown Man
Pasensiya na Po
Dinuguan sa Tren
Bulaklak at Tren