Spiritual Matters Do Count, Poet

Soul-wracked, sick 
To death of hearing 
About their exploits

In the outside world, 
You will not be there 
Upon their return; still

You wish to leave a message 
That will convince them 
You were there all those times 

When they were elsewhere; 
You have made sure of that 
By leaving your body as evidence. 

Paying Obeisance to the American Dream

Most poor souls who ended up 
Leaving their bodies here 
Came over because friends 
Or relatives wrote 
And told them it was not at all 
Like the old country; 

In this new world 
There was more than you 
Could imagine, plenty 
To do and more 
Money than you 
Ever dreamed of— 

All you had to do 
Was keep your head 
Down, stoop over 
And—without 
Missing a beat— 
Pick it up. 

Greek Mountain Tea

near 

a stone


hut in a high

meadow of wild mint 


infusing it 

Recycling for Obstinate Dummies

Let me try 

Breaking it down for you 
Once and for all— 

Environmental waste is what remains 
When we take everything 

We want from the earth 
And leave nothing 

But our stinking remains. 

Ionian Threnody

These children being washed 
Up lifeless on our sun-drenched shores, 
From what illustrious race are they descended 
And what woe has brought them to us 
In God’s name? 

Surely some great catastrophe 
Has befallen them 
And they seek nothing 
But a far, far better world than that 
From which they came. 

If we could but tell them 
At last the journey’s over 
And their lives not lived in vain, 
Who would cleanse our bodies 
Of our frightful, faceless shame?