Measure Of Poverty In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese, Circa 1965

In a land overflowing 

With a blessèd abundance 

Of olive trees, not having one 

To call your own and where 

Those who had finished 

Gathering theirs had packed up 

The bulging sacks, 

Hand-woven heavy

Ground-covering cloths

And gone home, to go there afterwards,

Get down on your hands and knees 

And salvage the precious few 

Shiny fruits that had over- 

Flowed and escaped 

The nets of the plenty.

 

Where There's A Will. . . .

Begin a poem 

With “To be or not 

 

To be” and more 

Than likely 

 

You’ll end up not 

Knowing who not to be. 

 

 

 

 

 

One More Heavy Winter Solstice Conundrum

In the dark, waiting 

For the dark to begin 

 

At first sight 

Of dawn 

 

Becoming lighter again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ill At Ease Amongst Many

A singular voice is what 

Most of us strive for; 

 

Most of the time we hear 

More than enough 

 

Silence that keeps 

Us moving. 

 

 

 

Archilochos Apparently Penitent

If I had to do it all over 

Again, perhaps that verily now

Quite ancient shield I hastily ditched 

Behind a bush and abandoned 

When the killing fields got too hot 

For my britches would still be mine, 

 

But then again, where 

Oh where

 

Would my poem be?