Home

Sometimes I feel as if I have written as a young man, reaching toward all that should or could be. Others, as someone older, perhaps not so wiser, but yearning for the home that was. I think that is the curse of wanderers such as myself, and other more famous wanderers throughout history...

'Toward Ithaca Home'

A thought of gentle solace,
Grants so little respite
Within such unrelenting carnage,
Amid the pyres of the dead.

A brush of a delicate hand,
Yields a wealth of distant hope
Through desolation and fortune,
Beyond even the river of the damned.

A simple word or two remembered,
Quiets the thunder of rage
That set so much of a world alight,
Borne from the promises of the dead.

A memory of a life forgotten,
Gives way to present joy
Within the welcoming embrace of love,
That always rested...
Upon Ithaca's gleaming shores.

C.