ODYSSEUS

I am a man not allowed to be proud

And I am sure I do not want to be;

I am at my ease apart from the crowd

And at rest in private humility.

There is much that I do not understand

Because I am from a now vanished time.

I was not made for this enlightened land

Where hypocrisy is the perfect crime.

I hear only the loudest vile voices

And their chants say that I am always wrong

In my convictions and in my choices,

Though they shout verses of a Siren’s song.

Like Ithaca’s king when tied to the mast,

I will surmount what tempts my naked ears

And I will stay who I am to the last

Of what remains of my precarious years.

THE WRONG SIDE OF HISTORY

You’ll say I’m on the wrong side of history.

Why does it matter and why should I care?

For you, my future must be a mystery.

In your eyes I’m old; my face is whiskery;

My outlook’s square — a two thousand year stare.

You’ll say I’m on the wrong side of history.

You’re so pure and yet my skin is blistery

And it shrivels beside your virtue’s blare.

For you, my future must be a mystery.

I know the source of stars all glittery,

One whose rule you see as quaintly unfair.

You’ll say I’m on the wrong side of history.

It is me who believes in His story

While your faith is in the latest glib scare.

For you, my future must be a mystery.

You think there’s no more to life than victory,

As you chant your slogans and scream and swear.

You’ll say I’m on the wrong side of history.

For you, my future must be a mystery.

IF I WAS A CAR

I’d be sold for scrap if I was a car,

My thoughts don't make sense and my body’s weak

And my brain’s so damaged it’s one deep scar.

There’s no future nor hope; I’m a memoir.

My past accuses when it dares to speak.

I’d be sold for scrap if I was a car.

My eyes are wrecked; I can’t see very far —

Grim dimness is a friend who’s cold and bleak —

And my brain’s so damaged it’s one deep scar.

There were seasons when I travelled afar

And I earned gold coins and my face was sleek.

I’d be sold for scrap if I was a car.

The world I once knew died like a failed star.

Now nothing makes sense to a worn-out freak

And my brain’s so damaged it’s one deep scar.

Acute sadness is a capricious czar,

Terminating every small joy I seek.

I’d be sold for scrap if I was a car

And my brain’s so damaged it’s one deep scar.

HARBOUR VIEWS

There are snipers on the opera house sails

While affluence enjoys a spending spree

And the winds of change are howling like gales.

It’s time for aperitifs and cocktails

For random heirs of inequality.

There are snipers on the opera house sails.

Yellow windows behind balcony rails

Make the northern shore look like a marquee

And the winds of change are howling like gales.

Trains cross the bridge like tethered silver snails,

Carrying day workers lately set free.

There are snipers on the opera house sails.

Night workers work at all their toil entails,

Servers serve pinot noir and chic chablis,

And the winds of change are howling like gales.

Those called great and good spin magical tales;

But who can write an accurate précis?

There are snipers on the opera house sails,

And the winds of change are howling like gales.