The Happy Camper

The kitchen is over in the corner,
And the water comes from pumping by hand.
The dining room table is a loner;
It wobbles when you wish for it to stand.
Across the way is the room for living
Which is really nothing more than a couch.
Underneath it you can keep your clothing,
What we call our convenient storage pouch.
At night, it turns into a single bed
Where two of you can cuddle together.
The back door id where you will rest your head,
Safe against the cold, Icelandic weather.
In here, across the island, you’ll scamper,
Ready to become a Happy Camper.

Lost Statue

I would like to pay a little tribute
To a god that I find most important.
Though Apollo may wish I remain mute
The beating of my heart tells me I can’t.

I must mold and shape this slab of marble
‘Til I reveal the beauty of your face
For I find it more than admirable
While I chisel away at this stone base.

For it will reveal your grandeur of form
Of a deity who enjoys the grape,
And within it who created the norm
Whose bright mindset lowered the theater’s drape.

Did your image bring this fate on to us
For it’s in tribute to Dionysus.

Maria’s Place

It must be nice waking up being you
With the joy that you greet each single day.
Your sky must always be a crystal blue,
Another opportunity for play.
To all you meet, there is an infection
That gives them the same happiness to spread.
They will see the morning introduction
Soaking up the cheerfulness that was said.
You are not able to leave your hotel
Because of the arrival of new guests,
But it is not a bed that you will sell,
Rather a relief from life’s harsh duress.
The holiday here was comfortable
Only because you were personable.


We are reminded by the white facade
That hangs on the edge of the caldera
Of the nature of the volcano god
Whose might destroyed an earlier era.

But now we climb up to the highest peak
To nestle within our homes among the ash.
The color of our walls remind the meek
That we would lose in any future clash.

World wearied travelers come to our ring
To marvel at the beauty of our town,
But they don’t understand how much we cling
To our modesty that could be blown down.

Our survival lies in tectonic fate,
Hoping the fickle god won’t get irrate.

The Olive Tree

In the courtyard live an old olive tree
Who has witnessed the change of the island.
From the ancient ships from across the sea
To battles fought on the beach’s sand,
It has stood watching ages come and go.
For its majesty, they built a courtyard
To shelter its branches from Winter’s blow.
The shade its leaves provide will act as guard
For this simple table where we will dine
On this culture’s culinary delights.
We will toast her with our glasses of wine
On how her, here now, makes the perfect night.
I don’t know if this was our destiny,
The pairing of us and our olive tree.

The End is Near

I see you have reached the desperation
Of a fool whose options are running out,
So you strengthen your contamination
While weakening what you are all about.
This does not mean we can let our guard down
For you’ll return with a new mutation,
But even that will have lesser renown
When facing the anger of this nation.
You may keep our smiles behind a thick mask,
And we may continue to jab our arms,
Making the routine no longer a task;
We will not fear your diminishing harms.
Though history will be filled with shed tears,
We will get over these bitter, old fears.

The Tomb of Kings

The lives that they lived were the lives of kings
Though the blood in their veins was not royal.
The comfort and happiness that wealth brings
Is not always based upon life’s toil,
And the select few who strut these cities
Did not break their backs to build their roadways;
Instead, they pointed to the groves of trees,
Deciding that there the buildings would raise.
They would sit back with their glass of red wine,
Sighing while watching all of the legs run.
They’d brag at how their money made things fine
After the hard labor’s work was done.
But all this greatness was soon forgotten
When they were sealed in a tomb to rot in.


The seeds had been found in an earthen jar,
Buried for saving, centuries ago.
Even the wearing of time could not mar
The vineyards that would eventually grow.
From this ancient grape a new production
Brought back to the world the sweetest nectar,
Recalling an old epic seduction
Of Odysseus’s long adventure.
Legend even tells of lion hearted
Royalty praising the drink’s great value.
From Earth, the recipe never parted
As stories of it glory only grew.
It is the reason for this aria
That we will sing for Commandaria.

Changing Seasons

Not only the changing of the seasons
Are buried during the Earth’s rotation
Numerous times again around the sun.
The tide will also take our creation,
And cover it with the beach’s fine sand
To compress it into a hardened stone.
History will take this forgotten land
To turn it to a place where plants have grown.
It will take a man with a fine-haired brush
And the patience of the centuries lost
To push away the silence of time’s hush,
Reminding us of a past that we tossed.
The mosaic that once laid on the floor,
We can now admire like once before.

The Coming of Spring

Should I care that I need to get away
Because my life has been beating me down?
Is it a matter of where I will stay
For another night in my new home town?
I have gotten bored of these same old streets,
And need a completely different view.
When I wander down them, my heart retreats,
And longs for a Spring morning to renew.
The day of it being gloomy portends
A future of more days being inside,
But a break in the stormy clouds ends
How the weather makes depression abide.
I call for the rising of the Spring sun
To confirm my renewal has begun.