The Sirens were all sleeping.
The Sirens felt just fine.
But I was trussed and tied up
on a most uncertain line.
They only pick the ripe tomatoes,
the best from off the vine.
There I clung to the ship's mast,
on a wind swept brazen sky.
My die cast,
I would be taken
from my tenuous sanctuary,
with no one to hear my cry.
Still,
the Sirens seemed unwakeable.
( My mind said this was a ruse)
But surely,
they would wake once more.
Still I hoped
I stood pinned untakeable,
crucified high above the vessel's floor.
But I knew
they only pluck the ripe ones.
So, soon I their ripe one would be
I heard them stirring below me...
at last, poor tragedy.
You never know when death will come,
until Death comes for thee.
Copyright September 27 2011 but written some time ago in Minneapolis well
before 2000. Taken from a vivid dream after falling asleep in bed
after reading various portions of The Iliad/Odyssey. Back when rhyming poetry
was more my thing.
Melissa A Howells Meloo of Tilt-a-World
a little raw and undone