Nestor
Too frail to heft my shield of solid gold
or cast a spear, I can still let my chariot
trundle over fallen friend and foe alike,
thrilling to the clash of arms, smears
of gore flashing past on my flying wheels.
I sat at the prow by a glowing brazier
to tell my tales to the boys tending sails,
oiling their blades against salt the god
huffs from the spuming sea. Wisdom
busies me now. Words alone, not deeds,
must now show the paths of fate. I smell
sour; and, yes, I see their eyes go dim
when yet again I begin about the old hunt
for the giant boar, how in my prime
heroes borne of gods grew twice the size
of these half breed warriors who bicker
and sulk in whispers while proud ships
sink in sand, seams crack under searing sun.
O, I know they smirk at an addled old fool
still visioning the crude old ways,
but they’d still be beached, growing old as me,
if my sweet voice had not cajoled
the pretty boy to go forth disguised
in his hero’s armor, to make us great again
in ancient rage and ecstatic slaughter.
or cast a spear, I can still let my chariot
trundle over fallen friend and foe alike,
thrilling to the clash of arms, smears
of gore flashing past on my flying wheels.
I sat at the prow by a glowing brazier
to tell my tales to the boys tending sails,
oiling their blades against salt the god
huffs from the spuming sea. Wisdom
busies me now. Words alone, not deeds,
must now show the paths of fate. I smell
sour; and, yes, I see their eyes go dim
when yet again I begin about the old hunt
for the giant boar, how in my prime
heroes borne of gods grew twice the size
of these half breed warriors who bicker
and sulk in whispers while proud ships
sink in sand, seams crack under searing sun.
O, I know they smirk at an addled old fool
still visioning the crude old ways,
but they’d still be beached, growing old as me,
if my sweet voice had not cajoled
the pretty boy to go forth disguised
in his hero’s armor, to make us great again
in ancient rage and ecstatic slaughter.
