Poetry Masterwork

So I'm in a creative writing class right now and I just turned this in today as my "Poetry Masterwork." So this is the best I can do at this point. Let me know what you think.

On Arriving Home

A prevailing wind brings with it hints of pressed olives and sun-raised wheat—

the smells of Ithaca.

It fills the sails with speeded flight and caresses time-torn faces.

Of home it breathes, of solace it sings.

The gentle waves lap at the hull,

and push and glide the leaning shoulders to familiar shores.

These few eager travelers, orphaned by fate—

they all smile and thrill—

all but one.

This Odysseus finds a full home so empty,

halls lined with profane suitors

no baptism of blood can purify.

For this warrior has been bathed in flame;

Has borne a bronze crucible—bears it with him still—

battlefields in mind and memory of soul-cracking horror.

Now his haft-calloused hands

find it hard to embrace old companions,

muscle-memory gone, replaced by scars and sinew and salt.

The tired years pass and he now holds a squalling child, where dying men had lain,

And looks past the uneven ends of a stolen life,

on to the horizon, the call of which beckons still.

[Keep following, cuz they be rapin' 'errbody up in here.]

An Oldie But A Goodie

Perhaps I remember too well how
August ended in snow or
How Lighthouses deceived me or
When I felt empty in Scotland

I am loathe to dock on convenient
Shores;
Finding the first inviting harbor
Yet I know no other way
Fear of whipping winds or
Sails long fallen limp --
Keeps me at bay

For fear of feeling penetrating cold,
Watching flurries of flakes,
I burned my rigging and set fire to the deck
Yet again; Despite pretending
Winter was rain-soaked snow drifts

I long for forbidden routes and
Exotic ports;
Deep bays and long docks on sunny shores
Blue waters on warm skin
Where I can finally rest
And depart again
But not alone.

[Keep following because I have to admit, it's getting better. All the time.]

I'll keep trying 'til it works.

The city lights blur and streak by and I
drive to be alone and listen
to the saddest songs that make me
feel less a fool.

I pull off the road
park in a rest stop
scrawl these lines out,
I guess, for myself.

I write these words out because I'm
too much a coward to cut them in my skin.
I write them on a napkin because it's
poetic. And because bleeding wouldn't do them justice.

Even here among paltry raindrops
and shady overpasses your ghost finds me. I've
always said I would become a trucker if my
life fell to pieces.

That doesn't seem so funny now.
Because at least they can sleep soundly in backseat cabins around me.

I feel a fool for the time I
spent pining over you, yet it's
not pride that restrains my tears but my
damned fool's hope. Foolish optimism. Whatever you call it.

To my dismay even my best friends abandon me now.
My best friends are words. Sad, I know.

But I've left nonetheless and I'll
come back even less sure of why I
keep driving away like this.
I don't dream. But I did yesterday.

It ruined my day. Not because it was a bad dream.
But that only my pillow was close when I
woke. And the realization that in living lies the nightmare.
I've tried my best to lose you.
In vain. Again.

[Keep following. Manly post coming right up.]

True Story

There is a corner bar
that snuggles a bustling street
Cafe Parterre, I think it's called
intricate masonry tells volumes
of its history

Nowadays though
it has become a hangout for indie
types with horn rimmed glasses
they sip lattes in the morning
and dark summer wines in the night

The noise of distant trains tip taps
on exposing picture windows
and rebounds off the hollow guitar
of a hopeless moonlighting musician
who sings of his heartbreak and no one hears

A coaster falls from an oaken table
to be swept up in midnight shuffling
and ideas come to the poet in the corner
who resonates with the dirty chandelier
she pauses and pours her life from her wrists

Onto blank pages the black lines spurt
like the gray beard of the drunk in the back
curling hairs hold the alcohol and shift
with his silent sober sobs this thursday night
just like the last and the one before that

Outside the noise of fifty voices at once rises and falls
with the ringing of an antique bell
they walk to the bus stop with arms round waists
and moonlight cascades down in sheets
it rests feather-like on unsure steps

And I would walk
stained collar and all
with knowing strides the sidewalk
that I had known a hundred times before
knowing so much more than any of them could possibly fathom.

[Keep following and fabulous prizes will be yours!]