by John Goggin
Foot-sore and ‘mazed on Venetian streets, my Clytemnestra points;
“I see the dragon’s tongue… just there, beneath the Lion Gate!”
“How cute,” I think. Of course, she has her axe to grind;
once more I’ve made her miss her monthly maenadic tryst
with the Women’s Will to Power Club. Just so we can wander
aimlessly in the [...]

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by John Goggin
Nights, the journey seems immense;
that part past a jot compared
to that which looms ahead.
Losing headway seems the mode
of madness on this trip;
delay the only way God speeds us home.
Is it that we fear ten bitter years has made a gap?
Only rubble in our households left, like Priam’s wall
the night that silly ruse bore [...]

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by John Goggin
Echo across the the quiet pool, so coyly dangles, drops her
doilied handkerchief,
and casting from the corner of her eye a glance, unnoticed,
picks the pretty up again.
Then dropping all pretense, she clears her throat –ahem–,
–ahem– again and then once more.
“He must be sleeping… [...]

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April, oddly enough, is National Poetry Month. Maybe it’s not odd. T.S. Elliot, after all, did famously call it the cruelest month. Or maybe that’s what makes it odd. The designation was the invention of the Academy of American Poets in 1996, the groups Web page declares. Undoubtedly, those folks were aware of Elliot’s description [...]

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