Byronic

Lord Byron hid his penchant for the lads
behind the pretty objects one expects.
To publicize those conquests would be mad,
when England criminalized even sex.
What fantasies Don Juan might entertain
while mingling sweet in someone else's bed,
in neither prose, not verse did he explain.
We're free to speculate, now he lies dead. 
The literary version of a man
elides complexity, as fiction must.
At best, it sketches out what verbiage can;
there's nuance lost, when simplifying lust.
Vain groupies, hoping each might be his bride
don't grasp he's batting for the other side.

values

Sing, Goddess of the man-destroying wrath
Peleides unloaded on his liege.
'Though Aphrodite'd set them on this path,
Her brother Ares revels in this siege.
When Agamemnon seized his better's girl
he gave offense, no less than Priam's son.
For Homer's audience, in Homer's world,
one had to know what simply isn't done.
Exquisite Helen only dimly grasps
the carnage men inflicted in her name.
Whole worlds pre-empted for a piece of ass,
while paltry few won literary fame.
Penelope's the only worthy prize;
the poet's insight's clear, despite blind eyes.

reconditioned

Poseidon took sweet Pelops by the arm,
and Hermes held his luscious slow-braised head.
Hephaistos undid Tantalus' harm
to prep this dainty for the Sea god's bed.
Let Zeus snatch playthings from the walls of Troy;
Mycenae has enough for most gods' need.
Be that a blushing maid, or smooth-cheeked boy,
 no cause to shop abroad for Ganymede.
Cassandra told Apollo to get lost;
she'd rather dally with some Asian youth.
Integrity like hers bears a grave cost;
she wins no kudos for unwelcome truth.
When paths of gods and mortals intersect
our lives seem just their smorgasbord of sex.

meta-text

Penelope worked tireless at her loom,
While Helen practiced subtle arts in bed.
Pursuing beauty lures men to their doom,
except Odysseus, who keeps his head.
Blind Homer knew that Aphrodite's charm
is no true compass to the happy life.
The hero who's averse to grievous harm
must seek a partner, not a trophy wife.
Achilles never bid for Helen's hand
--Like Phoebus, he disdains to compromise--
But Briseus is his! No mortal man
would mess with such a godling, were he wise.
Enduring ethics sung in the Bronze Age,
go so much further than Achilles' rage.

echoes

"Turn, Hellhound!" Dernhelm snarled. The Morgul-king
 can't know his lease on MiddleEarth's been torn.
The undead servant of the Ruling Ring
was helpless to no man of woman born.
Already, Birnham Wood's marched up the Coomb
and much that looked like wisdom's proven daft.
Before his Mordor-Lord, he'll meet a doom
he never dreamt for all his dwimmercraft.
professor Tolkien seemed dissatisfied
with Shakespeare's climax to the Scottish play.
The oracle need not have baldly lied
but women feel excluded from the fray.
Amid the carnage smoulders a romance
the lady Eowyn rocks chainmail pants.

Dan Friedman

Trump's lawyer's been his most enduring friend
a closer bond than he's shared with his wives
each pre-nup specified how those would end
to buy their silence through their post-Trump lives
he boasts he could do murder in the street
yet be absolved by members of the Press
in matters of the heart, so indiscreet
his dating history's a public mess
but details of his finance we can get
would barely fill a single written page
the private bonds that underwrite his debt
negotiated in the dark, offstage
you'd be appalled at what his tax-form shows
his assets are worth less than what he owes

arrhythmia

communication's mostly a mirage
who knows what meaning others' words convey
we think we penetrate the camouflage
and hope it's plain to them what we would say
the minds of others might be just like ours
but that's an axiom we'll never know
at best, we know our own reasoning powers
the rest is mere induction and say-so
each mind's alone, at sea on the wide world
the rest may be mere figments we construct
but no one dwells on that when boy meets girl
until the morning after we've first made love
what's left unspoken can--one hopes--be guessed
completing in your head our feeble jest