MICHAEL C. PAUL

 

 

The Siren Still Calls

 

Was he ever content, that man of twists and turns,

to straighten out after his crooked tour

through the misty, many-sounding sea—

at least, once he had strung his mighty bow

and slaughtered all the suitors

eating him from house and home?

 

Or was he ever restless afterwards,

eyeing the lovely, luscious nymphs

and most-bewitching goddesses?

Did he hunger for exotic, foreign shores,

to hear again the Sirens’ tempting song,

and crest the wine-dark waves again?

 

Was he a has-been, all washed up

a beach bum lounging ‘round on Ithaca’s shore—

a high-school jock gone wide about the waist,

yearning to relive the glory days,

bragging how the Trojan Horse was his idea,

how he had held the bag of winds,

passed into the underworld and come out,

wrestled an Ajax, and outrun the other one—

how he was the famous Nobody?

Did he one-up his friends when they complained—

“Oh, me, oh, my! I had to face Scylla and Charybdis.”

 

Did Trojans seem to him to lurk in every shadow?

Did Rhesus’ ghost haunt all his later days?

Was he wracked by survivor’s guilt

for all those lost below strong-founded Ilios?

Could he bite into a hot dog or a tenderloin

without a thought of his lost crew?

 

Did he wake up each day in that strangely-wrought bed,

before the rosy dawn had poked at him,

and kiss his wife, embrace his noble son—

and yet still long to set off once again?

 

Now That I Have A Kid

 

I’m so much more attuned to all the little things

now that I have a kid

teeny tiny little things —like construction equipment:

mother and baby excavators

bulldozers, dump trucks, whirling cement trucks

and of course, backhoes.

 

I appreciate the shiny, flashing awesomeness

of bright red fire trucks

now that I have a kid

and police cars, tow trucks, ambulances

trolley cars, and subway trains,

and even taxi cabs

 

I notice every airplane in the sky

now that I have a kid

and, at museums, fighter jet, helicopter,

spy planes, blimps,

and bright hot air balloons.

 

In fact, museums and aquariums are lots of fun

now that I have a kid

the bright-eyed curiosity

at dinosaurs and mastodons and Archaeopteryx.

Churches and libraries, not so much

but maybe someday soon.

 

And “Wait, wait, there’s a duck pond!”

I just noticed that

now that I have a kid,

and not to mention the blue Jeep behind us,

and all the horses, cows, and pigs,

and the butterfly on that sign,

and all the flowers, shrubs, and trees

along the drive back home.

 

Someday when she’s a teen

I may resent I ever had a kid—

The slamming doors, the drama queen,

The brooding Gothic pain—

Let’s hope that never comes.

 

For now, though I am grateful—

elated actually—

for now, the world is new again,

because I have a kid.

 

わが親の

死ぬるときにも

屁をこきて

— 山崎宗鑑

 

Yomi-Zaka

 

He farted as his father died,

And smirked into his sleeve.

It wasn’t loud, and fragrant sticks

Meant no one else could tell,

Except the spirits of the dead,

The kami, and the stars.

And he, himself, of course, he knew,

And so was quite amused.

 

When asked why he was smirking so,

He told a little lie.

He said he thought back years ago

To what his father said:

“A wise man knows when laughter should

Be better left unsaid.”

 

And then he bowed and turned away,

And left his father there.

He crossed the room, composed and still,

But laughed outside the door.

MICHAEL C. PAUL

MICHAEL C. PAUL is a writer, illustrator, and historian living in Virginia. His work appears in The Amethyst Review and is forthcoming in The Sunlight Press, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and The Lyric. He is a four-time award winner in the 2026 Poetry Society of Virginia annual contest.