FROM OUR TRAVEL ADVISOR

If you need a small miracle in Ithaka
Your best bet is to submit a petition
To the one hundred and eight suitors
Who died to mark Odysseus' return.
They rest beneath plane trees in a park
Except for Amphinomous whose corpse
Insisted on being buried by itself.
They do not do heavy lifting, mind you;
But can be relied on for small sums
Found in pockets you knew were empty,
Relief for toothaches and the bad dreams
The local demons inflict on tourists
They cannot cure heartache but know
Large numbers of distracting anecdotes.
Major miracles are done by St. Joachim
Tuesday or Thursday from 10 to 6
And alternate Friday afternoons.

POEM FOR THURSDAY AND THE ANNOUCEMENT OF A COMPETITION

If Laertes, the great king of Ithaka,
Had had a book written about him
We would say of Odysseus what Laertes
Often said to his friends: “A good son;
A nice lad, but really – something of a nebbish.”
(You didn’t know Laertes spoke Yiddish?
Ha! The least of what you don’t know of him!)
So it is; you live your life grandly
And then some luftmensch, some poet,
Likes better how your son's name scans.

Today only: a contest!

First, so far as I know, there was Walt Kelly’s:

I was eatin’ some chop-sooey

With a lady in Saint Looie

When a-sudden comes a knockin’on the door

And the knocker he says “Honey,

Roll this rocker out some money

Or your Daddy shoots a baddie to the floor!

Then my father’s:

I was speaking Esperanto

With my baby in Toronto
When a-sudden comes a knockin’on the door

And the knocker he said “Tonto

You had better get out pronto

‘Cause the milk train doesn’t stop here anymore!

Then mine:

I was in the Bight of Benin

With my buddy V.I. Lenin,

When a-sudden comes a knockin’on the door

And the knocker he says “Trotsky

Things are not so hotsky-totsky

‘Cause St. Petersburg’s not Leningrad no more!

And now, readers few but cherce – mighty cherce – comes your turn. The winning entry will have my approbation – what more could you want?