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Odin Roark

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· Perceptions


· Prosetry at Work

· Said and Unsaid - Vol 1


Short Stories
· Bubble Choices

· Surreal Dummy--Still Here

· IT

· Faux Companion

· Take Me, I'm Free (Flash Fiction)

· Beer Neck Flower

· Closed

· What Do You Do?

· Dream-Blisters

· The Nap

· Discipline of the artist

· The Dogs of Sochi

· A Crow With Super Smarts

· Targets Be Warned

· Simple Times (an observation)

· Cavemen in Tuxedos (an editorial)

· Ghost Town Ghosts

· Note to Self

· Essay on Poetic Theory

· Shadow Towers of Choice

· Needing Not the Beyond

· Match-Strike

· Pantalone Masks

· Hands of Choice

· Self-Worth Surrendered

· Our Species' Butchered Battlefield

· Timeless Kaleidoscope

· Steam and Smoke Reverie

· Living Galleries

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Books by Odin Roark
by Odin Roark
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Rated "PG" by the Author.

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Recent poems by Odin Roark
•  Shadow Towers of Choice
•  Needing Not the Beyond
•  Match-Strike
•  Pantalone Masks
•  Hands of Choice
           >> View all 1,070

Reflecting on what one’s been taught often leaves more questions than answers.


some claim to know deserted
sensing it like a desert island

but by what
by whom

one's mirror cannot lie
reflection displays
but a single island
in life's stream of many
floating uniquely surrounded
by time's cyclic expanse
humanity's ebb and tide
grooming its shoreline
testing its last defense
then embracing
with tenderness

this summit
this mountain peak
jutting skyward out of groundswell
froth and spray
vibrates with swaying choruses
tenacious palm fronds harmonizing continuously
shadow dancing on sands of survival
an endless love movement
some feel foreign to

if only...

the self
builds endless shleters of endurance
welcoming sunrise and sunset
even as storms of corrupted air
bring wayward conquerors
through the fog
takers of innocence
ready to trample upon friendly greeting
what is found
is theirs

how patient
this place
of buried strength
some deem deserted
while others embrace its sanctuary of oneness
longing neither escape
nor discovery

that special centeredness
where the self stands atop
life's Mount Everest with gratitude
free to plant a flag
marvel at simplicity
nurture sustainment
honor realization

only nonexistence is deserted



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Reviewed by Diana Legun (Reader)
In this I see the opposite of 'no man is an island,' in that every man is an island. I feel the island Self in this writing 'vibrates with swaying choruses," "shadow dancing on sands of survival" and building "....endless shelters of endurance" against the "takers of innocence." I would like to keep this in my pocket: "how patient/this place/of buried strength". ~~ Diana
Reviewed by Ronald Hull
Yes, only nonexistence is deserted. Our lives are rich and full and we should enjoy that and not expect more than what we get.

Reviewed by Jerry Bolton
Taking on the existentialists are we, Odin? I picked up "Nausea," by Sartre recently to reread it. I read it when I was a young man and a lot of his crap I liked. When I tried to reread it this time, I made it through ten pages before I trashed it.

I like this poem, although I probably won't do such a great job of commenting on it. Deserted means, of course, different things. A woman with six children deserted is much more heartbreaking than that deserted island, and the deserted island bears no resemblance to a discovery of a piece of land and they claim it as their own, America maybe? When the land wasn't exactly deserted, was it? For one I am glad they came, and I'm glad they claimed it, although I seem to get into a lot of trouble when I voice that opinion.

We can be deserted within ourselves to the point that we are a danger to society, because "self" is all that matters and that can bring on mayhem in the form of rape and plundering societies' sacred laws to kill and main with a devil may care attitude. Of course, when caught it is always because he was an abvused child. Ah, getting carried away. told you I would, well, not in so many words, but I'm admitting it now.
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Metaphorically Speaking Mostly by Sharon Lockwood

Metaphorically Speaking Mostly is a book full of metaphoric poetry. Because poetry is an expression of our inner self, many will take away something different in the meaning for ma..  
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