Wednesday, October 19, 2016


It began much like
 a friendly game of catch,
with witty one-liners
 thrown to and fro,
each one smarter than
the one before, lingering
 much longer in the air, 
so as to share in its flirty,
 intellectual amusement.


 Before long, 
a ping pong pace of
 opposing beliefs were
shot across the speakers' floor, 
and some, too discordant to ignore, 
provoked a cacophony amid the 
previously harmonious rapport, 
now a wordy whirlwind of a storm
 that finally fumbled into a 
sad and hopeless silence.

Had anyone been keeping score of
 all the targeted, hurtful slurs,
the cross-fire of hostile insults hurled
in this emotionally wounding, verbal war
between two people so supposedly in love?

No glove can protect the heart
and shield the soul, when curveballs
pierce with such cruel force, so steer
clear of these catalysts that threaten
your dialogues and tête–à–têtes,
and put your catcher's mitt to rest! 

Written for Susan's Mid-week Motif:
'Conversation' at Poet's United  
 Thanks for visiting!

Saturday, May 2, 2015

REM Dilemma

I have this dream, where I am
 walking in a field of flowers,
 daisies, mostly, some yellow, others
 white. All tall, and blindingly bright,
in the early morning sun, they feel
like thousands of frilly flashlights
aimed at my squinting face, demanding
a motive for my meandering among them.

I don't have one. I wandered there, 
not following a trail, for my eyes 
were barely open due to restlessness
the night before, in which my sleep
was stolen, by angst and fear and
insecurity, those relentless thieves
of the psyche, that hypothesize and
terrorize my suffering spirit, nightly!

the vast and vivid meadow shrinks and
   morphs into a narrow path. Flowers are
  intact, but they're squeezed between
 two barriers - a wall of stone and a
wire fence. At this point, the tense,
 claustrophobic me is feeling miserably,
since the only accessibility to openness 
from this flowery, congested patch is 
a cliff top dive into thin air,
a drop into the valley directly
below, with nothing to latch on to,
nobody to catch my fall.

to my rescue, the REM patrol shows up!
It stops the dream that caused a scene,
 restoring peace and creating calm, 
so that, in the end, with decisions spared, 
 jittery nerves repaired, eyes relaxed and
 still, I bid adieu to the courageous crew,
then dizzily drift into a dream-free shift
of heavy, uninterrupted sleep.

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Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Plain As Day

You'd think,
after all the 
dismal disappointment,
emotional abandonment and
ending of endearments,
you'd learn.

That you'd discern
those silences to mean
feelings of pure apathy
and not a sense of mystery,
but merely what they really were:
a complete lack of concern.

But you grew up in the 1970s, 
with a very cheery bunch of Bradys,
who lived on the other side 
of your TV screen, in a land where
 the grass was always shiny green.

Alas, how were you, 
an impressionable, little girl to know,
 that this wildly popular family show, 
was not the best possible example 
of reality's messy truths?

And thus,
once you'd witnessed
such idyllic scenes,
who would've dared to
spill the beans, and
 burst your bubble 
of happy dreams,
to save you from
your future wounds? 

 Now,that would have been
sheer foolishness -
 you'd have never surrendered
to such nonsense,
even if it was 
plain as day,
as seen through your
 rose coloured glasses.

Thanks for visiting!


Written for
 Susan's Mid Week Motif
at Poets United

Wednesday, April 8, 2015


Of all my time 
on Mother Earth,
(some 50 + years
since my own birth),
it's the present
that I think,
is mostly worth

For, the past
always seems
 so sweet.
Its bitterness,
with work,
sought retreat,
and in hindsight,
had no purpose.

 You see,
forgiveness and pride,
 two nemeses that,
fought each other ruthlessly, 
in a never-ending odyssey,
one day, quite shockingly,
surrendered simultaneously
as if they were outnumbered. 

forgiveness has a memory
and pride, a tendency toward enmity,
and thus, that idyllic victory,
was unsurprisingly, short-lived.

the two forces are not
as fueled, since time has
invaded their dwindling duel,
but underneath the battleground,
the earth still burns and trembles.


Written for: 

Sunday, March 29, 2015


It never would have crossed my mind,
before having been informed,
that the tall, heart leaved tree above me
was the subject of a religious storm.

Σπόροι Κουτσουπιά

Adorned in shiny clusters of magenta,
its lanky branches are transformed, into
bracelets charmed with hot pink gems -
  arboreal arms impossible to ignore! 


Legend has it, that this sparkling tree,
whose flowers were once dressed in white,
blushed with shame upon discovering the
horrific sight, of Judas, one of Jesus Christ's
   disciples, hanging from a bending bough, 
sick with guilt that he'd betrayed the Lord,
having failed to keep his sacred vow. 

I sympathize with the history
behind this rosy coloured tree,
its sweet appearance so incongruous
with its unfortunate notoriety. To me,
 it's just a cheery, pink umbrella, 
dotted with silky, stellar petals,
and not a canopy of blasphemy.

Cercis siliquastrum, or Judas trees, 
are presently blooming on the island.

 Thanks for visiting!


My interview, at
Poets United 
MY INTERVIEW AT POETS UNITED, (click on image to read)

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Poetry Pantry

Sunday, March 22, 2015

A Sprintime Story of Grandeur and Glory

Daisies arrive on the patio, completely unexpected.

Between marble columns,
burnt orange daisies secure a
 hot spot in the siesta mid-day sun,
to bask in the warmth of its healing
 rays - a spritz of springtime therapy
 after withering away from winter's malaise.

A bubble of almond blossoms
bursts on to the scene, waking
 olive trees and buttercups bored
 with the usual. It shocks the serene by
splashing some rosy white on the green
  and suddenly, the meadow looks awesome!

From rooftop ruins, lemony daisies sprout
between wide cracks in the sandy stone,
cheery, open - air dwellers of a centuries
  old home, which shows no traces of its 
'once upon a time' life. A structural array
  of climatic strife, this abode, a tragic 
example of 'open concept' design, is, 
alas, a model of rubble in rocky decline.

 On ground level, a red poppy stands 
alone, in a field of cliquey colour.
Crepe paper frail, its silky petals
shiver in the cool, March breeze -
surely, an SOS of a flower in distress,
in dire need, of some TLC, from its own,
 faraway, siren hued sisters. I wonder,
will they heed its weak and woeful
 whisper, before it wilts and shrivels?

 Close by, predatory branches claw their way 
towards an unsuspecting, naive bell. Can't
they tell that this metal's heavily guarded?
Why don't they back away, before it starts
to sway, and alert all those around it?

Echium plantagineum in purple, and more
daisies, this batch in butter and cream, 
spice some life on the bones of a new build,
 and perk up a faded patina in peach.

 Yes, spring has arrived in the
Cretan countryside, bearing gifts
of bucolic grandeur and glory.
I am grateful for Mother Nature's 
generous offerings, and her 
miraculous, annual, dowry. 

 Happy Spring,
my friends!
Thanks for 

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Poetry Pantry

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Covered in Crayola Colour

'Chapped and chippy' aquamarine and
'orange peel' tangerine, are what I
named these bright, bold hues; bet the
Pantone people would not be amused. 

  Covered in crayola colours,
this public school built in 1900,
is more reminiscent of a charming cottage
  than a place that houses ABCs and numbers! 

Stucco, stone, wood, and iron, the
 stars of this scholastic structure,
  together teach a lively lesson in
classical Cretan architecture.

A few villages over, a farmhouse,
 pebbled in earthy, faded tones,
 shows signs of having weathered
storms; no doubt, due to the 
soldiers set in stone, still
 standing at attention.

Meandering through mountainous terrain,
I eventually reached the northern coast, 
where sailboats, bobbing on bouncy waves,
 didn't stray too far from sandy shores.

Back among fruit filled trees,
branches blowing in the breeze,
bare vines, (the black sheep
 of this gnarly brood), being in
 a gloomy mood, refused to budge.
Alas,the sweet and juicy fare
 they bear, not there to dress
their lonely limbs, left the
pruned and prickly trunks, feeling
 desperately miserable and grim.

Thanks for visiting!



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