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 

Sharing at:

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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Sunday, March 8, 2015

Raindrop Roses

Roses on my table,
floating in a puddle of dew,
petals layered next to savouries,
and a bittersweet, Greek brew.

 Posing on my dresser,
 claiming centre stage,
  they're luscious leading ladies
among gentlemen jars of sage.

They sparkle in the sunlight,
eclipsed only by a gingham shade,
 basking smugly in the fleeting limelight,
until their striking beauty fades.

Too much sun for a starlet,
can the process of aging start,
 wilting her vibrant spirit,
and breaking her tender heart.

Left with traces of her brilliance,
(when youth beamed on her face,
 allowing her to upstage those
 tattered, and time embraced),
 she, now uprooted, muted and diluted,
was replaced by fresh cut hopefuls
in a curvy, half-full vase.

when scarlet petals 
snap from brittle stems,
then tumble to the ground
 like drizzling rain,
  tiny, blood red teardrops,
stain their souls 
with endless pain.

 Thanks for visiting!

Sharing at:
Poetry Pantry

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

A Pastoral Prescription

 When life is hard,
harsh, or heavy,
  I walk to unlock
 the simplicity,
softness, and light,
that is blocked 
from my heart.

When my soul is bare,
my mind a flurry of worry,
I am moved by my body
towards the hills 
 that surround me,
to walk.

 The meadow is medicine,
and is taken visually,
to alleviate the pain
of an achy psyche. 

But the mountains 
seem bitter; still,
I stop for a dose
of their snowy splendour,
in which I'm engrossed.

No strange side effects found
 in this pastoral prescription,
apart from the fruit bearing trees,
whose beauty can lead to addiction.

Getting my fix
of floral and fauna,
 (a preventative measure
against emotional trauma),
I make my way back to
the place framed by boughs,
 as I move my body
 to the space
where it's housed.
And I walk...

 Thanks for visiting!
Happy weekend!

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Wall to Wall Wisdom

Its doors were swung wide open, and firmly
 stuck in place, as if stoppers prevented them
 from closing - thus deliberately exposing - a stony,
  stuccoed presence, for ages, derelict and defaced.

But it didn't care. In fact, it stoically stood there,
passive to the plethora of invading greenery; a
 snub to the supposed shambles of its neglected scenery.

 It had nothing to hide, 
unlike, its scarlet shuttered neighbour,
on the opposite side, of the cracking, cobbled road.
 Oh, the heavy load of secrets it must have hoarded,
 stored and boarded, inside its padlock protected door.

No, it definitely identified more
with the punctured structure 
perched proudly on a peak, nearby.
Weak, from wind blown wounds,
it stood windowless and roofless, yet,
was crowned the most hospitable of homes,
  the perfect, permanent address;
 1st prize for picky pigeons seeking nests.

In second place, 
for its geometric brilliance,
and traces of richly, brush stroked hues,
was the abode boasting views of the Aegean,
 whose signature sea blues, once cruised
the surface of its original facade - now an 
open-air exhibit, of peeling patches of patina,
a cryptic, colour flawed collage.

 And so, when passing by this beauty, on my daily 
morning walks, I can't help but to wonder, what it would
  say if it could talk. Are those who inhabit its interiors, 
well loved and card for, like its outer girth, that is hugged 
by pretty blooms and rays of warmth and nourishing self-worth?

I often ponder such questions, of the deeply personal kind,  
 while wandering the pastures of the Cretan countryside. 

 while pausing to admire the stillness of the sea, I got
  wind of an answer, blowing in the breeze, when a sudden
gale snatched the gist of wisdom from the gusty vicinity, and
  it disappeared forever, zigzagging through the rows of olive trees. 

Oh, if only walls could talk.

Thanks for visiting!
Wishing you a warm 
and cozy weekend!