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.

 Sadly, 
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!

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Poetry Pantry

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!

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. 
 

Once,
 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!

A Town Mouse in a Country House

Whether
near the square,
set in stone,

 and bejewelled in
 ruby red radiance,

 or stucco clad,

 and accessorized by a
 signature sweet fragrance -
they charm. 

Crowning a hilltop,

overlooking the sea,

tiny, kid-drawn cottages

 bewitch and beckon me.

In the valley below,
 vanilla villas and
 patches of produce
  in bright, veggie green,
  are the perfect ingredients
 of Cretan country cuisine.

Back home,
between the finials
 of the black, iron gate,
this born and bred 
town mouse gazes at
her geographical fate.

Town mouse
or country mouse,
a critter needs 
its house! 

Which one are you?

Thanks for visiting.
Have a lovely weekend.

Last image: Lorinda Bryan Cauley

Mood Lighting

Sometimes,

our little hamlet in the hills
 seems quite susceptible to
 the moods of Mother Nature,

as terracotta topped houses
 huddle together, while
a ghostly fog floats by.

 On an unusually 
gloomy day,

strokes of sunshine

beam on the greenery

bordering the church -
 the leafy street lights
of pastoral scenes.
 

Minutes before their shift,
black capped bulbs on

 lanky lampposts stand by,

as the late, afternoon light

lingers, quietly leaving
just before dusk.

 Inside,
 the soft glow 
of candlelight
sweetly greets
the night, 
and the day fades
into darkness. 

 Thanks for visiting and
have a lovely weekend.

An Expatriate's Prayer

 Clouds congregate in Cretan skies -

 melancholy masses in mourning.

Crossing the Atlantic, 
they've carried with them,
a heavy outpouring
 of emotion.

Inside, an expat cries,
her heart heavy and weak
from the tidings.

 In darkness, she stands,
in silence, she breathes,
praying for hope
  to come out of
 hiding.

Slowly, the shadows
are outshone by the light,
as the clouds scatter
to deliver her message.

She bids them farewell,
and reminds them to tell
her fellow Canadians,
that prayer has no distance.

The Tricoloured Trio

 

Yesterday, while splashing about in the pool, 

swimming lap after lap, in order to stay cool,

 I noticed a symphony of yellows, greens and blues,

around the surrounding stage that is my garden.

 

  Luminous, the lantana, like lyric sopranos,

dotted the scene in sharp staccatos, 

while the pale, periwinkle blue plumbago, 

mimicking a low profile, rather quiet alto,

hid behind little canopies of green.

  Cypresses, crowned in tones of gold,

 bookmarked the blues up in the sky,

and as the maestros of this lullaby,

conducted the clouds to descrescendo.

With the puffy masses in pianissimo,

the yellow, green, and blue trio

speckled the countryside

 in complementary hues,

in a melodic melting pot of solos. 

Thanks for visiting!

 xo

Poppy