Excerpts From the Fading Distance
In the Greek Orthodox faith a child’s hair must not be cut before baptism. It must be kept pure from the cut of the knife, keeping intact its covenant with God. Thus, when a child is anointed in baptism, it must then in return give something to God. Since a child is born with no material possessions of its own a lock of its hair is cut as a gift to God. That is all it has to give…
“God made you what you are, that is Gods gift to you. …
I free the mournful face that hovers on the madness of my window,
The sill a library of numerical expressions, and god tiptoes with glass feet
On the refracting pane, breaking through the bastion of prison clouds
Onto the overcast side of the mirror. It’s pouring — raining in the company of
Misery — between the baying of treed dog’s and the heat of hissing cat’s —
Black swan’s unmask the identity of the wandering evening
I open the window, only to observe life, what — less is more, I’ve known of it
Floating by on a myriad of humpbacked…
3 am struck, it tolled, muffled as though it was breaking through the lining of the drenched tatters on the textile of the night
The stars, came ever closer, detached from their glow, they dolefully rivaled the glaze of an aphotic faience
They those, unnamed sprites of the sky, transient, they quickly crossed the pane of inexistent time, a Terpsichorean angel, shadow dances on laconic lines of the cornices of my eyes —
3:01, just a second to steal a taken thought, listening as they rustle, likened to the last leaves on the untouched winter white of my bed.
I drag the burden of my estimated weight — minus my soul, seven stones boulted into seven grains of untouched intimations, of a muffled voice that cries in the hours of my dreams—
My soul a pitted drupelet that breaks through the membrane that encircles my world, hidden, and yet my nous offends me, it forms overlapping puffs as that of an endangered cloudberry that makes the the canopy of its drooping leaves, the only sky it dares itself to ponder.
And yet, at times the one ignores the other, as this day the soul cannot escape the call nor…
In the lonely Kapilio (taverna) of my village, 100 years and my respect is seated by the window, his pain the aperture that encases the glass. The abrasions on glass line up in perfect symmetry with his waning silhouette.
The curls of the peeling turquoise paint on rustic window have seen as much if not more than his years have. …
Paper Poetry and Literary Impulse “Eudaimonia” Prompt Submission”
On the road towards The Polis of Latria,
The province of expectation, and the exarchate of possession
On the road we gave the name, Take-Soul and Give,
Do not gaze back nor below your thoughts meander — misled
There in the past-tense of forward. There you will find, solitary —
the bitterness of a lost dream and the insulted disgrace of a weary hope
Take feather and sky, and
scale the battlements of Eudaimonia
Look up on high, your morphi pointed towards simplicity,
And your metope within the prefecture innocence,
You’ve asked me to define love for you but is that what you are really asking, little one? I’d think its safe to say that we both know the truth. You are indirectly asking me to define “my love” to you.
I have become a spectacle of curiosities demise?
Is it the stories you’ve heard, have you been told the truth or the vague hypocrisy of hypothetical gossip, or is because I’ve put aside the mantle of black, amongst a sea of mordant apostates.
In a village where the sun cannot penetrate the wave of black widows weeds, it seems…
A Tale Of A Tell — Tell Heart
The story I will share is a very old Karpathian Greek folktale, passed down to us through the oral traditions of our storytellers. I retell these stories to the little ones in my village, so that they not be forgotten. Newly augmented and embellished.
Circa — Damned if I know!
Sifi (short for Joseph) was the one and only child of Marianthi and Dimitri. They were obscure peasants, amongst the many peasants that made their homes on the unrelenting hillside of Mt. Parnassus.
They were as unrelenting as the volcanic earth they…
… a hundred years from now
When I move on in time — indefinite, will you be remembered, will my words come out of the shadows and raise you into the youth of restless dreams
Or will the world have changed so much that my words of you would have no meaning, in the life I lost you to, they meant a world to come, for me. Do words die too, in immortal sleep?
Will my words have frozen you in time, where you had never died, and wistful smiles touch softly upon the boundaries of redolent chance — where…
NY, JFK — International
I traced the cartography, the estuary of my tears, that sojourned along the life worn angles and plains of your soon unseen, but never forgotten countenance.
There they levitated, contouring the aerodrome of your lips. Farewell writ in the moisture emblazoning the distance between our star alliance.
I tasted yesterday's bitter brew — served in paper cannikins, paper lanterns, paper non-refundable tickets — drunk scalding, before last minute boarding calls. Free refills discarded for stormy day standby’s — yesterday's brew served up as duty-free prepackaged morning delight.
You clenched your eyes, avoiding the devastation in mine…
In my spare time, I’ll be found at my favorite writing spot— where death surely cannot miss me. I’ve been censored... I do not tell—all.