Saturday, August 1, 2015

Tsunami Crisis Management, Hellas 2015 A.D.


What do we Hellenes do when a crisis is over?
We go back to a life with more crises,
One life with one crisis after another,
But we despair not!

Millenniums basking
On the sun-drenched shores
Of the Mediterranean have taught us how
To perform wonders as long as we persevere

In sitting back in our beach chairs,
All the while making like a wave.




Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Why Little Children--Like Trees--Are Afraid of Adults with Chain Saws



under the old 

growth is evermore virgin 

growth growing up— 


it’s telling 


the world the last thing 

we must do on this earth is 

hurry up. 





Sunday, July 26, 2015

Twilight in Meligalas


There’s a promise 

Of rain in the stiff northwesterly 
Breeze blowing in from the gulf 
Of Kyparissia, thirty kilometers away, 

And the parched trees are nodding 
In unison yes, yes, yes, 
It’s been a good day; 

I’ve spent more than half 
Of my life planted here— 
What more can I say? 






Thursday, July 23, 2015

Faux Deus Ex Machina


On the brink— 
Whatever to do? 
So tantalizing 

A thought came to him 
As he was about to jump 
To a forgone conclusion 

Out of the blue. 


Sunday, July 19, 2015

None the Smarter at 71


Time was I thought 
I could think 
My way through life 
Using clever arguments, 
That it would be 
Easy to imagine 
A world where being 
Smart made you 
Nobody’s fool— 
Hard to believe now, 
I ended up forgetting 
Nobody makes life’s rules. 


Thursday, July 16, 2015

The Privatization of the Self


"Let every soul submit himself 
Unto the authority of the higher powers. 
There is no power but of God. 
The powers that be are ordained of God". 
 --Romans 13.1 

Nowadays 

To make it worthwhile 
For the powers 

To be you have to 
Put in long hours down

A dark mine shaft deep 
In the heart 

Of the heart 
Of what is no longer 

God’s country 
And be forever 

Damned. 




Monday, July 13, 2015

Air of Acquiescence


Their slender stalks fastened 
With twine to thin reeds stuck 
In a brown, earthenware pot, 

The blood-red carnations nod 
In accord with each blustering gust, 
All the while suffusing the air 

They breathe 
With redolent dyes 
Of thick, heady musk.