Calling Card

Where oh where are the cicadas? 

You can hear their quivering 

Insistence in the pines but never 

A sign of their presence in the air— 

Only their empty shells at the end 

Of summer remind you 

They too were there. 

Out to Lunch

And offline until Sunday while I escape to the shores of the Ionian in the company of George Seferis (actually his spirit as revealed through his books, but you knew that).

Coming Up In The World

Where once there was 

An outhouse 

With swatches of news 

Paper nailed to bare brick 

Wall next to a hole, 

Now indoors 

A fine vitreous fixture 

And a roll 

Of soft ass-wipe unwound, 

Touching cool 

Marble floor. 

Achieving Brilliance

Some have to work hard at it, 

Others hardly at all, so 

Before he steps back 

And takes one last hard look 

At what he’s left behind, 

This ragamuffin of a boot- 

Black buffing the shine of the gentleman 

Has to spit on his shoes and snap 

The rag like his life depends on it 

One more time. 

John the Baptist aka The Saint Oregano Man

Gather your oregano while you may after his name day (June 24th) and as long as it has ripened fully and you collect it very early in the morning before the first rays of the sun have touched it. This” slight” detail is essential because only in this way does the oregano acquire magical powers. 

This explains why I got up at 5 o’clock this morning and rode my trusty ancient Yamaha 125cc Enduro motorcycle to our olive grove about 9 km due west of Meligalas and spent the next two hours gathering this holy mountain of oregano, which will be cured in the shade, mind you, (or else it will turn black and spoil) before being sprinkled generously on a variety of salads and meat/fish/poultry dishes, as the Greeks have always used it as a food preservative, and it is probably in this role that the pessimistic phrase “Put some oregano on him” is employed metaphorically when someone’s plans start to go from bad to worse. 

NB: It may sound far-fetched to some but included in oregano's magical powers is its ability to heal wounds; believe me—as The Saint Oregano Man is my witness—this claim is definitely not for the birds. Nor is this poem.