Red leaf of autumn…
in its shade we wove our nest
kindled by desire
Chandelle de la nuit…
dans mon cœur la flamme vacille
au souffle du poème
Candle in the night…
in my heart’s its flame wavers
at the poem’s breath
Rising to the stars
my thoughts with the fireflies drift…
a childhood summer
Tender syllables –
wild berries in her mouth, crushed
in his tight embrace
Opening my book
the world falls quiet
outside and within
Opening my book
I enter a wood hidden
in the folds of time
Mon amour pour Dieu
souffle dans le poème
fleuri sur sa peau
We are exile woven into a body by forces beyond our understanding and for a purpose beyond our grasp. Something from the beyond works from within us, calling us in, pulling us out. We are the mystic tear in the fabric of time.
Arching at this touch,
her belly reaching skywards –
ecstasy of light
Opening my book –
a mountain stream, rocks and moss
and leaves whispering
On a moonlit branch
two birds sharing the quiet
of a winter night
I’ll die as I lived –
wrapped in autumn mist, my words
cling to their silence
Through the soul’s inscape
the candle’s light travels farther
than the light of the sun
Each year becoming
more transparent to the light
of the winter moon
I write my poems
only to leave them as leaves
drifting in the wind
Just a wanderer
gazing at the winter moon –
I’ll leave with no trace
Not fearing the cold
the flower gives her fragrance
to the winter wind
Winter night arrives…
in the candle’s flame I watch
my dreams burn alive
At forty-four
I’m no older than when
my heart was a child’s
In my heart a man
dreams his beloved kissing
his face like the dawn
Greece, in the old world, culturally, was part of the middle eastern world.
Whenever in the world you see a statue, you think Greek.
When the powerful speak of peace, they imply peace under the conditions of their hegemony and dominance. Under such conditions, peace is nothing but submission and subservience.
When do we become
the captives of our faces –
masks of polished stone
Leaves in his white beard
the old man of the mountain
whistles with the wind
After the rainstorm
in a small pond by the rocks
blackbirds dip and splash
First days of the year…
the leaves on the ground soaking
in the thawing snow
A new war begins…
sipping my green tea, I gaze –
a world of white snow
The year’s first haiku –
I smile at a leaf, budding
spring green in my soul
Rooted in Love 