meet me in that place
where reality is dream
and poetry pervades
       where we touch without hands
       and see without eyes

meet me at that time
when life is only art
and music permeates
       when we dance without fear
       and sing without words

meet me then and there
where and when dissolve
and together we are light
       where our hearts beat as one
       when we share eternal breath

Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
The meltemi winds crackle the wild millet,
Graze-feed upon the stalks of Greek plains,
The pelican scoops up the honeyed Aegean,
Waves of sunlit anise and almond in refrain,
Vestigial as the sweet persimmon from Egypt,
The hammered warmth from the flat anvil of Africa,
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~

My gaze flickering across this landscape divine -

a whirlwind of sentiments unfolds.

Yet a single word echoes across my mind:

mine, mine, mine.


These hills, these trees, the distant shore,

as sure as the breeze caressing the steeple:

they are part of me, and more -

I am at home, safe, with my people.


I feel it, I know it, the comfort it sings -

whispers of safety, a lullaby to my broken wings:

familiar and gentle, deep in my bones,

the ancestry calling from ancient white stones.


Rosemary, lavender, olives, and fig trees,

they tell me of history, of proud victories;

of battles, of sadness, of stories untold,

the generations with lingering spirits of old.


This is my land, I belong here;

the soft hum of time; a smile and a tear.

thin pale grass
competing with the
big, strong tree roots
pushed to the surface
from below the ground

below the ground
there are secrets

heavy clay
compacted soil
striving for moisture and air

below the ground
there are secrets.

we cut the tree roots
remove the grass
plant a new garden

below the ground
there are reasons

dusted sunlight
peeks through the cracks
of the old weathered barn

tractor oil
and freshly baled hay
permeate the warm country air

hoot owl, and swallows
whisper from the  
overhead beams

guinea hens scamper ~
to the graceful
rolling fields

Oh, to be the tide!
Moved only by sun and moons delight,
to swell and fall by gravity's might.
Constant and predictable and yet,
a result of raw cosmic power.

The space between.

A time to sell yourself.

A time for passing.

Sometimes I touch the right.

Too much, the wrong.

Resplendent deterioration
we live by.

With casuistic slogans
and closing doors.

D'you know disembarkment
leads to land sickness?

It does.

And who can then make
heads or tails out of
the qualms of tolerance
and his cousin, ignorance?