Yesterday was a winter road
with frosty figures lining up
to dam a young soul to limbo,
not quite hell but purgatory.

Now they all change
their gory stories
so they can feel better
and in their tales
they make themselves
sainted knights.

But we outsiders
know the harsh facts.
We do not make ourselves
the heroes of our tales
but journeyman
of varied skills
seeking the truths
and speaking it to
despite how painful
it might feel.

It begins here,
Undecipherable death.

The dying of the light
With tearful glazed eyes.

Here the soul is at a pause
Waiting to be set free,
A hurried rush to Awaken.

- the body fights to last breaths

Drowning in the world
Drinking life's waters,
The soul swims free.

Far ahead,
A darkness in the light...

And the soul has eyes that see
All things all at once in the lives
Lived underrated and unfulfilled.

-the body wants to live

The shadow grows deep
As sky black becomes a fertile
Ground upon which the soul
Glides watching a piece of everything.

Upon the immensely empty darkness
The light surrounds it,
Suddenly the soul realizes the abyss
Is within, calling itself humanity.

- the flesh craves life

Like a forest of insomnia
Suddenly awakened by a fire,
The soul sees all its lives lived.

The life is dried up,
The river has no source
And the living waters are dried:

Vanish soul,
Awaken in the corridor of wombs,
Be born again and fill
The bottomless being,
   The pregnant life
Of a tired soul awaiting the depths
Of understanding, confusingly conflicting.

- the body wants to feel

This is the bottom
Where souls meet and find
That the darkness resides inside them,
A silence befalls all-

Become the ocean that fills itself,,
Contemplate the premature death
Of stars that we constellated to
Our hopes and dreams,
Piece together the eclipse of understanding
That had escaped you until
Now,
The spiral concludes,
Immortal soul that cannot find
The light,
Children of the Master,
Return and fill the void,
You will hear in every life
That you have filled one cup
At a time,
And when you realize that your
Ordinary was extraordinary
Then the void is filled
And we return to our celestial navigation.

-the body wants to live

the day
when even the not so faithful
were tempted to pray
for the health of the nation

I have a Fairy that saith:
"Open shall be heaven's gate
To he who in the Lord has faith,
But doomed shall be the fate
To he who is evil after death.
Prepare for heaven before it's late
Coz as close as thy breath,
So is the doomsday date.

Plan well for the future,
So thou may dwell in realms
Of pleasant verdant pasture
And nectar flowing streams,
Whispering along with rapture
Of everlasting golden dreams."


©Kikodinho Alexandros**
   Jumeira, Dubai
   November 17th 2016

The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.