I remember laughter rippling around the streets
amber of eyes aglow, brimming with hope
children cutting a caper impishly in Aleppo
dad squinting at my fiddling around with his computer
Today, our shoulders are hunched with fear
kids no longer splashing in puddles
knee-deep in rubble and smeared with blood
hollering out war cries, looking for relatives
Some crucified, others beheaded
no hearse waiting to deliver our people to burial places
Rachel weeping for her children
rising out like a phoenix, splintering husks of shells around
Walking through the cemetery while a couple
are muttering into their swirling Chardonnay
two words collide, two paths diverge
the road to hell is paved with good intentions

My dad’s unwilting enthusiasm
does little to reduce my anxiety
actually quite augments it
as I try not to hit the pavement

I am only 7 but feel very responsible
not only for the things I do,
like cutting the roses from the garden
and having my mum get mad

but also for the things I cannot do
like grabbing the handlebars assuredly
and keeping the bike under me
trying to perform some kind of conjuring act

Lowering the seat does help, feet now firmly on the ground
with loose elbows and a light grip on the handlebars
I close my eyes and, lo and behold, now I am a ballerina
swirling around like in a satin-lined jewelry box

My reverie is soon interrupted by my dad’s gentle voice
I tell him I did the splits, even touched my toes
“Seems like you don’ t wanna ride,” he says
with eyes of blue, a hint of a smile

I can still hear his voice in my ears
“Don’t try to do things you don’t like
just because anyone can do them”

THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA
THE BLUE SEA PAR EXCELLENCE
THE MARE NOSTRUM OF THE ROMANS
THE TURQUOISE BLUE OF US GREEKS.

IT SOOTHES ME AND CARESSES ME
WITH ITS GENTLE BREEZE,
WAFTING MY MIND’S FOG
THROUGH THE MYRTLE FIELDS.

I know I am not much of a poet myself
I just love to describe what I see
what touches my heart, what leaps to mind.

When the words do not come out quite right
and the rhythm is a bit off-key
I don' t get my knickers in the twixt

Poetry is not about the best masterpiece
but about letting my words flow like a river
allowing the pen to scribble all over a blank page

Jerusalem
The city of Gold
Jerusalem
Where Jesus walked
O’ Holy city,
Holiest of all
The land where Lord
on the Mount of Olives
would stand to talk.
You appear so beautiful,
with beauty so singular
no master wordsmith
could capture in verbal form,
no painter could accurately paint
on canvas with oil colors so vivid
and glorious as its past.
© Sofia Kioroglou

I fell in love with a frog,
who was sitting alone on the banks of the Nile,
mooning over the premature decease of his beautiful wife.

He was sobbing his heart out,
his lips convulsed with woe, dripping emotion,
his chin atremble, the words buried in a raven black but deafening silence.

I instantly knew he was the find of my ultimate search for love.
A bathos unknown to those seeking earthly pleasures,
a poignancy knocking vulgarity off its temporal pedestal.

My dear love, dearest of all other loves,
my love for this frog, please become a wreath
a halo, a redemptive power to soothe all pain

No shock, no engulfment...
Just the natural corollary to physical birth.
Death is standing on your porch screaming out
and beckoning you to come downstairs.

Unbudgeable and unbribeable.
The eternal, unbiased judge
is holding the Book of Life,
Your name no longer written in it.

The great leveller not paid for favors
is riding triumphantly his chariot
The dead, the great and small
now standing before the Throne.