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.

Death never forgets.
Your sins will find you out
and come home to roost
So, "Be not deceived; God is not mocked:
for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap

I go around in circles
around myself
having lost my destination
I am stuck in my mind's morass
so icky and gooey that
every time I try to find my way back home
Laistrygonians and Cyclops
will always pop up on my mind.

In a deep and narrow gorge
the wadi winds its tortuous course
in a cliff face pocked with caves
monks ensconced in steep enclaves

Elijah was fed by ravens
praised the Lord, beheld the heavens
Down a steep and winding path
What good is being a polymath?

Wadi Qelt a holy place
I feel God's serene embrace
past are now my life's transgressions
I embrace my sins as lessons.

Love is like the measles.
Once you catch it,
it starts spreading like wildfire.

First, the itch,
then the ugly zits
and finally the scars.

Those nasty pockmarks
reminding you that getting bitten by the love bug
can cause serious damage to the patient.

On the Western side of the Sea of Galilee
between Tiberias and Capernaum
the apostle of the apostles was born.

O holy myrrh-bearer, Mary from Magdala
the red egg in your hand Tiberius Caesar's debacle
would be of "Speak now or Forever rest in Peace"

* The poem is based on the Paschal eggs' tradition. During a dinner with the emperor Tiberius Caesar, Mary Magdalene was speaking about Christ's Resurrection. Caesar scoffed at her, saying that a man could rise from the dead no more than the egg in her hand could turn red. Immediately, the egg turned red. Because of this, icons of Mary Magdalene sometimes depict her holding a red egg. Also, this is believed to be an explanation for dyeing eggs red at Pascha.

I have no regrets!

I have learnt from my mistakes

We live with the scars we choose

© Sofia Kioroglou

Je Ne regrette rien

Je l'ai appris de mes erreurs

Nous Vivons avec les cicatrices

que nous choisissons.

© Sofia Kioroglou

Christmas on Hydra.
Fingers interlocked
squeezing tightly
I and you
looking at
the shimmering sea
kissing each other as
passersby are surreptitiously
stealing a look at our eternal bliss
swathed in mufflers
with breaths misting up
the crisp winter air.
I and you
melting
into each other forever
during this holiday season.

The poem is published by Silver Birch Press. To view it visit :https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2015/12/08/christmas-on-hydra-poem-by-sofia-kioroglou-me-during-the-holidays­-poetry-and-prose-series/

I am walking ahead and ahead
and still in the same place.
I am treading water
walking through a morass.
I think I am making progress
but I am stuck when I keep walking.

© Sofia Kioroglou

The looking-glass self

Your stabs hit me exactly where you hope they would
with such ferocity that gouges out all vanity and conceit.
A knife ****** through the illusions of my bloated ego,
An ugly distortion of an inner image through a plastic glass
which finally crumpled with me looking at the looking-glass self.