There are spiritual healers getting in touch with those spirits
To ask them why they are present, ' said Erica. „Usually,
When you call them, they come to tell you some secrets.
Some sad lovers that passed away can't leave this world peacefully.''



„They can be demons, too, ' said Maya. „We must talk with the priest, '
Said Geraldine. „Let’s search in the storage room, ' she continued,
„We’ll find something, and we'll face this truth together, at least.''
''I hear the steps of someone walking away from this window, ''



Said Carla.'' Maybe it's the rain tapping on the sill, ''
Replied Geraldine. Surak opened the window and said,
'It doesn't rain; in the soft wind, I hear only the birds' trill.''
''But I've found some books in a big box for safe keeping instead.''



(Maya and Erica went to buy fresh fish from one of the many fisheries existent in that village.)




Fargo entered the Spianada, the largest square
In the Balkans, which was created by the Venetians.
The sound of the sea waves was like a stir in the air.
The peaks of the Old Fortress looked like swords of the Titans.



He passed the lighthouse tower and entered the underground
Tunnels that linked the Fortress with the main parts of the town.
Then, he entered the New Fortress, and when he looked around,
He saw the gates, the sea shore, and the land that sloped down.



(The port has been an important naval base since the Roman period. Considerably, Corfu was called the Gibraltar of the Adriatic. He bought a galley.)



The Ionian Islands belonged to the Republic
Of Venice; they were slowly conquered, one by one, in time.
Corfu voluntarily became a colony; its public
Gardens made the Islands' governor reside on that sublime




Territory; its economy was based on exporting
Raisins, olive oil and wine, whereas the Venetian lira
Was the currency of the islands; while incorporating
The culture of Venice, these people used a plethora



Of Italian words, because this language was official.
Venice had garrison soldiers, scattered in island forts
With muskets and bayonets made of the iron material.
The impromptu recruits and mercenaries were hired in the ports.



(Fargo started to talk with the infantry captain and with the lowborn ship’s captain.)



'' It's hard to eradicate the piracy from the world.''
''Because of money, the soldiers are recruited as needed.'
''Only with the convoy protection, the sail with the ships is furled.
When it is no longer required, their claims are unheeded.''



''The Muslim pirates attack the Christian ships to enslave.''
''I've heard there are Jewish pirates, too, '' ''Because of Inquisition, ''
''The corsairs are dangerous, '' '' Our ships hardly can face on this wave.''
The Christian navies are weak; don't have enough ammunition.''



''The Muslim opponents are fast; you need a large convoy.
You will be convoyed by us until you enter Italy-
After fighting the pirates.'' ''On our ship, there is an envoy.''
''To let you sail, they wanted some protection money.''



''Europe pays its duty to protect its own action,
But accepts the growth of piracy in Indian waters.''
''The piracy is bad in theory, but usefully practiced-
A cheap way to expand their economic and naval powers.''



''The governments don't want to eradicate the piracy.''
''The anti-pirate campaigns are only documents.''
''These pirates mean business behind the wall of privacy.
In bars and brothels for crews, the money means strong arguments.''



''This eradication needs a revision to the law.''
'' Only in the Spanish colonies, they are executed, ''
''Spain has a court of officers, '' '' This is a Britain law, new.''
''In return for the pardon, these pirates are persuaded.''



(The captain gave Fargo two galliots, each one having 80 oarsmen and 60 soldiers.)

(To be continued...)

Poem by Marieta Maglas

the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds,   had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now,   high above     inflamed...
over soft new grass  
      
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
                        
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near

and yes !

an anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in    as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
              that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
              by gospels of granite and grain,  grass finch
              and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
              enticed a scholar  from his cot
              to jot ephemera
              of outlasting spark
              before dark-fall

and so... there
amid all allurement   and soft machines

              a word-smith gathered
              poesy and prose.
            
              muse-driven
              this one served
              an invisible
              sovereign
            
              one  

              of unsurpassed virility
              who charms       kaleidoscopes
              with  offhand sketches    
              rescued
              from
              a landfill
            
              a basket weaver,  
              that unravels to
              achieve pure
              forms
            
              a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
              as ampules of anagrams
              were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
              without hope
            
              a falcon   frolicked above the lowborn lilies...  
            
              with eyes  
              too keen
              to see a
              blur
              as the hand
              of god
            
              or a vole
            
              as a lifeline
              on his
              palm.

I'm a lone stranger
Drawing closer to death
With fragments of solidarity
And sour scent of cream and of birth

I'm a forlorn stranger
In a world born of death
So birth contemplates soil
Of elevated heavens and depressed hell

I'm a lowborn stranger
With dark little poems and noble anger
My body and soul
Are of salt and dust
And to my fall
Comes my elevated call
Of heathens and evanescence

I'm a lost stranger
Without memory of reminiscence
I open my mouth
With voice frozen on girth
And only my last breath…
Speaks louder than my birth

I'm a torn stranger
With a hat and a soul
A boot and a craw
What else…
Is there to know

I WALK ALONE

When streets are dead, when liquid lies have dried,
sifting shadows stitch a billion puppets’ eyes.
Mucus, in threads, is sewn into hide…
skin marries skin till the fresh puppets rise.
Out of my bed…man, out of my mind!
I slide into midnight—from sleep’s tether torn—
the world to disdain, the hillsides to roam.
Sidewalks are idle, the storefronts all blind.
But there…and there…are life’s bleak reminders…there!
Fleeing from footfalls, the ******* lowborn
scatter like rats under neon and chrome.

Then here…and…here:  Where lamps are no longer,
the black bushes rear. Creepers emerge, in moonlight surreal.
Shrubs break from soil. The foliage draws near,
longing to lean on my lean denim foil. Sampling, saving,
the branches converge:  leaf learning flesh,
thorn tracing wheal. Tendrils, recoiling, in one motion merge.
So real they feel…in ghastly waves they ache my way,
reeking sweet patchouli, seaming scrub and sky.
Merely dreams…clearly dreams are they!
Rounding my limbs, reaching my heart,
they tremble, start, surrender and die.
High overhead, a lone rider wheels;
her mask, like mine, the pallor of bone.
No path, no pale…no surface have I—
none beyond the fog that chides
the chatter of my heels. The canopy reels
where I walk alone.

Slay me where the sunlight bleeds, burn me where she dies. Turn my bones in hallowed hearths, where horror’s hand recedes.

Day is remade:
No one sees her flames run like beetles,
dashing rock to rock, crafting soot of hemoglobin.

Day is unmade:
No one hears her screams
take the elders in their dreams,
and none can know her timeworn scheme
of roaches, flies, and lullabies,
of pointless babies primed and plumped
on useless prayers and curdled cream.

Written as fools were we, from the moment our coding
was spat from the sea. Targets and tools, contused and confused—
bungling, begging, bumbling ******* all;
ridden like mules, abused till we fall.
Off in the dimness, the dark curtains part.
A rider appears, his steed mailed in stone.
No cross, no creed…no ballast have I—
none beyond the emptiness
that weighs upon my heart. The deep shadows start
where I walk alone.





Copyright 2019
contact Ron Sanders at:

ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com