"mykonos" poems - Hello Poetry

White walls washed with winter mingle with a breeze born from ocean spray and wind sails. There is a smell here. Familiar, unique. It smells clean. There is a bugambilia tree in the center with arms outstretched like Moses a splash of pink that pitter patters through streets built by Dr. Seuss. Delectable delights demand your senses there is white on white, a deep white of many coats with white doors and white walls and white houses and white sand and white wine and white people next to the blue sea.

0

Feb 2, 2012

Feb 2, 2012 at 12:58 PM UTC

ian-webber

Mykonos

White walls washed with winter mingle with a breeze born from ocean spray and wind sails. There is a smell here. Familiar, unique. It smells clean. There is a bugambilia tree in the center with arms outstretched like Moses a splash of pink that pitter patters through streets built by Dr. Seuss. Delectable delights demand your senses there is white on white, a deep white of many coats with white doors and white walls and white houses and white sand and white wine and white people next to the blue sea.

15

Bone-white moon. Lacrimosa caught in the mechanisms. Can you see me? Of course not. I blend in with the sawgrass and the catacombs. With beach glass and stones the color of rust. I am a microcosm. Can you hear me? My tragedy is in the way I keep quiet. Silence like ashes. I am ethereal now. This is my requiem. Send my regards to Mykonos. Burn the screaming harp. I am subterranean now. Someday it will all turn to gold.

0

Nov 17, 2013

Nov 17, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC

cali

Send My Regards to Mykonos

Bone-white moon. Lacrimosa caught in the mechanisms. Can you see me? Of course not. I blend in with the sawgrass and the catacombs. With beach glass and stones the color of rust. I am a microcosm. Can you hear me? My tragedy is in the way I keep quiet. Silence like ashes. I am ethereal now. This is my requiem. Send my regards to Mykonos. Burn the screaming harp. I am subterranean now. Someday it will all turn to gold.

24

eye cantaloupe batshit Midas writer's iambic within usurp ender's egret wherewithal nearly Mykonos orangutan elsewhere eye dye.

0

Oct 19, 2015

Oct 19, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC

richard-j-heby

poem

eye cantaloupe batshit Midas writer's iambic within usurp ender's egret wherewithal nearly Mykonos orangutan elsewhere eye dye.

9

the puzzle of me is the puzzle of women, for they are me. even my children, men both, are the product of me-women. what a delightful miserable puzzle, running in a circle like a-dog-with-can-on-its-tail. I run run. I chase chase. I am pursued / pursue / pursued. and great joy in that shiny tin can, just can't quite be caught. cause if I got it, what then? I'd just kick that old dented piece of tin hearted-less man down a ***** black topped, summer city street. so does the puzzle's solution want for solving, in the not-knowing is the knowing women are me. they hold my answers, to what - to all - to I don't know. there are so many women. there is so much to know. so many solutions to the puzzle of me. ~~~ August 6, 1993 Mykonos, Greece

0

Mar 26, 2016

Mar 26, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Puzzle of Me: Aug. 6, 1993

the puzzle of me is the puzzle of women, for they are me. even my children, men both, are the product of me-women. what a delightful miserable puzzle, running in a circle like a-dog-with-can-on-its-tail. I run run. I chase chase. I am pursued / pursue / pursued. and great joy in that shiny tin can, just can't quite be caught. cause if I got it, what then? I'd just kick that old dented piece of tin hearted-less man down a ***** black topped, summer city street. so does the puzzle's solution want for solving, in the not-knowing is the knowing women are me. they hold my answers, to what - to all - to I don't know. there are so many women. there is so much to know. so many solutions to the puzzle of me. ~~~ August 6, 1993 Mykonos, Greece

37

Mykonos, 1969 I met you on a tourist island bright beneath the sun. I met you back when we were both in love with being young. I danced with you in an empty bar and looked into your eyes, for that only moment you get in life, I gazed into paradise. We wandered on together. We knew it wouldn't last. Our lives were much too different, no one escapes their past. I walked with you on the sand dunes, I walked with you in the rain, I walked with you in that instant before life dissolves into pain. Where are all those bright days gone, those days beside the sea, when the mystery of your freckles was mystery enough for me. That was nearly fifty years ago, but you know I love you still, for your innocence and your courage, at a distance, I always will. You taught me love and beauty, in a lovely, beautiful land, I've never quite let go of that, never quite let go of your hand.

0

Nov 29, 2016

Nov 29, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC

mike-essig

Smiling Aphrodite

Mykonos, 1969 I met you on a tourist island bright beneath the sun. I met you back when we were both in love with being young. I danced with you in an empty bar and looked into your eyes, for that only moment you get in life, I gazed into paradise. We wandered on together. We knew it wouldn't last. Our lives were much too different, no one escapes their past. I walked with you on the sand dunes, I walked with you in the rain, I walked with you in that instant before life dissolves into pain. Where are all those bright days gone, those days beside the sea, when the mystery of your freckles was mystery enough for me. That was nearly fifty years ago, but you know I love you still, for your innocence and your courage, at a distance, I always will. You taught me love and beauty, in a lovely, beautiful land, I've never quite let go of that, never quite let go of your hand.

29

What's so **** about a cigarette hanging out of your mouth and an old Russian book, a line of tiny sculptures Greek and Roman myths portrayed in stone? What's so thrilling about your old raincoat your umbrella stand the plaid, the plaid the sheets of all the papers that you wrote about Athena and Mykonos I can't take any more stone and plaid

0

Apr 28, 2015

Apr 28, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC

sarah-or-something

Stone and Plaid

What's so **** about a cigarette hanging out of your mouth and an old Russian book, a line of tiny sculptures Greek and Roman myths portrayed in stone? What's so thrilling about your old raincoat your umbrella stand the plaid, the plaid the sheets of all the papers that you wrote about Athena and Mykonos I can't take any more stone and plaid

25

I recently came across my first journal of poetry, written in my early forties. A tumultous time in my life, I kept a hand-written journal and the poems flowed. It began on a (recovery) escape~vacation to Mykonos and many other Greek islands. Unable to sail, (stuck on Mykonos by fierce winds that grounded even super tankers), I wrote to pass the time. Even then, I dated my poems, noting when & where the poem was composed. Themes were employed, that twenty years later, reappear (to my surprise) frequently, in my poems of today (by example, "The Wind of Correction"). Even then, I wrote long, way too long poems, some good and some awful ones. Judge this, one not too harshly, judge it as a first endeavor, simplistic, crude and heartfelt. What seems to have triggered poetry to be the outlet for my emotional upset, as a father of young children, in the midst of a bitter divorce, was a Greek poet, Cavafy, that I must have stumbled on during my visit and a particular poem he wrote in 1908. I include it the notes in shock and awe, for it unconsciously informed my "style" and seemingly, or unseemingly, still does. The Geometery of Greece (His Very First Poem) ~~~ the geometry of Greece is the perfect intersection of clear blue sky, right-angled to azure waters, with puffs of white clouds to mark off distances only the wind is non-linear, like feelings, the wind, it washes and caresses you, envelopes and wraps you in its totality what it all means is this: all that I know, all that I love, have, got and given, is leaking and pouring and leaking from the rectangular shape what I now know as, now call, my previous life so now, the winds of my true self direct me on a course that can be plotted but one day, one island ahead no long range planning on the sailing waters of Greek isles, the wind does not permit it the perfect line of the horizon is not anymore a limiting boundary rather, the sourcing place from which the wind comes, that buffets, to and fro throws, carries me forward, and ever backwards too this horizon line that I sail towards, neither marks nor closes in, it is always there, to be sailed to, ever anew, to renew ~~~ August 6, 1993 Noon the Isle of Mykonos

0

Jan 21, 2016

Jan 21, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

August 6, 1993 (His Very First Poem)

I recently came across my first journal of poetry, written in my early forties. A tumultous time in my life, I kept a hand-written journal and the poems flowed. It began on a (recovery) escape~vacation to Mykonos and many other Greek islands. Unable to sail, (stuck on Mykonos by fierce winds that grounded even super tankers), I wrote to pass the time. Even then, I dated my poems, noting when & where the poem was composed. Themes were employed, that twenty years later, reappear (to my surprise) frequently, in my poems of today (by example, "The Wind of Correction"). Even then, I wrote long, way too long poems, some good and some awful ones. Judge this, one not too harshly, judge it as a first endeavor, simplistic, crude and heartfelt. What seems to have triggered poetry to be the outlet for my emotional upset, as a father of young children, in the midst of a bitter divorce, was a Greek poet, Cavafy, that I must have stumbled on during my visit and a particular poem he wrote in 1908. I include it the notes in shock and awe, for it unconsciously informed my "style" and seemingly, or unseemingly, still does. The Geometery of Greece (His Very First Poem) ~~~ the geometry of Greece is the perfect intersection of clear blue sky, right-angled to azure waters, with puffs of white clouds to mark off distances only the wind is non-linear, like feelings, the wind, it washes and caresses you, envelopes and wraps you in its totality what it all means is this: all that I know, all that I love, have, got and given, is leaking and pouring and leaking from the rectangular shape what I now know as, now call, my previous life so now, the winds of my true self direct me on a course that can be plotted but one day, one island ahead no long range planning on the sailing waters of Greek isles, the wind does not permit it the perfect line of the horizon is not anymore a limiting boundary rather, the sourcing place from which the wind comes, that buffets, to and fro throws, carries me forward, and ever backwards too this horizon line that I sail towards, neither marks nor closes in, it is always there, to be sailed to, ever anew, to renew ~~~ August 6, 1993 Noon the Isle of Mykonos

61

I can't escape my fantasies Not sure I want to I exist in many places I exist all over What is reality In a world that functions off the arbitrary? Am I my day job? Am I pumping gas at the same station on the corner near my house twice a week? Is my life one extended motion of muscle memory? Or am I purely spirit Soaking up the sun on Mykonos Kicking up dust in the Paris catacombs Staring up at the basilica of the Hagia Sophia? Maybe I can't escape my fantasies Because they are real

0

Aug 7, 2017

Aug 7, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC

piratedreams

Traverse

I can't escape my fantasies Not sure I want to I exist in many places I exist all over What is reality In a world that functions off the arbitrary? Am I my day job? Am I pumping gas at the same station on the corner near my house twice a week? Is my life one extended motion of muscle memory? Or am I purely spirit Soaking up the sun on Mykonos Kicking up dust in the Paris catacombs Staring up at the basilica of the Hagia Sophia? Maybe I can't escape my fantasies Because they are real

19

The sea was a shade of the deepest blue, the waves, moved by strong winds made thousands of white strokes, as if touched by a painter at work, a seagull, with black tipped wings flies in the sky, home to the sun, reflecting upon the ocean the brightest shade of pure diamond, touching my feet, clear and the bringer of colorful stone treasures, I allowed the waters to take me over, I closed my eyes, within my heart and soul, still it echoed, the endless music of the waves, asking for my embrace and calling me to the tides, moving as the heavens through my hands as I wander in my mind amongst the bird in flight

0

Jan 9, 2018

Jan 9, 2018 at 7:02 AM UTC

hiba-mohammed-sobh

Mykonos

The sea was a shade of the deepest blue, the waves, moved by strong winds made thousands of white strokes, as if touched by a painter at work, a seagull, with black tipped wings flies in the sky, home to the sun, reflecting upon the ocean the brightest shade of pure diamond, touching my feet, clear and the bringer of colorful stone treasures, I allowed the waters to take me over, I closed my eyes, within my heart and soul, still it echoed, the endless music of the waves, asking for my embrace and calling me to the tides, moving as the heavens through my hands as I wander in my mind amongst the bird in flight

49

Mykonos, 1969 - for H.M. "Memory is a kind of accomplishment," - William Carlos Williams Forty-five years later I still see you standing on that dazzling Greek beach wearing nothing but your bikini bottoms and an innocent grin. A vision like that can last a man a lifetime. Where are you now smiling Venus? Where am I? ~mce

0

Aug 30, 2015

Aug 30, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC

mike-essig

In Memory Yet Green

Mykonos, 1969 - for H.M. "Memory is a kind of accomplishment," - William Carlos Williams Forty-five years later I still see you standing on that dazzling Greek beach wearing nothing but your bikini bottoms and an innocent grin. A vision like that can last a man a lifetime. Where are you now smiling Venus? Where am I? ~mce

16

We touched antiquities... as relics in memories... in poetically sorrowful times... gobbling... Thessaloniki, Kalabaka, Patka, Mykonos, Delos, Santorini climes Stood whereon Paul preached... Phillip's Alexander lived to die... far before Lord Byron romanticized Ferried blue and white seas... flapping blues and whites in skies Prowled upon Holstein grounds... amongst surreal beings, windmills, cats, drifting sails and olive pounds Whilst grasping threads of life... with love's memories... losing all to time © 2023 Jim Davis

0

Oct 2, 2023

Oct 2, 2023 at 10:58 AM UTC

jbdvet75

Hellenistic

We touched antiquities... as relics in memories... in poetically sorrowful times... gobbling... Thessaloniki, Kalabaka, Patka, Mykonos, Delos, Santorini climes Stood whereon Paul preached... Phillip's Alexander lived to die... far before Lord Byron romanticized Ferried blue and white seas... flapping blues and whites in skies Prowled upon Holstein grounds... amongst surreal beings, windmills, cats, drifting sails and olive pounds Whilst grasping threads of life... with love's memories... losing all to time © 2023 Jim Davis

16

warm mediterranean slapping seas crash up against the asphalt wall whipping red wine soaked table cloths tamed by wobbly carafes spilling over the winding bolognese stained cobblestone Marvel at the windmills beneath an animated sky Time ceased to exist as the two, were absorbed into the surreal romance of their first kiss...

0

Jan 1, 2021

Jan 1, 2021 at 2:56 AM UTC

SCHEDAR

mykonos

warm mediterranean slapping seas crash up against the asphalt wall whipping red wine soaked table cloths tamed by wobbly carafes spilling over the winding bolognese stained cobblestone Marvel at the windmills beneath an animated sky Time ceased to exist as the two, were absorbed into the surreal romance of their first kiss...

15