UNCLE KARAS AND HIS SON

Uncle Karas has been sick for a few days;

his moustache drooped, wilted.

A Thessaly sundown drizzles in his eyes,

a Brallos cloud crawls on his forehead.

His arms, crossed on his chest, resemble

two cut spruces in the morning mist.

Uncle Karas has a son made of flint stone.

His son has two black pigeons hidden in his

         mended shirt

for this, sometimes his smile resembles a col

         after the rain

while a broom of rays sweeps the fresh grass 

and four buffalo and a colt with its light-blue

bead and bell graze in his eyes.

We hear this bell at dawn when uncle Karas’

son boils his father’s tea or when  he takes

his father’s hand and guides him to the sunshine.

This son wraps his old father in his woollen blanket,

tidies his bed, like a young shepherd cares for his

         old sheepdog

replenishes the water in the dog’s cup

gets off the ticks and thorns.

Uncle Karas is better now

since he hears that bell in his son’s eyes and

it’s because his son hears the bell of the evening star

         behind the mountains

it’s because we are all uncle Karas’s sons, his son’s

          brothers

it’s because we’re all comrades.

Every evening the shepherd’s bell rings in the tent

and the mountain bells echo under the tents  

and uncle Karas sleeps in peace

and we’re all peaceful

only Karas’s son leans over his old father

and lights the lamp of doves over the rocks of our sleep.

Uncle Karas, don’t be afraid of anything as long as

            this lamp keeps burning.

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Flame

Moth plays

with the flame of the candle

his fingers feathery sensation

touch her fiery skin

game of entering

and exiting begins

body heat entrapping

the unsuspected visitors

enamored moth

dancing with the flame

and his soft blow

onto her feminine lips

captivate moments as

the light breeze enters

to erase the mark his tongue

left on her clit

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Poem by Dionysios Solomos

MEMORY

Stop the melodious chords

of the guitar.  

They remind me of my youth

and grieving heart,

my youth that passed

so fast before me

and left behind

not one consoling thought.

The traitor only left

a wretched meditation

that expertly foretells 

the hour of my death.

Here is the eye that craves

to see the sun again,

here the mouth that yearns

to take its final breath.
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UNCLE MITSOS

Uncle Mitsos passed.

The flashlight of Virgin Mary lights

over his rough moustache.

Uncle Mitsos sacrificed his three sons to the struggle

and his hut and his grapevine;

uncle Mitsos had nothing left: he had sacrificed his life;

he had a joy too: his sons were members of the Party.

Uncle Mitsos had a sadness too: he wasn’t a member

           of the Party,

he never signed a confession paper. They killed him.

Uncle Mitsos passed

with a big red bird in his dream

with the holy talisman of the struggle sewed on the lining

          of his coat.

If we searched his pockets we may find

a small field of wheat ears and

the shade of a poplar next to the river.

In a knot of his kerchief he had kept his

wedding ring and a cut up piece of paper

with the announcement of his son’s execution.

Uncle Mitsos, tell your son to rest in peace

you know how to tell him with your accent

tell him to rest in peace; everything leads to where

          we’ve planned.

You don’t need much, just a little stirring of

           your moustache and

he’ll know. Goodbye uncle Mitsos.

He’ll understand. Goodbye uncle Mitsos.

Leave your cane here. We need it.

We’ll make a staff for our red flag;

uncle Mitsos rest assured, a fiery red flag.

Goodbye uncle Mitsos, the flag will be red

we tell you like the blood of your children

who the fascists killed, like the blood

of all the fighters of the world.

Goodbye uncle Mitsos

goodbye comrade uncle Mitsos, don’t worry

your application was accepted by the Party.

And the light was so bright today,

strong like the oath of our Revolution

that you swear once and forever.

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Lunacy

They died defending our freedom

the sentence reads

they fell defending our security

the other insists

lunacy of a nation on drugs

price of freedom the western way

peoples’ minds in overdrive

about God given rights

beyond the reach for most other

earthlings, words paint images

of heroism, sentences filling void

rightful right to subvert people’s

lives, sanctions, economic starvation

pivot

encircling the by chance enemy

lunacy of a nation on drugs

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Tree Stump

Tree stump soaking in lake water

eagle wonders if to or not to dive

and grab the lonely bass

loon calls his faithful mate

as you look at the expanse

of firmament while rain

soaks you like a dead stand

where the osprey swoons to dock

and breezes morph outlines

of shapes in lucent speculum

hooking the bait you toss your line

a delicate splash echoing

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