Unwritten

Coffee cup on my notebook

words in my head

tiny light to fill the darkness

as the owl in me

waits for the new arrival

of your suitcase

with fresh linens

exchange the old ones. 

You behind the camera lens

a kiss trembling from our lips

give me something to still

the moment

but the poetry sucks

me in like a vortex

leads me to that place

we can only see

no one is there

but us

writing and rewriting

our story

erasing

and creating 

pretending it never happened

while my body and soul 

cries how my essence is yours

as pure as my blood

it needs you 

to drive the force

deep inside.

Walk away fast

ignore me

I’m too weak for you. 

I knew you would go first. 

 


I woke up

drowning in your words

choking on every comma

pause, and period. I write

purely from where I see 

you. I cannot write half-

truths, or lies. You push

me now and I am up against

a wall.

Two lips waiting for your

next move

when I see how your eyes

turn away from mine

while I stare into them

to lose my own sight. 

I need you to start all over again

to begin the begin

because when I think I can do it

I feel myself dive

into the ocean

forgetting how to swim

among the sharks

ready to pounce. 

At the end of the story

it feels like the beginning. 


Conditions

Don’t lean against me,
I will fall
under your weight. I know
less than you. You are too
smart for me.
I make them laugh, while
deep, I cry.
I think
it’s some kind
of mental illness, he says.
I saw it on Dr. Oz,
he continues, you laugh
and cry too easily,
it’s a fucking condition.
I thought it was just my poetic
soul, I say.
Cut that crap, and let’s drink tea.
Your body is a wonderland, he says.
You know I love you
all crying and all laughing.
I don’t know what lies I should write
or
what truths
or how he always gets his way.


Waiting

Waiting for everyone to read my eyes. No one sees. The day is halfway finished and you have entered my thoughts like caffeine in my blood. I see the sun and think about how it warms your face. I feel you deep inside of me even when I don’t want to. Prose is like a techno beat non-stop in my mind, to see past the notes, past the haunting memories, past the car crash, the drowning, the renaissance. I close my eyes and breathe in your words to spurt forth my own.


Hanging on a boy’s arm

The day has become the night

enter the man

who reads me

creates me 

into his favorite female character

I waver, fall

over his words. Tripping

over them, bumping

my head at this catastrophe

of a situation. Bending

my will to further explore

the bottle of booze

empty at my feet

as I contemplate breaking

the glass

that holds no answers

to my never-ending pursuit

of the imagination. 


Silence

In the silence 

you set me free

among the wolves

you should know

my weakness

is all of you

your faults

your power

that tie me to you.

 

You can fill up the empty space

around me

when I am alone

of in a room full of people.

 

You showed me the way

to my soul

the path

was filled

with debris

fainted curses

hollowed promises

yet there you stood

with nothing but

a bouquet of words.

 

You shouldn’t interpret my silence

the wrong way

I still want to teach you

everything I know.

Still I see clearly

that in my soul

there lies a name

only I can read

and a face

I have never seen.

When I heard those songs

I thought how they were written

for us

and crying and driving

instead of texting and driving

is safer.

 

All I need is a shot of whiskey

to burn my soul.


pulled in every direction but yours

I want to hide under you

and cover myself

with your warm words

caress you with my hard prose

such a romantic fool

am I. 

Needing you 

as much as I need to breathe.

No one can have what you have.

I read the same sentence

switch pens

search for my muse

but he is not responding

he thinks I run away

that I fall among the cracks of my youth.

I wanted to be there and surprise you

as you leaned against the marble

checked your watch

violin strings remind me of that moment. 

And then it explodes. I search

for you in every man’s face

my hope bent her head

avoided every man in the room

who was not you. The lights 

in the street brought out

the truth. The poet in me

loves the poet in you.

 


Althia’s Awakening

“Althia’s Awakening” is based on true events in the life of a Montreal fashion model. A spiritually aware girl in a self-centered world, Althia uses her gut instinct and street smarts, along with numerous experiences from her Greek family, to guide her through the darkest pit of self-abuse to the light of universal acceptance. Uncanny clairvoyant talents and a generous heart make her the envy of her “friends” and coworkers. She is a pioneering woman of the New Age!

“Althia’s Awakening” recounts a spiritual awakening that moves through the challenges of sexual desire, drug abuse, family secrets, death, revenge, and mystery. This awakening begins when Althia begins seeing herself as different from her party-going, drug-snorting friends; she is faintly aware of “energies” given off by other people and begins putting this awareness to use. What is this feeling? How does she cope with it and the people around her? Where does it come from? These are the questions she must find answers to.

Through it all, Althia falls in love, rediscovers her connection to a universal God, and learns to love herself for who she is.

“Althia’s Awakening” is the first volume in a trilogy that weaves together a story within the glamorous and often tragic world of fashion models. It leads readers on a moral and spiritual adventure that will keep them spellbound.(less)

by Zaharoula Sarakinis and Christina Strigas


Ode to Venice

Your brick walls
encompass me
your water protects me
your bridges connect me
barred wrought iron windows
keep me trapped inside your walls.
Grey is the color of your skin
erosion all over your concrete
tiny rectangles shining the light.
Scent of garlic, basil, rosemary
invading my senses.
Words like amore, amici, bella,
ringing my ears
gondolas gliding with my dreams
floating around your paths.
At times, it is dark here
between the two walls
a white bridge leading me
to my gelatos, cannolis, bacis.
You are ever so strong
timeless
magical in your man-made creation
waterways of loneliness
picture-taking wonders,
snapshots of your ever-lasting beauty
images of you around the world.
No picture can capture
what my eye beholds before me.
Churches are magnets
attracting followers
like no person can or ever will.
You have been fought over
like Helen
been destroyed like Marilyn
but you are the constant survivor

a rebel
your own concrete soul
people adore you
protect you.

You are a city
where painters paint
and writers write
discover their muse
where music is created
opera renowned.

The more I look at you
the more I see
the more mysterious you remain.


Stop

Quiet my voice
with your arrows,
longing thoughts.
Limit my vocabulary
to your desire.
I will see no horizon,
sooner or later,
I vow that I will not look
at you. You must stop
the charade. Cease.
Love is not one way.
I am a fool; I am not a fool.
I will adhere, kind sir,
my pride is on this page
rearing its head,
sticking out its tongue,
aggravating you.
No kisses, nor touches
in this poem.
You will not like it,
as hard as you try,
for I have a way of exiting
with grace. I am the one
to go first and last.

I hope you hate this poem.


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