Through the Breaking
She stood between the cracks,
As far as she could see;
whistling out of reach.
Those beautiful clouds,
Could make any mess disappear. . .
© Maria Fokas/July 24, 2016 – Dublin/All Rights Reserved
The Chords of my Heart
From the back roads of my mind;
You tempt my heart to dance again.
You smiled, and said hello,
In the middle of nowhere.
And between the dark and the light,
The warmth of your touch –
Everything you are is new to me;
One more time;
The chords of my heart whisper.
Oh those blue eyes;
Hope in a starry night.
– Artwork: Henry Asencio
Thought of the Day by Maria Fokas
– Elizabeth Bishop wrote: “The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”
With so much losing every day, it seems that we should be accepting it as an inevitable end; but we rarely do. Every time we fall in love with a moment, a unique person, or that life long accomplishment, its fragile end is always near; it seems.
– But what exactly is it that we grieve; the moment, the person, the accomplishment; or is it ourselves within that loss? Everything we’ve ever loved, and lost, has shaped us into who we are. So there cannot be a complete loss in losing; I keep telling myself.
– I am grateful for War, and Love Poets; they take refuge in the pain of losing, knowing our lives depend on it. We plunge into those worlds and embrace the darkness. When it’s war, we mourn, and when it’s love, it’s a beautiful depiction of life. With their words, we realize that we are not alone in our losing; maybe, we even give meaning to our loss.
A Poet’s muse marks a moment by opposing every norm of its time; it elevates love as the essence of truth, rendering it more precious within the element of loss.
But, about this destined precious existence with an inevitable end; I don’t want to master this art of losing.
On blossomed branches,
Hummingbirds rest in the scented shade.
The soil is moist beneath my feet;
What an odd place to find myself –
No recollection of my treading here.
Though it is a time for mourning, neither cries, nor tears to proclaim.
A traveler has much ground to cover, and many regrets to misplace.
I should have stayed with my first certainty:
With no expectations, I would have been spared –
As mountain-tops squander their flawless spring waters,
Lovers ignore the passing of Time.
And with my end so near, I could have shared some truths;
Had it not been for my forgetfulness, to save me from my youth;
But I have always found comfort in soaring above the clouds.
© Maria Fokas/ March 4, 2016/All Rights Reserved
Sweet Silenced by Maria Fokas
The spaces we meet by chance; Sweet Silenced.
A beam, a weep, a spark glowing into the night,
[A glimpse of no end; up – side – down]
Reflections throb; I fade my eyes; a fragile gesture of might.
Trapped inside this deed: an Earnest unwavering day.
Shadows of seeded dreams, await that yearning.
Among those ardent Sorrows –
A gift of passing through; the everlasting Memory of you.
Photograph by Martin Hanley
The Bridge Across the Sea by Maria Fokas
On my death-bed, I say my last goodbye.
I do not utter his name; a forgiving tragedy;
And to his final question: I speak a lie.
I shall not shed another tear for the moments denied.
I shall not shed another tear for foolish twisted humanity –
I shall not shed another tear for that weakness to suppose.
Erase me from your past; . . . the years you have forsaken me –
Each genuine day;
Each generous hour;
A love I embraced: In pure desire, his lips I kissed –
Every bit of madness; the craziness that tempts the soul.
I took for caring: the longing, and the need –
Every plunge into the darkness of my fears;
The times we hid from that harsh world of ours;
The poetry they devoured; between our silence, and our words;
By your strife; my heart has turned to stone – Erase them all!
A fictitious reflection of me has passed away;
I did not utter his name, today.
I crossed the bridge; without his darkness in my arms;
I wish for no more time.
© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved/Photograph by Maria Fokas [Dublin]
Wandering Winds of Time by Maria Fokas
Put pen to paper; and carry the winds astray:
All that is here; will one day disappear; I heard them say.
So put pen to paper for untamed songs of love remembered:
Gaze upon the wandering sky; as if to paint its essence –
Remind me of that kiss in such restless rapture; when you were mine:
The whisper of your hidden thoughts; freeze that moment;
Tell me again, how you held my hand; though hope was gone.
Don’t let them say that we were fools to love!
Their craven twists of envy will dull away in time.
Put pen to paper, and let them all know!
Every feast we savored, was a spark to light our way.
Carry the winds of time, to no end:
Salvage our shattered dreams, from each alluring storm.
And in your precious words, fear not the thrill of doubt:
Though the gods were never on our side,
I was your muse, and you were mine;
In that brief moment of eternity.
© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved/Photograph by Maria Fokas [Dublin Sky]
[There is a pleasure in the pathless woods] George Gordon Byron
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.
We Have Not Long To Love
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