seasons’ cries


surreal artworks by Christer

Rain-Drops by Maria Fokas

I peeked out of my window this morning at 6 am. It had been raining all night. The misty damp air said, “Get back in bed.” But I keep my eyes on the rain; where stories come from. It fervently thrums on roof-tops, and pavements; drip, drop, babble, drum  – accent on the tempo before another thrum.

I make myself some coffee; my lips tease the blend before I take that sip, then I click on the saxophone. I succumb to those sensual pictures from the late 1940s and 50s before my time. They did know much about the cries of art then. And 50 shades of grey was an elegant combination of vintage statements; not vitro realities of shallow special effects – which by the way – are not so special.

Looking out of my window again – those epic colors of initial beginnings, and into the future I thrust. A silver screen: My life flashes before my eyes, and I see you – what could have been; my heart breaks once again. The rain now absorbed into the buildings hovering over my window but inside my bedroom, there is a blend of spice and ocean hues scratching the surface of who I once used to be. All these things belonging to me; a temporary truth. The saxophone keeps playing, and the coffee keeps brewing in a simple room in the center of nowhere. Through the window, I reach out into an abandoned world; in shades of grey the sound of “Singing in the Rain,” a taste of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” and a longing for “The Glass Menagerie”.

Gray does not seem so grey now. I shut my eyes and I go: I’m in New York; not Wall Street New York, or Manhattan New York – I’m in those neighborhoods with dusty maroon buildings, dressed in black-metal-fire escapes twirling and twirling around their lifeless brick bodies – and I sip my coffee. The rain is tapping hard outside this venerable diner I find myself in; oh the stories it whispers in my ear. But I am distracted by faces rushing by, with no time to enjoy the touch of the raindrops.

I check my watch; time is on my side  – I assure myself. My hand fumbles inside my bag, for pen and paper. And then a premonition; A breath before it happens; unforeseen but inevitable. No! I haven’t started yet – this was not supposed to happen. But it all disappears. Everything fades away, disintegrating back into the world it came from.

Sunrays find their way into my room. The dream is gone.

© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved

Artwork Credit: Surreal artwork by Christer

My Heart’s Whisper

PHOTOGRAPH: Nadja Seale .Lily Bloom: éloge

My Heart’s Whisper by Maria Fokas

She caresses the strings of her burning thoughts,

Humming her secret in the midst of warm nights.

A note or two off beat of course – but unique in all its beauty.

Like the seasons’ cries,  she recounts her worries,

Searching for that one to keep.

She chants the letters of her lover’s name –

A few drops on autumn leaves.  

Then with time,

Fragile snowflakes – between the sky and me –

Descending – like expectations owed.

And with the final season,

She reclaims (the right) to love again.

And I ask her,  “Why so careless with your heart?”

A golden thread of hope appears –

Between the rhythm of blossomed hues.

She whispers in a voice of truth, “We only live once.”

 – A love affair with wings of freedom – has no choice but to fly.