When You Are Old

Leszek Paradowski

                                  Photograph Credits: Leszek Paradowski 

When You Are Old by William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


Scars Set in Stone

corfu 3

Scars Set in Stone by Maria Fokas

Just because you buried our journey
Does not make it disappear
Just because you have forsaken me
Does not mean you never loved me
That I have succumbed to defeat
Does not mean I wanted to leave
Your silence never depicted indifference
As my smile did not prove a trace of hope

Of stories which trouble the heart
In words which sicken the soul
Everywhere an abundance of woe:
A half-finished love affair bound to crucifixion
A misdeed triggered to destroy a kind gesture
A deserted dream to leverage false sense of balance
Courage disintegrates in glass boxes of loose ties
Day races by as night pricks through the cracks of dawn

Oh, but to deny one’s place in this world
That would be the greatest crime of all

© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved/Photograph by Maria Fokas [Paleokastritsa – Corfu]

The Passion of a Writer’s Pen

The Passion of a Writer's Pen

The Passion of a Writer’s Pen by Maria Fokas

A sword to pierce my heart for every tide
I spit out a raw escape in a gasp of thought
To mark specks of profound recklessness
To feel the bleeding heartbeat of my fingertips
To taste the dread of a struggling shadow
To hear the whispering force of a lover’s birth
To lose oneself in every re-crossing sunset
A dream of the world; a gush of raging grace
From original light to final darkness
Stories bound to a hope of existence;
My cry for life –

© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved – Artwork: Whatever I see by WeirdSam/Abstract Photography

[A project for Matthew Chikono]

The Sword

The Sword

The Sword by Maria Fokas

My mind in helpless roam
Antique dreams and harp whispers;

Between losing and winning
Hearts wintered in leaves that float ashore
Shallow rays of dizzy lights –
Mirrored in the dead of night

I close my eyes again;
The sword falls from my hand

A word sharper than a sword
Before we turn to stone.

© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved / Image: Gladiaotor/Warrior Stock

Wheel of Fortunes


Wheel of Fortunes by Maria Fokas

I woke up this morning; what a grand thing, to make it through the night.
In all generalities, abstractions, and summaries, I can hear the ticking of life: The touch, the scent, and the taste of you, woven in my fairytales – And there, lies the generality of beauty – And there, lies the abstraction of love. Sketched in the mother of time; the secrets of our fate.

© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved  –  Art Photography by Julie-de-Waroquier

The Flame

Pyromaniac by smallvillian

The Flame by Maria Fokas

Like an Empress of Time, the Flame distorts the mind, dancing her seductive dance, as the wood crackles with each breath. But who keeps track of what is lost, as time goes by. The walls kindle in deep maroon, and time stands still again, then disappears into a darkness, and I dream of impossible things; of distant oceans, under the seas, with gentle crests of endless waves. Soft ripples that caress the sand, then retrieve back into the sea with a soft melody – hidden in the stir of the flame:

In a world far away from here
I look beyond the deep blue sea
And as the sun sets,
I light a fire with dreams and desires
And I wait in silence, for your return 

Everything begins to fade away –

Silence, with its many masks,
Claims to know the truth.
But after all the time we bore,
You and I should know,
That silence with its cunning smile
Never spoke, of promises worthwhile.


 Photo Credits: Pyromaniac by Smallvillian

In The Wake

Whispers of Love

In the Wake by Maria Fokas

Your hand was not mine to hold, nor my lips, yours to kiss –
But in that world, I held your hand, and you kissed my lips.

Through a dark current; you drew in a path;
An epiphany soared within a gush of promises.
And before me, a wraithlike image distracts my wake.

Unbidden streams of clauses – lacing bare-scented gestures.
I render the smile in your eyes, the accent in your voice,
And everything you claimed that was mine.

That path; deep-seated, between the distance of land and sea;
How unfortunate that temporal beings must love within limits.

Yes; you were there, in the stroke of a dream.
A salient motif; whispers of love – and I relish to recall.


Photo Credits:

House of Pain

 House of Pain by Maria Fokas

 In the house of pain the music plays softly.

There are books scattered in every corner of each room.

The lights are always dimmed but the scented candles never lit.

There is writing on the walls: Beware things could be Worse –

In the house of pain no one complains about silly things like the taste of food.

A stormy day is one when we do not listen,

The hour of fun is one when we do not speak.

In the house of pain there are no cries in the middle of the night –

No one gets down on their knees and we all forgive our enemies.

In the house of pain we have many visitors but no one stays too long –

But there was one I recall; he said,

“Let me in, and kiss me” – And he stayed for the whole day.

© Maria Fokas 2014 /All Rights Reserved

Fierce Waves

Fierce Waves

Fierce Waves by Maria Fokas

The salty hardness of the waves,

devoured her bare legs

as she plunged into their calling.

It is a blessing when the mood of the sea

can quench her thirst,

and soothe that burning desire

when he is away.


The Shadow of the Former Self

The Shadow of the Former SelfThe Shadow of the Former Self By Martin Hanley

The shadow of the former self is out there now forever seeking. The sitter seated accused amused is forever longing for pastures fleeting. Through pain and torment to save your soul, a spoken law is a hidden roll. The blood that speaks, two hearts that whisper; a golden crown for night’s own sister. All masks removed, all races run for now is the echo of a passing sun. It was never who we truly were but, who could listen and break the mold. And although that orb still shines all day, still the hazel moon catches its final ray.

Dedicated to my friend ‘Sextus The Pythagorean’

Copyright ©Martin Hanley: June 21st 2014