spiritual growth




Sweet-scented air,

In that flawless darkness.

Forever blazing wild;

Across the marauder sky.

A pulse in the break of quiet,

Of summer sadness hum.

Sweet-scented air,

Between the folds of game.

Cities with dimmed lights,

Fading away.

Sweet-scented air,

In my suspended hour.

Photo by: light-in-the-darkness | Source of Inspiration

Everything and Nothing – Day Two

eternal love 2

Thought of the Day by Maria Fokas

A Stolen Childhood 

Does life repeat itself? In the news this morning, I heard that bullying is now a criminal offense, but in the States, all those years ago, it wasn’t. No one likes talking about having been bullied. Sharing moments of being degraded is seldom comforting. Maybe it’s difficult to talk about things we believe we have no control over. Hearing the news brought back a memory; not as cruel in comparison to many stories out there, but to a nine-year old, there is no such thing as a comparison to a worse story.

My story has to do with a clan of three, and stones. For a long time, walking home from school was terrifying. When those stones hit my body, it would feel like bee-stings; I even pretended that they were – but what stung the most was their mocking giggles. They wanted me to cry, but I never gave them that. So many times, I wanted to turn around and face them, to ask them why, but I never did. And when I’d arrive home, my mother would always ask me the same question, and my reply would always be, “Fine” – And on random days, I wondered; which part was my fault.

Most people describe their childhood as the golden years. Does such a time exist? For me, it was a time I wanted to escape from; and although I went on to Junior-high, to become an all-star athlete, those detrimental moments built walls which never came down.

To a child, the first years of their life seems to drag on forever; We cannot assume that they’ll eventually ask for help. Children are not a miniature version of us; they live in a different world, which they eventually grow out of. And if you believe that their future is essentially determined by the University they’re accepted into, I beg to differ.

Catalytic moments: Go back; a child is creating sentences to discover meanings in an overwhelming world. Go back; a child can only feel their worth by looking into the eyes of others. Go back; your child cannot find the words to tell you that they are ashamed.

So it’s not when they’re choosing the majors of their University degrees which determines their future; it’s when you’re holding their hand as they’re struggling to belong to a world they don’t understand.

– Life doesn’t have to repeat the parts that are broken.

Everything and Nothing – Day One

Eternal love 6

Thought of the Day by Maria Fokas

Happiness Abound

A simple thought I woke up to today. . . If you are not happy alone, you will probably never be happy with anyone else. A relationship is not meant to cater your wants, or to fill any black holes others may have scarred you with. A relationship is meant to celebrate the senses of life in the most imaginative ways, as you share yourself with another human being – to create paths together where there were none before – Now, that sounds like happiness! Let’s suppose this is the secret to every successful relationship, and see what happens; what do you think? Does it sound like I know what I’m talking about? Well, just for the record . . . I know nothing.


© Maria Fokas/March 6th 2016/All Rights Reserved –

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]

Soul Mate

Soul mate

Soul Mate by Maria Fokas

“Eat, Pray, Love: A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mate’s purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master… – Elizabeth Gilbert”

Yes Elizabeth, it is all those things; But a soul mate who leaves, cannot be privileged with such a name. A soul mate is the soul which was ripped from you a moment in time, never to be remembered. An empty void awaits to be embraced, to be caressed, to be redeemed by the part of you who searches through eternity to reclaim that first breath together; before you were separated.

Once that comes to pass, there is no need to keep searching; to question what your soul has always known – And no amount of pain, or obstacles will tear you apart; not because you can endure the hardships; not because you don’t want to flee at times, but because without them nothing makes sense: The days are heavy; the distance between you troubles your hearts.

So you see Elizabeth; a soul mate that eventually leaves was never a soul mate to begin with: Maybe a friend; maybe someone searching to be found, or to be lost, but never a soul mate. In a world where dignity is losing its sense of grace; where significance is being drained by wasted time; It is the presence of your soul mate which renders a truth to purpose; their presence, even in their absence; and not their leaving.

© Maria Fokas 2015/All Rights Reserved – Illustration Graphic Design by Maria Fokas

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 Black Rose

The Black Rose

The Black Rose by Maria Fokas

Once upon a time, there was a Rose, who would come to live in the memories of others.

It started with a human hand planting a seed. The Rose and the hand were unique. No two entities could have been more diverse, but there was one thing they both shared, and that was their need to exist. So, the hand knowing that time was running out, decided to plant a seed which was predestined to becoming a Black Rose. And as the hand nurtured this seed into being, the Rose came to know life.

The Nurturer was gone, not long after. The Rose was heartbroken for a very long time, but it survived. Many visitors chanced upon its beauty as the seed kept coming back, only to descend into the soil again. And as the cycle of eternity endured, the Rose would yearn for its Nurturer, not knowing why it had been deserted. And during that time, the Rose would wonder about its purpose. Then one day, its unbearable pain chose to forget. And with this escape, a comforting thought came into being: What if the hand was actually another Rose?

Unimaginable at first, but this strange and breathtaking revelation began to grow within the Rose: if I was created by another Rose, than I too can create one of my own, it thought. The Rose, being captivated by this discovery, chose never again to dwell on absurdities with no graspable explanations.

In the end, it was grateful to that One Rose which gave it hope. This memory, it would hold sacred forever after. And that would become the purpose of the Rose.


Photography by Ketmara


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

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: sirencallsmehome.tumblr.com