ISLAND PLEA

What more can I give you? You have all that I am. You have all that I can give. I am the past and I am now, I am the future in you. My earth’s secrets deep hidden here and now, how can I explain the longevity of sorrow and pain, of foreign conquests and monuments imposed, of pillage and rape. I had a heart, sweet citrus blood, copper veined, tremors shocked my land and all but now my voice, recoils in passive voices. In simplicity are my needs, to be loved, respected and enjoyed. How much can I bear with you? You who spawn my energies, what more can I give you? You have all that I am. You have all that I can give.

 

THIS LAND BENEATH MY FEET

This land beneath my feet, this air I breathe, the early morning sun falls, my face receives rays of heat. I gasp once more the land that gave birth to me. Limestone hills strike through the day and light up the evening sky. Saintly olive trees silently grow waiting to present their faithful harvest, want and free to all.

Women gossip yesterday’s life stories. Black widows pour venomous scorn on neighbours infidelity, though sweet embrace are theirs between. The bells call to prayer. Black and gold slowly walk to Byzantium’s heart. Beyond one thousand sun’s, the mighty, high kings and queens, the poor and lowly come to quench their needs from The One, giver of life and dispenser of death. This Mediterranean isle, nestled in the hollow of Bible black orthodoxy.

Here, scorched on the faces of men, a cavernous and binding oath, whatever may be, the church grows old. Together, one day we shall all be told answers yet unspoken and yet unforeseen. Akrotiria and Kheriattia of ages past sunken deep of earth, life locked in secret history. Thousand years past gone of villages and fires, krators of wine, helmets and swords, tombs and offerings, now yield their crucial memories.

This land beneath my feet, this air I breathe, the early morning sun falls gentle on my face. I gasp once more the land that gave birth to me.

 

NOT NOW – FOR MY TURN IS YET TO BE

How long must I wait? How long is the waiting, waiting? What pain is there to bear in me? For too long ago a stranger I have been, unknown, fearful and mourning the land created in me.

They came, made their mark upon my face and in my heart conquering warriors, battle torn Theft of regard and lovers of disrespect. My soul pains how small and pitifully weak I am.

With what measures of offence have I now to face my enemy? Where is my strength, subdued, thin as cold, vaporised as either, torn as flesh. Yet my strength is not vanquished but abide still strong. Forests and mountains, plains and coast, garment of sea wrapped safe. Is my fortitude alone. It is my only strength.

Now widow black beckons on the day, strong hands turn olives to oil, wheat to bread and milk to cheese. Lust for love, anger to friendship and hatred to peace, but who still now, will hear my voice. Stolen land to barter, spiritual homes anesthetised, Byzantine dashed, broken and dismayed with indignation. They came at night, devil thieves, plagued my flesh with inhumanity, beleaguered of treacherous voices, wrought torment of my hope.

Who will write my epitaph? Who will sign for me? Yet know this, my day has further time, I am not yet done. More than flesh, greater than armies, there is strong life more in me. Who will write my epitaph for me? Who will sign for me? Not now for my turn is yet to be.

 

PASHCA (EASTER)

Limestone white breaks the mid-day sun, gather the sudden rain, capture’s life blood, fields of yellow in preparation of Pascha, nestling flocks raising their young. Island Spring, pregnant in form, edges slowly once again for resurrection. All hail creations bloom for that great day

When we all cry, “Christos Anesti”.

In the dead of night, silent motionless, waiting the darkness of the earth, sudden momentous crashing, violent knocking, loud, loud the people awake, flee’s the darkness, let the light shine, shouting, “Kalos Pashca” once more for we are not dead but alive. All island people’s celebrate God’s breath once more, gathering for festive jubilation, for this is their blood, none can deny.

It is their destiny, their island life

 

ON LEAVING

This land that gave birth to me, this land beneath my feet, saw my first light on Kypros Isle, walked my first steps, bare foot innocence. And yet now, since ages past, here I tread again this my birth land, clothed of age and touch the ancient customs, feel the warmest sun, drink the mountain stream and give thanks in Byzantium’s heart. But miles must I travel, grieving heavy heart on leaving, can I ever forget this land that gave birth to me. Only He that mountains moves can make me forget, no, I am that soil, that ingrained rock of Aphroditi’s breast suckled me.

Now. I must pass, rendered painful decisions, return to ones promised in love and eternity, honor of their lives, duty of me. But will there be time for me once more to taste olive oil on bread, sun baked tomatoes, baklava sweet or sacred song of liturgy. I will see you again, I will return for half a heart functions not so well. Remember me, sweet land, lover of my soul, giver of life, this, my solitary isle.

 

IDENTITY

Is it ever too late? To understand, waiting, the waiting for the moment, waiting just for that spark, for that glint of light, that small still sound imperceptible yet so gently heard before.

In this body mine, this head, this mind of memories made, that soul of heart and flesh wrought

The who I am, the figure they see. The person I am they know but as for me, is it ever to late?

Torn, wrenched, pulled apart some division that should not have been. Small of stature small of not yet eight years. More than two thousand miles distance, alien land of alien languages, little pink puffed faces, shouting, taunting threatening eyes and fists, screeching words, pushing, laughing, baiting my bewildering, confused and dazed senses and sensibilities.

Welcome little man little brown boy, this is your new land, home for so o so many years yet to pass through me. Don’t run away where there’s nowhere now, just be, hide, resist, struggle and never show your hurt for it may all be over soon, if you don’t lose your head – little boy!

A far distant cry of olive green, summer suns in freedom fields, orange mandarin, succulent red grape mouth sweetening gadiffee mother brings, now, soulless bleached mashed potatoes and

tinned pears in diluted syrup, with bread and butter ! But where is this edible hell at last to be? No, it’s not here, this is not to be, no not here, fog and mist, shivering winter cold, rain and wind. Descend, descend and fall washing away memories in childhood dreams.

 

CAN THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE?

So, its come to this, Is this the end then? Is there nothing else? Can there be anything else? Who knows, there could be more, More bad to come, I don’t know if I can take anymore

Its so humiliating, so bloody awful. There is nothing, just a black hole that I look into and see nothing. Man, that’s so mean and bad, it’s scaring, Seething with rage on broken glass, Failed attempts, failed attempts because, that’s all there ever was.

The living with consequences strips away my flesh, scours my eyes, Burns my heart and lets me think of going away, going away for ever. Is there anything else? Can there be anything else? Maybe this is all there is.

Where is the home that once was? Can I stand with my children, uphold them in need? How dare you call me father! What father does nothing? Call me worthy, maybe in the world to come. You have nothing to give because emptiness is in your soul.

Sleepless and nerving nights Lying awake in nights torment for fear of living. Living if only there was a home, a settled and safe secure. Romanei, moving on and on, only to be settled when in clover. Is there anything else? Can there be anything else? Maybe this is all there is.

Please, with apologies but that’s nothing, that’s not enough. It’s just not enough. It’s late now and it’s cold The wind blows harshly, it cuts through, Cuts through to the bone. Time is closing by and it’s calling for me, maybe its time to go. But not now, too much, too many faces in

my head following me. Maybe later what has been left undone will always be undone. Love is not enough. It cant be enough. Short sighted and blind at times, Time has passed and nothing has changed. Dead in my shoes, clothed in regret. And all for what, for whom? Is there anything else? Can there be anything else? Maybe this is all there is. No, just wait a little longer, wait and see true identity arises from ashs and dust, a phoenix reborn, epiphanic overwhelming surprise of newness in life life-life-life.