“Sometimes a poem is just what’s on the page.”

~ A. T.

Painting by RenΓ© Magritte

Happy belated birthday to a teacher who taught me the simplicity in a world enraptured by complexity.


The Glass Conundrum |Pt. 1

Part 1: No Exodus

The walls are closing in.

The air in your lungs is thrusting against your ribs, trying to get out.

Your head is dizzy and you are having a hard time standing strong and standing still and standing.

You fall.

And as you fall you take your hopes down with you, down on your knees, as if in prayer, as if in pleading, perhaps for forgiveness, perhaps for mercy.

Pleading hopes? Yes, but for whom? An unworldly villain? A higher power, a God?

No. Your body and hopes are pleading in front of mind and soul, trying to find a way out of their guilt and pain and sorrow labyrinth, that seems to have no end.

Merry Christmas

Christmas Eve. Cold night, but the sky is clear and the smell of rain has been substituted by the smell of burning wood in every fireplace of the city.

You are wondering what you are doing. Alone, in the darkness of your empty living room, with the space heater right in front of you (,no fireplace). The Christmas’ lights are gleaming on the old, short Christmas tree, that has started to bend towards the one side. What are you doing? At the prime of life, in an inane scan through the brand new books on your library or the shows on TV, what are you doing?

You look around. There is a comfort, sitting on the pillow on the floor, thinking of nothing in particular, and everything all at once, there is a comfort to it.

How lonesome, though, that comfort must be, at a time like this? Truly lonesome, when you blink away the fears, and curse the silence in whispers, and bulge the eyes desperately searching for meaning around an empty, empty room. Are you alone?

The clock strikes midnight. You no longer pay attention to the sound of the hands, never ceasing, tick and tack. You miss it. Past midnight. Oh, look. It’s tomorrow.

Merry Christmas.


Remember when we use to gasp at the sound of thunder. Then laugh at the sound of rain.

Running through drained of people cities and towns, remember when we used to open our arms to the skies’ desires?

Remember when the pain of existence was not excruciating?

When the knees were always scraped, but worked perfectly for running away from the darkness and the fears and the cynicism of the world.

Oh, remember when discovery was the Heart’s Quest, and not the Brain’s burden? When dirt on our clothes was evidence of the Hunt for fantasy, not a reason to wash them.

Please. Remember when the world was not a weight on our shoulders. Remember.

Credit: Dimitris Letsios