Occasional Chaos

Perfume

I couldn’t describe
the perfume you wore
when we were lovers
but I carry it with me
a well-worn scarf
now as faded as
the beach house we shared
that week in November.

The paths we chose
once crossing so perilously
are worn and distant
turning to dust
the ashes of our affair
carefully packaged
its story rewritten
by us and by time
softening desire’s sharp edges.

It’s better that way
Don’t you think so, too?
to remember the falling
and not the crash
believing we drifted apart
knowingly, consensually
to staunch the letting
of illicit abandon.

Buried in the stories
I still tell myself
beneath the weight of
growing old and apart
lies a longing as naked
as our first embrace 
intoxicating as those months of
reckless passion.

Now your memory rests
quietly in the shadows
I nudge it sometimes
just to watch it roll over
anticipating the times
no warning or wanting
your perfume drifts into
an unguarded mood
and in an instant
my heart breaks again.

Kami 

Most nights
when you slept beside me
my hand on your shoulder
your feet warming mine
there would come a moment
you’d suddenly twitch
and whisper from your shadows
“What’s happening?”

“It’s OK. It’s just me.” I’d answer
but I don’t think you heard
- or cared -
you never really awakened
just paused your dreams
long enough to remind me
of your innocence.

I came to cherish these moments
on the nights you stayed
imagining you were trying
to teach me something
- something beautiful -
but I was too shallow to understand
too distant to make out 
the faint edges traced
by a sidelong glance.

Still, I didn’t want to lose
even your cryptic lessons
I knew would soon drift away
to fall below my horizon
so I gave them a name
- Kami -
the Shinto term for spirits
hidden from this world
as you soon would be
from mine.

Twisted Lines

Like a corked wine
Bitterness spoils the soul
From the inside
Imperceptibly
Taking the time
To age slowly
Only to be revealed
Too late for salvation.

Like ancient bloodletting
Grieving prepares the soul
Coaxing bad humours
From the body
One memory at a time
Replacing despair with
Melancholic acceptance 
Giving rise to tomorrow’s
Bitter sweetness.

Like freeing a dove
That will not return
Letting go becomes
Love’s purest act
A selfless offering
The other-ness of happiness
Atoning our sins to
Nourish the altruism
We conceal.

There are myriad futures
Marking the paths
We only think we choose
For the gods write straight
With twisted lines
Towards a wholeness
We’ve yet to imagine
We’re meant to become.

Living on Borrowed Time

I’m not superstitious 
But somehow still practiced
At looking for signs
Assigning them meaning
To nurture my hopes and dreams.

The dove on the deck
She tilted her head
Cooing praise as we drank
Our first coffee together
Telling me you were the one.

The morning rainbow from
Your hospital window
Promised the years we have left
Would be many and golden
Extending my earthly paradise.

We left Lyon “Part-Dieu”
Meaning “belonging to God”
You’re the gift, then, I borrowed
Thirty-four years ago
To walk this world as one.

Emptiness

In the way I thought I knew how
I embraced your emptiness
Gathering it in my arms.

I peered into your shallows
Unable to fathom the depths
That entrenched you.

Caressing the edges of your void
I sought to replenish you
By spilling my affection.

You told me your soul
Had long been ravaged by absence
And that you were now solitude.

Adrift with your sorrows
You never looked back
To see if I were drowning.

Ode to my Parents

How to live a good life
is the student’s lament
how to love a good wife
is the teachers’ intent
(Ogden Nash might dissent.)

¿Qué quieres de mí?

Te abrí mi corazón y
te mostré mis heridas
hasta que mis manos se cansaron
y mi sangre corrió espesa.

¿Qué quieres de mí?

Fuego y frio
es lo que deseo
sin raíces, libre de
la tristeza de mañana.

¿Qué quieres de mí?

Dime que sabes que
el amor es cruel, una mentira
que se burla de nuestra creación
pero ven de todos modos.

¿Qué quieres de mí?

Una vez fui como tu
llena y fecunda
ahora busco la verdad
entre la pasión y la razón.

No hay que decir nada
sólo pienso en ti.

Coffee

Before daybreak

in the unshaped moments
between sleep and inspiration

I open my eyes to
the faint pre-dawn light.

Rousing courage and will
I slough off the blanket

don a robe for the chill
and shuffle towards the kitchen.

I turn on the lights
and let my eyes adjust

realizing with a smile
we had cleaned up last night.

Pressing the start button
on the superautomatic makes

a grinding noise louder than
construction work banned ‘til 8.

No matter, burnt chocolate
smoked cedar and toffee

flood from nose to brain awakening
embryos of pleasure-memory.

I make two doubles and
carry them to the bedroom

where She now stirs from
Her shadowy sleep.

Sitting back on the pillows
we take our first sips

the tawny crema cresting
on Her upper lip.

Caffeine coursing through veins
I time the soft rush

two seconds to my chest
three more to my arms.

Now my mind is
heating up and

I’ve got to choose
which dreams to pursue

and darkness gives way to light.

Meraki

I.

Melos Villa rests quietly
in the secluded hills
of Santorini where
the early morning sun
rouses us each morning
goading us up the
whitewashed steps
for yoghurt and honey.
Kostas pauses his care-taking
to smile - Kaliméra filoi! -
turning to re-sweep the shadows
of our footsteps
once we had passed.

II.

In Vourvoulos
Stavros invites us
into his kitchen
to help us choose our dinner
waiting to recommend a wine
that will complement
the brininess of the sea
and the metallic teardrops
of his son’s bouzouki,
entertaining us as we eat
with the live octopus
we had gracefully declined,
all of us squirming.

III.

Midnight at Taverna Erato
the old couple
otherwise nameless
serves us house wine and mezes
their efficient inattention met
with tacit approval from
the black cat on the sill
waiting for bed,
the stone-cobbled patio
unsteadying the tables
still rife with stories and laughter
livened by the hosts’ unmetered ouzo,
muted now by
the stillness of the hour.

IV.

Maria the shopgirl sews
small leather purses
as we eye her uncle’s pottery,
suggesting we should consider
an enameled plate,
waiting as we choose two
before closing the shop
for her sacred afternoon nap
tucking a newly-minted purse
into our bags
with a handwritten note;
Efcharistó! Filiá, María

V.

Where the Aegean Sea
begins to mingle with the
warmer waters of
its Mediterranean body
we lounge at Perissa beach
taking refuge from
the afternoon sun
under a thatched umbrella
just off the black volcanic sand,
sharing horiatiki and retsina
(and a few Marlboros)
with Ana and George,
come all the way from Athens
to practice their English.

VI.

The Greeks are blessed by nature
as all cradle peoples are,
their Sun’s radiant purity
charming endless abundance
from impatient fertile soils,
the bounty of the wine-dark sea
tasting of life itself;
even the meltemia that blow
for days on end
carry the songs of the gods and
the perfume of time.

VII.

Something this beautiful
of course needs a name
lest it fade away
and we who are strangers
forget the Greek mindfulness
that infuses
even the smallest acts
with meraki,
the gift of one’s essence,
having practiced for millenia
the giving that expands the heart
and nourishes the soul.

NOT NOW

I half-fill these days
with hospital visits
trifling chores and
purposeless walks
that fail to calm the chaos
in my mind.

At our accustomed hour
I crawl dutifully into bed
only to lie awake
staring through the window
at the waning Moon
her innocent light
marking your absence.

The room is heavy with loss
that will never leave
even once you return
   - and you will, I am sure -
sorrow to become our third
as we cede her her space.

I opened my heart to you
   - decades ago -
seeking sweet deliverance
knowing I'd lose you anyway
a thousand years from then.
But not now.

not so soon.

WALLS

The words floated ghost-like
through the walls we had built
to protect us from
the unthinkable,
our compassion stockpiled
for others behind life’s
ever-narrowing moat-circles.

“It's Cancer" she breathed the word softly,
shifting
from her matter-of-fact
doctor voice into
new-friend territory
as if she had just said "cat."

The room whitened and
her voice grew thin and distant
metallic in tone and taste.
I sensed our future dissolve
salt in water
tears pausing at my lips, ready to
sting a thousand cuts
that will never fully close.

I tightened my grip
your hand my tether
to our suddenly-distant past
where we lived heartily
in youthful foolishness,
your eyes my lifeline
to our newly-fragile
ever-precious
unwalled tomorrows.