First Canto
The genesis of tragedy turns
sharp like the crisp watermelon
with black spots amid its red cosmos
I dig with my fingers trying to
unravel the meaning of my thirst
some fiery July noon or a cucumber
picked from its mother’s arm
at dawn when one wakes
to go to church or to attend the pious
execution of an allopistos* saint
benevolence or benediction swirling
a winding path that forgets your name
though remembers the taste of your soles
on gravel rebelling when the
undulating shadow of your voice
gnaws the chirp of chickadees
the murmur of its echo becomes
a miracle bubbling from the depths
of sacred empyrean music
your devotional bell pealing
__________________________________
*
of different religious denomination
for a recently departed
osprey and its grace diving into
clear shallows where an unnoticed loon
cries away his departure and
a last ray filters its glimmer through
the lonely cloud mesmerizing
a moment of silence
trapping my perceptions
to ask the most peculiar
question my emotions
that guard cemetery gates
affirming with salutes
and shouting: we can do better
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 