Landscapes of my country, full of Light and Color.
I keep in mind Memories, in my fistful some native soil.

I walk on your ways, my Greece, and gaze greedily
I lock you up inside me.

I get across the extremity of the end.
To see the Light of your Sun and to enjoy the Sunset.

On untrodden desert islands, my steps sound
joining seabirds’ fate.

Landscape blue, Greek, beloved places.
Sea worth ships “Sophia”, “Giorgis”, “Merope”.

The waters of your rivers murmur songs.
Hymns, for you, my country, the nightingales whisper.

The humble wild flowers, that grow on your earth
scatter a soft fragrance, wayfarer, on your touch.

Basil and velvet, myrtles and lilies,
evident expression of holiday on childlike hands.

I pass and I dream, I remember and I weep
in my mind, Light and Colors I add up with generosity.

Spreads of earth of my country’ monuments of History
human destiny’s distinctive symbols.

Temples, burial vaults, ancient ornaments,
theatres, columns, stadiums,
uncultivated fields and small villages empty…

Landscapes of my country, overloaded with Memories
I balance on their moderation the rhymes of my pen.



To find the pleasure

in everything, everywhere,

to be happy with all the things.

Even an unimportant thing

has something to give you.

If you are overcome with joy,

if you are not in the grip of low feelings,

then you will be always the winner.

Because there are not losers

in the game of joy.


How bright…

They are unrecognizable

the roads of happiness.


I look back

on your memory

without love.


It’s a bright day.

I’m looking forward

to meeting you.


Darkness everywhere.

But you came and it’s gone,

my beloved.


A dream

will keep my hope 



Everybody in Greece is celebrating  

the 1st Day of May and Easter  

with reverence and hope.


My village, you are small, picturesque, hamlet
in the edge of Gortynia.
My eyes fill with tears when I look at you,
I mourn for the devastation
that I see everywhere,
when I see your houses,
wandering in your streets.
Your vineyards have become barren,
your olive trees don’t bear fruit
and in your yards flowers do not bloom
in the flower pots.
It was, in the past, the blessed years,
when all your windows were wide open.
Now, my beautiful village,
your roads are closed
and a small number of villagers
walk in your places.
Bitter memories in my mind
and how can I heal them?
But I wish you, my village Zounati,
to come to life again.
To open your houses again,
make your yards green
and fill your streets
with children’s voices.


Nature woke up and got dressed
its familiar colors,
air transports myriads scents,
fragrances of the flowers’
sun is playing on the earth.

Everywhere is the wisdom of God
and people fall silent.


Poets do not struggle
with bullets and knives,
they write verses, sing
and extend their hands.

They yield in inspiration
in the hours of loneliness,
they count with verses and strophes
fine weathers and storms.

Poets do not love
simply for love.
They write verses for naked bodies
before they touch them.

They are absorbed by love and swim
in love’s depths
and after, they write poems
for “the moment” that is lost…


Inside me a grief fades away,
a heartbreak flickers,
as my dream’s light
shades leaves behind it.

It is dawning
in the poor heart’s aching shoulders,
my worries took
foreign streets.

And in the dawn of the New Year
I anticipate the LOVE
to crown victors
the laughter and the teardrop.


A well – dressed verse
with a red, full of freshness
and fragrance carnation on the lapel
pops out right
in the crown to dance.
Two strophes start a feast
on the white paper.
On top, an underlined title
assigns the intention of the poem.
Rhymes, words, “moments”
are valuable and invaluable
materials for a Poet
to make an emotion,
to pay off a debt
and to defeat a chimera.


Shades that mark the corners
and whatever has remained
don’t become you.

Look up,
give wings in your look
to fly on the uppermost.

Wherever leads you the heart,
in any harbor and arms
anchor and rest.

When you will see a crack,
go there to get
near your dreams.


I surrender my soul,
to you reader,
on the whiteness of paper,
Every page on unguarded door.
Words, lines, verses,
my ammunition.
I bow with lightening dismantled
in front of you reader.
Indulgence I don’t beg for
and hostage at last
I let out myself
in your judgment. 


My nights like stabs
they hurt my thoughts.
Memories – noblewomen
who you want to destroy

for not continue
so to hurt you.
Two words of patience
I ask for escape.

But from where my heart can hold on to,
where my mind to make a trip
when speechless pain
has overcome everything?

When your nights slow flies
and not pass,
when your bitterness like a sister
attends you in silence.

Two words of patience
I look for till dawn but
in life’s lexicon
I didn’t find even one word.


In the middle of the summer
her heart yields from Love.
This is something unexpected.
She wished: “It will go soon,
it will disappear”.
She closed her eyes wishing good – bye
to the August etesian winds.
Autumn came and love stays yet
in the same place.
“Come” beckons her.
“Follow me. Trust me”.
Yields her heart light,
cheated out of lust and sweetness.
“Until you leave” she thought,
“I want to live with my dream”.
And she followed tile tracks
that her yearning leaves
behind on the seashore
of the temporary happiness…


How many dreams lighted
grandmother’s old lamp
and how many hopes
were born for us.

I still remember
that August afternoon at Sounio.
The waves to engrave the reef,
tourists taking photographs
of the eternal marbles of the temple,
the breeze mixing up our hair.
Love playing hide and seek
between the columns
and our the gaze
absorbing by endless blue.
A summer remembrance
– of a transient love –
an August afternoon at Sounio.


A piece of sky
I brought down
to offer you, my darling,
to play and forget.

From Aegean Sea
I brushed away the blue
with the piece of sky
to match.

To hold both in your hands,
to play and forget.
You don’t know what it means
to love but not be loved. 


I felt and I feel,
Your Love, dear God.
You set free every yearning
of my heart.

You give wings
in every though of mine.
You soften every pain
and near You
I’m not afraid,
because You solve
every problem of mine.

[«Candle on silver holder», painting by Carolina Elizabeth.]


Those small hours
that the moments are confined
in the drawers of memory,

keep a dim recollection,
make it a shot of your pain
and throw the dice.

Even if come six in the line
give in forgetfulness the joy
to go for a stroll…

Whatever hurt you much
let it become a teardrop and a kiss
to ease you.


* The injustice and dishonest
have their protector:
the Justice of Money.

* In glamorous receptions
make their image
some contemporary Poets.

* At places of trees
cast cement and irons.
The creators of a new nature.

* Today, the informers
do not wear hoods.
They look right in your eyes. 


Soldiers all over the world
loaded their guns
with April’s wild flowers.
One evening, took their helmets
and threw them in the seas
of the worlds.
And after, they kissed
and hugged like old time friends.
Military camps have closed
their gates for ever.
Out there, children began to play…


You came in my life and brought
a breath of spring air.
Pictures of nature’s rebirth
after a severe winter.
Yellow the bushes on the roads’ sides
full of flowers
the oleanders and the lilacs…
“Together” you told me from now on
“we’ll cope with the hot summers,
the grey autumns,
the wild winters
and the vivifying springs
of our life. Together.”
Your look a real promise’s sing.
Firmly, your hand held mine.
A word came out, at the same time,
from our lips: “Let’s go».




Today, I worked a lot of time
(from dawn until the sunset).
I kept very busy
my body and my mind
for not thinking about you.
My sweat became one with the ground.
Mixed up with earth, stones,
grass and insects.
But when I took the course of return,
silent you came with me.
You put your hand on my shoulder,
you hand rested upon my shoulder
for a little time, leaving me alone
when I arrived home.
“Tomorrow again” you said to me
and you were lost with quick steps
in the dark.


I learnt it long ago:
My bitterness to taste
in a glass punctured with holes.
My solitude to count
on a balance beam which loses.
Has our life and moments
of Joy to sweeten us.


There are some parts of life
that they shed tears
in my eyes.
There are stories
and memories
that you can’t forget.
Mind’s are thoughts and uproar,
curse of a death
without vindication.
There are some hours
in our life,
fertile like autumn’s rain.


Time, History and Memory
they clap, cheer, keep silent.
Treasures put down
in their depths,
all that haven’t been
written and told…


“Extraordinary, “Excellent”,
“Interesting”, “a beautiful book”,
“Important”, “a graceful book”,
“Gorgeously written”, “Fantastic”..
A young writer of a bestseller
was collecting words and reviews
in a notebook specially
for this purpose.
When, by chance, he opened it,
after some years,
all its pages were blank.


The worth of a kilo of oranges
is the same as an arid water hole,
as a man’s that I forget his name,
as a love affair’s
that wasn’t important for me
and as a dream’s
that I didn’t remember
when I woke up in the morning
to do the same aw usual everyday.


A smile, a word, a voice, a place,
a photograph, a smell, a love
and a story that an old man told me
imprisoned on wings of wind.
When once I looked for him again
in that place that I have seen him
at the first time,
there was everywhere
a great silence…


I closed my lips.
From now on,
when I want to speak
I’ll keep silent. 


For many years now,
he regards the foreign country
his second home.
But in his heart,
an eternal love
nests for Greece.
A handful of the native soil,
a small branch of lemon tree
and a seashell from Aegean Sea
antidotes of forgetting.
Besides the icons he keeps,
in a small box,
the soil, the seashell, the flowers,
mementos from his fatherland.


The unnecessary found
its place nowadays.
We live the not essential every day.
Contemporary man finds
the only refuge
in the space of dreams.
There, he surrenders in wonderful,
inexpressible things
and ephemeral creations.
Nowadays: DEFEND with dreams.
OPPOSE to baseness.
WORRY for hearts
ceased flourishing.


My fried, I wrote a big letter
but I missed to mention this”
I saw in television, a reportage
from a fire in a colors factory.
There was a kitten getting out
of the ruins staring
with curiosity the camera
shooting the destruction.
It seemed to me
like a good omen.
Not the camera,
the kitten I mean.


Time, guides our life,
taking it where he wants.
Not caring if a child is hurt,
if an adored voice


In 2004 the holy city
of goddess Athena
brings back to life
the Spirit of Greece.

The immortal spirit
of the Olympic Games,
coming with a laurel wreath bearing
from the depths of centuries.

Morals, education, harmony,
effort, rivalry and awe
the athlete of every game
feels unusual distress

until stepping on the stand
as a new Olympic champion
crowned with laurels.


Looking at the trees
dressed their new foliage,
with hope I wondered:
– Ah, Spring,
when you will come
for me?
And my soul was covered
with flowers.


In this city, that they called
“the ring of the Earth”,
the ordeals and our anguishes
are the same, my brother.

                                                                            [Painting by Jones Coins.]


In life’s end
if our heart could live
in happiness again…

Past greatness
soul’s tools
that open the closed windows.

Golden Memories
are treasures to live
the years that you are left,

as times run away,
as the storms come and go
and the shoulders lean
from tiredness.


What I miss, my darling?
Only, a hug.
From your hand a caress,
on my mouth two kisses.
To be our souls
birds of love,
a little sea – boat
that sets sails.
And let’s go sailing
on an open sea,
in dreamy places
to spread our wings.
Holding my hand
under the nocturnal sky,
being the only star
I’ll follow in the night.


A primeval shape of calm and peace,
olive, holy tree of Athena Pallada.
Your Holly oil a divine mercy
and your wreath branch
an award in ancient Greece.

A few humble olive branches
crowned the winners of the Olympic Games
sending with loud and clear voice
their message through the Ages.

People walk in unison,
athletes compete with emulation
to get ahead with ethos,
countries of the Earth
with harmony collaborate.

Give a promise to unite enemies,
warriors give up your arms
and in your bloody hands
keep an olive branch of reconciliation.



Give me another chance
to tell you
for my feelings,
my anguishes
and my dreams.
Be my Muse.
Your eyes, your look,
your palpitations, your love,
can be inspiration for me.
Be my Muse.


Our soul pass
on impassable roads.
Our body looks for
the “light” of pleasure.
The wind does not blow
for a faraway voyage.
Every hour brings forth
what we don’t want.
Corners full of shadows
in the narrow streets
of the world.
Painful hearts
and nowhere hope.
Our life, a boat
with the sails set
that didn’t weigh anchor.
And hangs around our soul
in paths of dreams,
in unexplored places
and other heavens.


The nature, like a little girl
takes part in the endless
festive atmosphere of snow,
all around, dressed in white
enchantingly, silently, frosty.

While the snow is falling around
I want to lie down
on its white veil
and up there I’ll become
a pure white lily.

As a lily I’ll send out surplus odour
in the field, neighbourhoods
and country chapels.
I take part in the endless
festive atmosphere of snow.


My heart knows
every part of my village.
It has crossed
and loved all of them.

With the laughter, the tear
at the end of my village
I’ll stay gazing out
and courage I’ll take.

With the breeze of my village
I’ll cool the sweltering hot
in the furnace of life
and that freshness will stay.

In the company of that
I will endure what will come.
Every part of my village,
my heart’s sacred mate.


There are moments,
that Poets owe to keep silence:
When birds sing,
rivers flow their water quietly,
sun shines and warms everywhere
and people live in harmony.
And there are times
that Poets own to cry out:
When the sky is getting dark
from smoke of rockets’ and fires’,
sea is darkening from oil
and sea-gulls are dying from pollution.
When sun isn’t warming all the people
and children are unhappy.
When ear spreads panic,
fear and death,
leave behind ruins,
cripples and shuttered devastated dreams.
Then, Poets owe to write.
Making pen a weapon,
a message and a hope.
Till they come again these moments
that Poets owe to keep silence.


For you, my country, I’ll be proud for ever,
I have inside me a deep grief and a fervent wish.
I feel sorry for the glorious past that declines,
I feel sad for the present and the bad that leaves behind.

Your immortal monuments are not covered with dust ,
they are not destroyed by the earthquakes the chill doesn’t bother them.
Sounio, the Acropolis, your ancient theatres,
sing your glories and your achievements.

Your green mountains, your beautiful islands,
your helmets, your temples, your perfect beauty,
they have, my sweet country, the blessing of God,
the eternal light and joy, the perfect harmony.

Reflections of the sun on your blue waters,
the light of the moon on your holy grounds,
something of the mysteries, attractive, they reflect,
the dreams are like small boats that they are sailing the Aegean Sea.

My Greece, all through I can’t have enough of your light
and near the waters of your springs I relax a little.
Like a migrant bird I would like to go all over you,
singing, my country.

But my verses are poor to portray you,
they are unable to make the painting of your beauty.
You encourage my soul, you dismiss all of my pains,
walking on my heart’s road, I meet you.


My dearest, give me
a loving night.
With a clear look
to face the future.

Walking in the course of time
with your laugh only.
My dearest, give me
a tender caress.

With your open arms
give me love
and a tear of joy running
on the corner of my eyes.


On the Arcadian mountains
– there where Zeus went for a stroll
every of their stone is holy, an altar.
A crowd all glamour’ they are Pan’s retinue.
He is a reveler, goat – footed deity.
And the Nymphes wander around
before they go to the forests of fir trees,
to hide when the morning star
of Venus will appear.
The simplicity of people,
the unsaleable of places
and a divine favor for all.
Wherever you turn your eyes
you will see your appearance,
like an integral part of the earth.
Blossoming wild flowers
and raising hands,
a pray of thanks to God.
The sight of Sun,
the smile of a friend they are
a soothing in a difficult time.
In the waters of its rivers
and in the coolness of its springs flags
the sorrow of the passer – by …
Summers and winters,
calm meadows of soul.
I’m a nostalgic of the Arcadian landscapes.
Beauty of nature is like
an hymn that you will let it
sound forever.


My country, I want to sing
your beauties, your picturesque islands and seas.

In the clear blue waters the life giving sun
is for everybody laughter, joy and friend.

In each holy stone of yours and every shrine,
History stopped to relax a while.

In stone mule paths and in white country chapels
in small harbors sheltered from wind, in heavenly places…

Wherever I look around, I see you everywhere
and with deep emotion, my Greece, I fill with tears.

My unique country, give me your inspiration
to say hymns for you to the end of the world.


The hard work of an ant is continuous.
How it suffers
in the sweltering heat of summer
to carry the crumbs and the seeds
to have them
when the hard winter will come.

When snow will freeze everything
the ant will not have to care.
It will have its mind at rest
because it took care of collecting
when it was the time.

If people looked a bit like the ant
in foresight, in prudence, in humility
the mankind would be better,
all the children on the Earth
would have food.

But some people throw in the garbage
a heap of food, stale bread.
Have you ever thought
how many poor children
that could have fed?