Greece

Maria Kranidis

I enter roofless houses

In the ancient city by the sea

I follow steps of the dead and hear their prayers

Whistle through marble empty spaces

The gods are moved to the museum

Only their stands are left behind

The agora is empty of conversation and noise

I climb the steps that lead to the temple of Athena

High Mountain on one side

Ocean on another

Here they were aware of friend and enemy

In the waves of time

Wild trees have grown on their own where doors and windows used to be

I trip on a thousands years old rock that lizards taste in the heat

I go higher than my legs can take me

And I believe

That with a view like this,

There must be more than one god.

For my hand surgeon

Maria Kranidis

I open my palm for you to read

Like one in need of future dealings

You touch my fingers one by one

Pulling, closing, opening them like petals

Calluses tell the secrets of my gardens

Breathing close to me

You smell the roses on my wrist

Your touch with silent science

Visits places where a pen rests

The empty space of my ring

My hand gives into yours

Following your lead to movements of caress

Do you feel this?

Then you take me while I sleep

And open tunnels never seen

Before in me

And dig into my strengths and weaknesses

Into the nerves of my begging hand

You are successful in changing the mood of my hand

Caringly you message out

The numbness that begins from my broken love line

To where it ends, at the X over my life line

My hand will never be the same

Yet no one will know the expression of your mark

No one,

Except you and me.

In Rhodes again

Maria Kranidis

In midday and ancient breeze across the Byzantium Sea

Enters my bedroom

And soothes my burning skin.

Mother was right,

To be buried by the sea wind

Keeps spirits involved with life

The whistling of pine trees

Hold the dead their secrets

Even from the grave comes vengeance

The town gossips a million lying possibilities

Yet the town wears blue and green

So Greek, that it is hardly mythical

Who would remember the company?

Crusades, Mongols, Turks, Romans,

Italians, Germans, Scottish, British, Americans,

All for a sense of this endless ancient breeze

A fig with its bleeding heart

Sooths my craving for a piece of land and history

No one is forgotten here.

For Matt

Maria Kranidis

Counting the hours until the plane leaves

And takes me away from a perfect world

Where breeze and ocean live in harmony

When the distant years of ware can be seen

On mountains

The cutting down of cane

Only makes it stronger

No one can poison its roots

The well by our house

Has helped with the draught

The farmer brought evidence

In gifts of watermelon and tomatoes

Birds come and sit near the window

Their happiness confirms your absence

I’ve gone to the ocean seen

By our bedroom window

Only once

And ate fruit without tasting sweetness

Family is left behind

In your eyes

Even paradise is empty

When you are not here.

For Theonie

Maria Kranidis

I feel comfort that you sleep

Seven hours behind me

And this place

I believe in your power

That is still to come

Like a myth to take a hold of you

The silent possibility of strength

To smell flowers that died

Centuries ago

To follow footsteps of people gone

To make visits to the dead

And see their faces

Stare out of marble crosses

All of them in black and white

The sun has bleached every other color,

Marble and dust

Past dates engraved for no reason

Do spirits believe in time?

So many unfinished lives

Have ended here.

I’m older than mother now

But still know less

Her secret places beyond the grave

I hope you are happy in your sleep

While I keep company with the dead.

Maria Kranidis teaches English at Suffolk County Community College. She is the founder of Cassandra and Taleisin and has been an editor for A State of the Art, Cabaret, Confrontation and Rio, an online magazine. She has been published in Bestpoemword.

She has lived on Long Island, NY, for over twenty years. Born in Greece and raised in New York City, she finds the world to be a multifaceted chaos waiting to be put into order. She goes to Greece every year to find that order…only to discover that she thinks in Greek, she writes in English, and feels in both.