Oxymoron

It is September,
but under the whispering light
of the Southern Cross
the Spring is weaving its birth.

poem by Niko Tiliopoulos
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Sub Rosa

I missed the Spring.
I fell asleep under the shadows of my desires,
with mandolin sounds for lullabies
and my grandfather’s pipe,
in dreams dressed in herbal smoke and honey scents
and the beauty of my loved ones.

I missed the Spring.
I was late for my soul,
too late for a song,
deceived by the lotus flowers
and the smiles of the sirens,
their seductive bodies waving my sanity away.

I missed the Spring.
The ring of oblivion was Time’s gift,
a nursery rhyme’s forgotten curse,
here like now, absent like never,
a colourless rainbow reflection
on eyes of sadness.

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poem by Niko Tiliopoulos
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Drinking With Márquez

Gabriel was sitting on my left,
a gray archangel fashioning a tired moustache
under his alcohol-crying eyes;
a kind patriarch in his solitude.

We spoke in Spanish,
we joked in Italian,
we argued in English,
and we thought in Whiskish.

And one hundred years of riddles passed in a night.
Riddles of love and illness,
cholera and la violencia,
under the irony of Fidel’s shadow,
the censorship of the cohiba ashes,
and the curfew of Pope’s colonels.

But when he asked me:
“¿Porque estás aqui? ”
I became a little child baptised in mud,

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poem by Niko Tiliopoulos
Added by Poetry Lover
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