Vasilios Theodorakis - An Online Author » Ungrouped

Waiting To Know

Vasilios Theodorakis — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 11:18:12 +0000

Standing up – arm led by the firing squad,
I’m shown a chair for my own comfort!
And as I sit – I gag on the reflex to laugh out loud
Chimpanzee like,
Trying to hide my fear.
That my response should revert to a simian Id
Is not so strange,
Knowing how similar our hand prints are.
Grimace set,
My face is taut
Till lips morph into teeth,
And I wait for the path’s division.
Left – I live,
Right – I dual with death,
Whose advance is a breech
Of the city walls
Where foreign infantry run through the streets
Of my system
Aiming for chaos but content with mayhem.
Pushing forward
Forever in assault mode,
I’m overrun
And witness the fall of my own torso.
Just as the war is lost in my head,
The verdict
From the delicate genius arrives – results are fine!
Shaking,
I sheath my body’s duelling sword.
Today,
Will not be the day,
This battle is fought!
Relief stricken,
I slump forward
And catch my head
In conveniently cupped hands.

Yet another stay of execution has been granted,
And for now – I walk free!

Olive Grove

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 08:00:24 +0000

That last link to a misaligned past
We discover, was discharged long ago.
Carried out, by an underhanded swipe
At the matriarch’s resolve;
Broken down, until she could stand it no longer
And with heavy heart signed away all inheritance.

There, on the far side of the blue, we fall on our knees – dumb founded.
The trees of Gethsemane had sustained
Our blood for 100′s of years,
But like in Palestine, we were betrayed by a kiss
Whose guilt was washed away
As easily as the sandy silt, at the base of those ancient trees.
And so, we are cut free at last.
Our link to Western Crete finally broken,
As even the land now belongs to another.

But the earth does not understand these human transactions,
And awaits the return of our feet.
Longing, for the trampling of soil;
Puzzled, by where the offspring have gone;
And hoping,
For a reunion that will never come!

So how do you tell the dust of your DNA,
That the 1000 year marriage
Of rascals to rocks, chaos to creativity, mania to morals
Is finally over?
I do not know.
I only sense, that like the mythical dragon
Whose once believing children have left to become adults,
The grove is forced to wander for eternity,
As her sadness can never be eased.

Dedication (For my grandmother Maria.)
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2010

Bertimou

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 00:20:19 +0000

Soon enough, we too will die
And finally meet up
With the ones who await us,
Joining them on freedom’s perch
Which juts out over the river of new life.
Sitting tall with a glimmer
Of insight in their eyes,
Our loved ones will appear and beckon
And eagerness will follow faithfully,
As together we are ushered
Into the transfigured universe,
Prepared in the absence of time’s sadness.
It is there that “death tramples death”,
And eternity takes on form
Embracing us with the smile of friendship
Clasped firmly between beaks,
And drawn forward by His Compassion
Which surrounds us in the uncreated light of tomorrow.

Dedication (For my feathered friend Bert who continues to mourn Molly, his head preener and companion.)
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2009

Cruising Through Time

Vasilios Theodorakis — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 00:50:24 +0000

Saddled up
And wading out,
We all embrace – though tentatively at first,
Our golden leaf ticket,
Validated by the conductor of our birth.

Often – it takes a while
For us to realise,
That our bodies
Are the carriages,
Of nature’s own time machine.

Witnessing change first hand,
And reliving the past in our minds,
We are all experts
By the time we step off,
And hand over our ticket stubs – though reticent,

To the grinning skull,
Of the sickle bearing station master!

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2009

Killing The Dandy Lion

Vasilios Theodorakis — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 01:15:26 +0000

What once feed us,
In times of famine.
Is now sought out
For slaughter;
Alongside the bindies
And clover.
Dabbed by our solvent touch,
We seek the shrivel
And death;
In search of the perfect lawn.

If this doesn’t define us,
I don’t know what does!

Dedication (In response to my wife yelling out… “Look at the dandy lions!”)
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2009

The Havoc They Reeked!

Vasilios Theodorakis — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 03:35:34 +0000

Nothing left;
Just an old man in a blue T-shirt.
Bike parked near the nets,
He taps at pollution filled oysters,
Hoping for a winning,
And done in remembrance,
Of the bountiful nutrition,
That the land
Had once bestowed on his people.

Never again,
Will it be as the ancestors knew.
For it was taken;
And in the shortest amount of time,
Crushed by the other.
Annihilating the balance
That once ruled these waters.

Everything is right;
As far as the mainstreamers
Are concerned.
But all that remains
Is the blue,
Filling up my mind,
And drowning out my heart;
Stretching ahead,
For as far as I can see.

Dedication (For Minjerribah)
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2009

Did You Ever Exist?

Vasilios Theodorakis — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 08:00:53 +0000

Face tarnished – framed in the midst of flaking silver oxide.
Long drawn, is the line
Between us and those directed dead eyes.
Forever forgotten,
Your name remains unknown
By all, but those who stood there by your side.
And now, paper death
Is made real by vacant visions,
Drinking in all that appeared
Before the camera.
Mesmerised, we look again,
But nothing can dispel the absence of life,
In those blackened sockets.
You are the thespian arbitrator
Of another time’s reality.
There, you dictated what was real
And what wasn’t,
But did you ever exist as flesh and blood?

If not for the crumbling paper
Now held in my own aging hand,
Our young would see you as vectors
Drawn from silicone etching.

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2010

Everything Is OK

Vasilios Theodorakis — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 08:00:44 +0000

The freshest air,
Arrived this morning, with welcomed relief.
Facing east
And climbing our doorstep,
I allowed it to weave back and forth over my face,
Brush away my hair,
And tug incessantly at my gardener’s shirt.
This simple event
Returned me,
Though momentarily,
To the innocence of childhood.
I knew
It could not last,
But even if it could,
Would I really want it to?
The mind of the child
Only sees the good in everything,
Even if its playground
Is a field of weeds,
Generated by the Spawn of Satan.

I now understand,
That all I saw
Were the multitudes
Of colourful flowers,
Produced by the weeds.
Never realising,
That the weeds themselves
Could rise up
And strangle the admirer,
Whose back was turned.

Yet that was then.
Today, with graying stubble
My sandy lot is cleared,
Made ready
For the growing of food.
And I finally know,
That everything is OK
As I carry my hoe upright,
Into the crisp warmth
Of the Bay’s glassy sunlight.

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2009

He Made Her Cry…

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 08:00:29 +0000

Tears falling,
Besotted with memories
Of things that could have been,
She knew
She had done nothing wrong;
Just stepped outside the line work
Brushed in pastel – that was all.
The movement of her hand
Coloured the moment,
And all rationality
Understood it was innocent enough;
But there was no sanity
In his actions.
Responses were based on triggers
Cocked by adrenaline,
Fired by falling feathers,
And forged by experiences
In a life non-disclosed.

Hope had filled
The dingy of marriage;
Cedar solid,
It pushed off from uncertainty,
Travelling north
And sometimes finding,
All it had
Between its sails,
Were her sobs
In the laundry,
His shame
At his ways.

Still, their stubbornness
Kept them afloat,
Minimising each other’s distress
And capturing each other’s strength.
Eyes locked on the horizon,
The direction
Of their negotiated compass,
Often corrected for life’s turbulence.
While the deviation
Of the field’s flickering,
Was deemed acceptable
In spite of each other’s shortcomings.

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2009

Respect

Vasilios Theodorakis — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 20:00:40 +0000

In a time of upheaval,
Nothing can be saved.
My kind left behind the plates where they lay,
Took only one piece of cutlery – just a knife,
And abandoned their linen
To the moths next door.
They locked down the doors,
Boarded up the panes,
Dropped jewelery into wells
And fled into the night.
They stayed off the roads
Made for the salt spray.
And spoke the Young Turks talk,
In order to blend in with the crowds -
Crowds who had come down to see
How red the earth’s tears had turned.
Death then took them all the way
To the promised land
Where the other’s plates were now their’s to claim.
But nothing felt right.
After 86 years
Of living with a pricked conscience – hidden beneath eucalyptus,
This generational itch was resolved.
By chance,
A trip back from the other side
Found the board
Where it was placed
And the plates
Where they were laid.

When queried about this,
The Gorukle replied -
We thought you’d return.
We left everything as it was,
For you were our friends, our brothers, our sisters,
And these things were not ours to take.
It never dawned on the Christians
Who reached the promised land
To extend such a courtesy.
The Christians deserved all that was abandoned
And left nothing for the Moslems to return to -
Moving into their homes almost immediately.
And yet, to this day
My kind
Claim to be the better human beings.
Now why is that again?

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2008

Relative

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 20:00:13 +0000

Not a word, not a whisper,
Not a finger lifted
To query my angst.
Empathy ounced
In minuscule bags,
Is dangled briefly before vestibular eyes
Then shoved
Into bottomless pockets
That shock infect one’s own expression.
The benefit of the doubt
As always – my call,
Led to the dysfunctional response.
Maybe my witness was tainted,
Maybe illness fogged up
These lensed off events,
For I continued to pour
Years of investment
Into one way streets -
Unusual for Melbournian roads.
And this fact,
Should have been my warning heeded.
Yet, I put aside my own rules
And ricocheted forward – until now
Where their personal inconvenience
Body slammed me into the pavement.

These people
Were never family!
Thank goodness
For the Grant-ed role model,
Which now fills the void
The emotional chasm left behind
By those who tainted the sacred.

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2008

Trauma

Vasilios Theodorakis — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 20:00:18 +0000

Us
The lone dogs of war
Feel safe -
Only when “C” follows “B” and “B” follows “A”.
Our need for things to stay the same,
To have beginnings, middles and ends – is non-negotiable.
For those civilians
Looking through our blasted front doors,
These regimented lives – these routines,
Look restricted at best.
How impossible it is
To explain that this approach
Makes us feel good,
Keeps us sane
And able to face another day.
Soldier, Stray or Survivor,
Our physical form, our truthful tales
Are always irrelevant.
All that matters is the outcome.
Trauma, to the point
Of life ending now,
Lands us in the same trench
Clenching, ground down teeth,
And stabbing true,
At any
Who attempt to drag us from our fox holes.
No ones fault – in the end,
Just life gone wrong
And we cope through continued containment,
Whether at the gym,
In the garden,
Or – alone.

“Traumateous Polemous” (translation – injuries of war)
Was my grandfather’s term.
I sometimes wonder
If he imagined
Such things could occur
Within the sterile walls
Of Suburbia.

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2008

Shadow Takes Reality

Vasilios Theodorakis — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 20:00:24 +0000

Believing nothing
I am here
Quantified in person
Sanctified in self
Staring into the mirror
And gagging on my own essence.
I could not have imagined
Such horror as a child.
A world where humanity
Is inexcusable, and its presence unwanted
By its own origins.
I grieve for all beings
And the good in my kind,
For the Sapien has become a patsy,
Drunk in its quest for murder
And clinging to genes
Linked to the structural guilt of superiority.
This psychic bile is piled up at our feet
And slung across the room
At the God Head.
All in the hope
That it’ll stick to Him and not us.
Like all others,
I was taught to look away at such things.
But the screams will not be silenced
In my mind (nor beyond),
No matter how much separation
We distill upon ourselves.
And so, I find myself an accomplice
To these crimes,
Just through breath and being.
Each moment now
Strikes the gong of grief
As the pain is witnessed
Within the eyes of the other.
The minuscule good
That remains in my kind
Will not be enough to redeem
The billions killed
Nor the billions yet to die.

Awake at last
We know there will be
No further sleep,
For sentience
Demands action
When faced with truth
And our earthly role,
To voice the voiceless,
Must be placed on a pedestal and heeded,
In spite of the hordes
And what they might do,
When finally, we speak!

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2008

A Cup Of Tea Or A Beer?

Vasilios Theodorakis — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 08:00:39 +0000

Her house,
Numbered on a whim,
Stood firm against our suburb’s change -
Claiming asbestos as its wonder,
Indestructible as it is.

Her husband,
In conversation – lit up her eyes.
Missed desperately,
She spoke fondly
Of his construction at the back.

Her neighbour – the one that stayed,
Known as possum man to the kids,
Bugger Lugs to her.
Observing his antics, eyebrows raised,
She tolerated his ways – taken with fistfuls of salt.

Our house – the one on the corner,
Forever labeled the Kelly’s,
Held stories of her son and their daughter,
Asleep on the floor,
More comfortable it seemed, than his bed at his mum’s.

Our family,
She greeted with a Xmas type card,
Embraced without judgement
She snuck it past doors,
Wondering on tip toe – who we might be.

Our presence,
In time – seeded many a smile.
Rewarded – now and then, with a cup of tea or a beer.
A little something, she’d say, to toast
The couple – she was certain, would stay.

Her dottering gone – I still radar the yards.
Peering over our fence,
As much as our cat – who continues to hope,
That her saucer returns,
With his contraband milk and a pat on the back.

Dedication (For Betty Cutlack)
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2008

Cleo The Cat

Vasilios Theodorakis — Fri, 27 Jul 2007 08:00:04 +0000

Heart felt angst
Wells up inside,
Tightening
Its spring
Until it bursts
As hairball
Tumble,
Landing flat
Upon the twisted ire
Of a life long loss.

To voice a goodbye
Free falls away
Favouring fate
That follows
Endings of uncrossed paths.
This thought, again replayed -
Is layed out in full,
Brushed with care,
And cradled for a time.
Turned, and again checked for its emotional ID.

Unlike fe-lines
Our kind, cannot predict
The seasons as once we did.
Nor, pre-empt such unseen loss.
Not being there could not be helped.
Cleo waited as long as she could,
Hung her thanks
Upon the decades of love, woven right around the house,
And heeded the call of her origin -
Returning home, one last time.

What she would’ve liked,
Was for all to recall
That, were it not for this family
Of open hearts
And unchecked time,
Trust would not have transformed from bud to bloom -
And 26 years
Of connected
Sighs, laughs and affection felt,
Could not have come to pass.

This Schrödinger’s cat was truly alive -
Thanks to the few who stepped up to the task,
Peered into the box,
And on tip-toes, pulled her little self into their lives.
She was that lifetime plaque
Of reciprical commitments,
Often drapped around the necks of the Decent,
And there could be no regrets
About such an arrangement,
Now could there.

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2007

Creativity

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 08 Jul 2007 08:00:02 +0000

Having brought down the judgement of order,
A dandy lion fairy
Asserts her ruling over the mindless intellect,
Rounding it up
And whipping routine out of chaos,
Her innocent face
Takes on the scowl of a demon.
Sweet irony however,
Is lost
On those in servitude,
For the struggle to capture creativity backfires
Causing their muse to skip away ever faster,
Fearful of the clock-in creature
Of nine to five,
That leans hard and suffocates,
Obscuring vision and drowning out inspirational sweat.
Were one
To destroy all clocks,
A symphony of wonder
Would fill one’s mind,
And chorus such Art
As never before seen.
Instead,
The demented cherub
Taps away the seconds of the day,
Upon the brow,
Of those
Who would be king
And blindly strive
To inherit the throne of Shakespeare.

In role
Us – the Outsiders,
Witness their ‘fade away’
As another torso
Is lost to the faceless crowd
Of sensibility.
Thank goodness, these brothers and sisters
Have a place to call home – the Mall.
Without it,
I shudder at the thought of their fate.

Audio Version (Podcast – MP3 / 90sec / 707kb)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2007

Monkeyed

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sat, 14 Jan 2006 08:00:41 +0000

Slacks suits
Tailor, to imprint
On silicone skin.
Drawn up hems,
Caress all manner
Of brushed down hair – flashed,
In the hope
That Godless salvation,
Will empty
Their wretched lives,
Into another’s cup.
Transforming
That given face,
Into the latest magazine mask.

Abandoned by light and sugared by thorns,
Youth declare meaningless wisdom
As the basis to their body’s vacant room.

And somehow, this has come to stand
For modern insight – hard driven inspiration;
Even though, none of the words
Challenge reality,
And the Oracle
Of the Room never replies
To the half hearted questions,
Posed by a whole generation
Of self strangled,
Still born adults.

Our life giving Spark,
Has media mutated
Into a naked Primate,
Dressed in plaid
And given to shouting,
The ego’s own chant – “Who do I love? Myself!”
So much for the archetypal need to look beyond -
To seek out lyrics, folklore and fairy-tales.
So much for ionic philosophy and religion -
Or the desire to produce instead of consume.

The ‘Y’s, no longer know how
To fill the Void
When the camp fires go out.
Instead, they catch themselves
Staring off into the distance,
Dreaming up nothing,
And hoping that their magical consoles
Will re-ignite tomorrow,
Allowing the world
To offer up Noise! – More blessed Noise!

Such an approach, was once an anathema -
Known to regress our species’ evolution.
But now, all manner of glitter balls take centre stage
Locking in the legacy -
Of talons for the sleek, manure for the brave!

Audio Version (To Be Added)
New Word (Monkeyed – adj. regressing the evolution of one’s own species.)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2006

Out Of Mind

Vasilios Theodorakis — Fri, 03 Jun 2005 08:00:48 +0000

What rank are you?
You, who claim servitude to God
Yet retire,
The two legged and the four unto
The recesses of the mind.
I graze
On your absence,
Your smug stamp of expression
Is a polarity of righteousness,
That salts my wounds,
Reminding me
Of the abandoned-ness
Suffered by the the One.
And as things get too hard.
As mortality gets too real.
You choose domesticity of the soul,
And the garb of the Ego Queens
Over brutal truth, and much needed compassion.

This, I have witnessed.
This, do I know.
Your self averted,
A priest’s son dies,
Promises are made,
Visits considered,
But nothing occures.
Touched by your play,
A creature is hurt,
Un-gathered by arms, killed,
Not nutured to death,
But denied its extension of expression.
Consumed by your status,
A friend is felled, unwitnessed,
Subjected to blow after blow,
The silent assault
Mimics the clamour
Of a synthesized Voice.

And were I to reflect on this,
Were I to really trouble myself by what I’ve seen,
My thoughts would be forced to raise the question:
Who are these people?
People, whose behaviour has been less wholesome
Than that of my darkest enemies.

Though we began our journey together.
Though we staked out
A claim within Holy Walls.
I’ve come to accept
That we do not travel the same Road
Or follow the same Source
And this has saddened me, greatly.
One can’t help but wonder,
What will it take for ‘You’ to return
To the ‘Way’.
A death? A birth? A disability?
Or are you so charmed,
As to think, you will make it to the end of life
Without your cocoon being pierced
By an instrument of God.
I only pray, that you are spared the knowing-ness
That that instrument
Is often the scalpel, of Christ’s own hand

Dedication (For complacent Orthodox Christians)
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2005

A Neighbour Weeding

Vasilios Theodorakis — Thu, 23 Sep 2004 08:00:41 +0000

Palm planted
He reclined
Back, in greeting
His dawn, of eastern gold.
Fingers arched,
There was silent focus
In the line of his neck,
Seeking the little
Menace
That was Bent
On return,
And intent,
In its struggle
To cement permanancy
Through forays
To conquer,
The legancy of one man.
Though his Face
Turned away
The sprawled
Seating
On nurtured grass
Said more
Than expression.
This was a soul
Contented,
Knowing, time’s edge
Was near,
And that
Weeding was just
One,
Of a glorious
Multitude
Of memories
He would be taking
With him
Across the divide.

His silouette
Now etched in my mind,
Is seeded whole -
An archetype of peace.
And I am
Forever grateful
For his moment of grace,
Which was sprinkled
Through a window,
Upon a neighbour,
Whom
He never knew.

Dedication (For Stan Cutlack)
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2004

The Englishman…

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 12 Oct 2003 08:00:56 +0000

Of tempered manner,
Refined in stance,
Class-ed brow,
And fine cut hair.
You are, what the colonies were built on.
You are the muscle,
You are the backbone,
You are the worker left behind
When empire building
Was done with.
Yet, you continue the tradition
Of all that was best
About Queen and Country.

Too bad the ‘cultured’
Only know you as ‘the drunk’,
And not the gentleman
That you truly are.

Dedication (For Joseph Plunkett)
Audio Version (Podcast – MP3 / 42sec / 331kb)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2003

The Stubbled Face…

Vasilios Theodorakis — Tue, 23 Sep 2003 08:00:12 +0000

To be alive
Is to pry open
The vanity,
Acknowledge the village square,
Breath in the jasmine
And dry the morning beams.
Foam cover the face,
Shave,
And shout greetings
To friends and family,
Who walk the cobblers
Not so far below.

Simple complexity
Begets
Low cost richness,
For males
Of
Any Age.

Audio Version (Podcast – MP3 / 40sec / 315kb)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2003

Rainbow…

Vasilios Theodorakis — Thu, 24 Apr 2003 08:00:58 +0000

Glory oh glorious,
Silhouetted against an arch
Our frames leap
To touch your form.
A promise made,
A promise kept,
You are revealed
Full length
To the descendants
Of Noah.
Bay straddled
From island to rotunda,
You force us
To catch our breath,
And wonder at majesty
Never matched
By our hands.
Smudging colour,
Drizzling rain,
Soft words from my wife
And then
You are vanquished,
As buses push you aside
On their way to heaven.

Until next time
Then,
When all variables align,
And you stretch tall,
My hidden,
And ancient Friend.

Audio Version (Podcast – MP3 / 54sec / 425kb)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2003

W.T.C.

Vasilios Theodorakis — Thu, 13 Sep 2001 08:00:39 +0000

Let us not think
Too hard
Or too long,
And it may yet
Come to pass,
That our
Arrogance and Ignorance,
Will be forgiven
By the seventy percentiles,
Who lack and die
Each and every day.

But I fear
Its more likely,
That the sandpits
Of the mind
Will burn the fury
Of their eyes,
Into their hands,
And cause them
To gouge out
The sight
Of the First.

And now,
As countless innocents
Incinerate,
Within the distinctness
Of the Mind.
Impotent leaders
Dance political jigs,
Poking out tongues
While taunting the harmful,
Who’d happily scrape
More sanctity, off the lives, of those who remain.

Dedication (In Memory Of The World Trade Center Tragedy)
Audio Version (Podcast – MP3 / 55sec / 433kb)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2001

Soldier Blood

Vasilios Theodorakis — Tue, 11 Sep 2001 08:00:50 +0000

The curbing of rage
Sends out needles,
Drawn forth to target
None other
Than the self.
Blessed by DNA strands
Selected through fight,
I am at a disadvantage
In a world that values
None of the gifts
I bring to the pool.
The clotting
That saved,
My knife wielding kin.
The adrenaline
That carried,
Their hand to hand combat.
Both, seen as mutations
To be controlled, not extolled.
I find
The memory
Of those eliminated,
To produce the ‘me’,
Insulted.
Three cheers for modern medicine and western civilisation.
They continue to see nothing,
Beyond the narrow
Of the norm.

May their place
In this DNA space,
Grow in regression.

Dedication (For My Ancestors)
Audio Version (Podcast – MP3 / 60sec / 472kb)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2001

Unknown Sage

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 05 Aug 2001 20:00:36 +0000

His given name -
Versatility,
Sought solutions
Which pooled like cool oil drops on velvet.
Had he not lived,
Fiction would not have invented
Such fantasy.
He walked with the Invisible Ones
Moulding creation,
Long before his Brothers and Sisters
Regained the Insight.
He was the catalyst
Seeding the awakening,
But no one ever knew him,
And the changes he brought
Almost never came to pass.
The fact that he breathed at all,
Gives us hope -
A clear reason to live.

For
Each and everyone,
Now knows,
We are the centre
Of at least one universe -
Namely, our own.

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2001

Curvature

Vasilios Theodorakis — Wed, 01 Aug 2001 08:00:46 +0000

Forever and ever
We circle
Our precious home,
Not seeing
The jewel that wears us as its glory.

Taken from the deepest
Blue of seas,
Souls were broken,
Fed upon soil-less food
And ground, face first into the desert of safety.
But the desert
Finally turned to muddied water.
And the muddied water
Finally distilled to sea and sediment.
And the sea and sediment
Once again allowed us
To touch the deepest blue of our past.

So across the water
Curvature is again
Eyed by Byzantine Mariners,
Whose lookout,
Is now built upon the steps
Of Wynnum Natives.

The voice
Though silenced for millennia,
Is again rising
To glorify
Far more
Than a mythological phoenix.

And this time
It will praise
His Being proper.
“So be it!”
Shout the visible and invisible worlds,
May we not rest till it is done.

Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2001

A Lite Blanket, A Brick Wall…

Vasilios Theodorakis — Tue, 17 Jul 2001 08:00:43 +0000

Without disguise
Peace is poured into cavities,
And I lean
As hard as strength allows,
Cradled
By mortar and wood.

So long lived
Amongst the elements,
My being
Was lip serviced
By fibro,
Fronting as home.

And now? I clutch at good fortune
Wondering, what next.
Were I
To entertain confidence,
The road ahead would be paved
By dreams and grace filled places.

Hence, as lids get laden
Goodness surrounds me,
Extended by the solidarity of brick against brick.
Something, unknown to me
Since childhood,
But comforting none the less.

Dedication (For Our Home)
Audio Version (Podcast – MP3 / 55sec / 433kb)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2001

Cleared City Land

Vasilios Theodorakis — Mon, 11 May 1998 08:00:50 +0000

Everything is still.
There is no longer pain,
Anxiety or fear.
There is no longer wanting or darkness.
There is open hope.
Unassuming,
Unconcealed or shielded by metaphor.
Free to express and to dream
Of better times for the self,
And more power to the reality of all people.
Gratitude, is what I have come to know in each breath.
And were it to change or end tomorrow,
I would sigh the rush of the resolved
And relax into the light of His return.

Dedication (For Helen)
Audio Version (To Be Added)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 1998

Beginnings

Vasilios Theodorakis — Thu, 05 Jun 1997 08:00:15 +0000

Simply cupped,
Hands shake in their capture
Of each other’s
Weakness.

We are not what we seem.
We are the more,
The un-quashed voices
Of hearts
Pounding their way towards the beginning place,
Where honesty applauds
More loudly
Than Baroque patrons of old.

We are ourselves,
Beyond that of strangers
Whose glances are washed away
By the turning of a head.
And in part, we are the moment
Raised high
Like a banner
Announcing our stake in this – life’s lottery to be…

Cotton, Steel and Plastic.

Vasilios Theodorakis — Mon, 27 Jun 1994 08:00:40 +0000

All you have known is gold.
The silver spoon of a mobile
You hold like a new born
Of importance – beyond life,
Of depth – beyond God,
Of people – but nothing.
All that is memorable
Is the braid.
Plaited to the wrist,
Your means of breath,
Has become your delusion of oxygen
It’s irony of non-air is like the poisonous Fumes Of Old.

All I have known is cotton, steel and plastic.
Of a brother’s failure,
Of a sister’s pain,
Of the self, forever before me.
Temptation by the now is everywhere,
But I cannot forget what I have seen.
Your shallowness is my nausea,
And I will be judged for judging,
But so be it.
For my heart tells me you are wrong
And this I cannot ignore.
Other things I might,

But this, I cannot.

The Onward Struggle – Making A Place Of Our Own

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 14 Nov 1993 08:00:31 +0000

Sister of Wisdom
I noticed that your smile had faded,
Softened in transience amoungst places of New.
And I wondered
Whether life had left your soul giving stance.
But on seeing the candle still flickering,
My heart filled with the Blood
Spilt to the floor,
Freely offered up by our Brothers and Sisters
Through past sacrifice;
And done so, to reinstate clarity
Of Truth, and maintenance of core Tradition.
Only then did I understand
That the road before you and I,
Though potted with holes and obstacles
Is so worthy of travel.
For through the harshness
I am given, to standing in common with Hope,
Still fresh in the faith
That we will be victorious;

Being driven and drawn forward
By the knowing
That we are struggling
For that which is timeless;
While those against us
Are fixating on that which has passed.

Going Home, To Rest…

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 10 Oct 1993 08:00:18 +0000

I have sometimes felt the tangible hand of God
On my shoulder.
Often ignoring the comfort which was offered
I’ve stumbled through the darkness, choosing pain
Instead as my companion
And wondering why my life has been forsaken.

The invitation has always
Been there – the choice to rise beyond the clouds of fatalism
To turn, dive and soar through the structural imposition,
Like the pure hearted crow
Who never allows its own beauty
To be misaligned by the visual perception of blackness.

And like the crow,
We are all descendants
Of the forcibly transplanted.
Continuum of the Body Community
Broken – we have choice to maintain the isolation
Or reconnect – once again to form Church.

I have come close to stepping away forever
And this has scared me.
To follow the face of the spiritually punch drunk
Or the face of the clear hearted… Which will it be?
I must remember my whys, and be still
Until my hows, guide my heart – placing it in God’s Palm.

I long for the Strength
To ensure I pursue this;
Otherwise the evolution of my soul is jeopardised
And this, I know… can easily come to be.

Soul Port

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sat, 17 Jul 1993 08:00:22 +0000

There is this portion
Of my heart where forever is held,
Cradled in warmth and compassion.
Reasoning in its most useful form
Cautions without fear,
Breath taken above
All wonder
And known Truth, is just and always felt.

It is there that the breeze is never harrowing,
That the sun’s warmth reaches the marrow
And powers the soul,
In ways known only in times of fables and legends.
Where the nobility fought gallantly without bloodshed.
Where honour knew respect and caring as the bottom line,
And dragons, were demons that we could detect
Not charaded away within the forms of humanity.

Through this corner of my Passion
I see what each really is
And adjust accordingly.
From here I am fed the Fire and the Water,
The Strength that does not end

And filling my connecting force,
My window of clarity and interaction
With the world,
Goes on
Always opening out to my soul and Beyond.

To Quell The Racism…

Vasilios Theodorakis — Tue, 15 Sep 1992 08:00:51 +0000

Into the light of doubt
Is caste the raising of the sword,
Such that, the darkness of salutes
Is an angle of structure no more.

Its residence then, is not forever.
Each chip it makes, each take,
Though sometimes mortally wounding
May cease its cause through Truth.

We in turn, create the oracle of humanity;
The living dream outside of myth and speculation.
And when the fruit trees bloom
In multitudes across the planet,

We know that the struggle was not in vain;
And that all peoples can smile at their sun
And not risk persecution,
By those who smile at the sand.

The Youth Wage.

Vasilios Theodorakis — Mon, 06 Jul 1992 08:00:34 +0000

Coveted with glitter in the manner of mouths
Basted with privilege;
A new invention to save us from the dreaded ‘R’ word – he says.
‘Recession blues – Will, Be, Over!’
Yes, that’s it – amazing how it didn’t come to him sooner.
The three dollars an hour rate,
Huh;
Can you believe it!?
How wonderful, how glorious, how beautifully flavoured.
Its like, – bring back the colonial overtones,
White wash our young with designer labels for convicts.
Ahhh,… mister opposition man
Come on down from your Ferrari Saddle
Scrub dishes for eight hours,
Get 24 dollars, minus tax, in your pocket,
Entitle yourself to the youth dream of graduating to floors.
For of cause, the ‘structure’ will give young people experience,
Open up positions,
Never dead end jobs
Nor sanctioned enslavement like the Commies quote.

We’re going backwards folks,
Just ever, such a little bit…

Chaos In Sterility – The Western World…

Vasilios Theodorakis — Wed, 15 Apr 1992 08:00:40 +0000

Troubled again is the thought,
And as the tear falls
In the torrent of a single drop,
All is lost before it began;
As though the dignity of existence
Was a Utopian thing in a far distant place,
A place where they knew nothing of humanity
And its struggle to just be.

All this
When one need only
Sun and Sky,
Earth and Wind,
Water
As a soothing friend.
All this,
And more in One:

Sadness, that can’t be felt;
Anger, that can’t be seen;
Happiness, that never frees;
Peace, that can not be…

Casting Off The Handed Down Toxin.

Vasilios Theodorakis — Mon, 13 Apr 1992 08:00:56 +0000

There was a Xmas Tree.
A fir in the european sense;
And a little one – a boy,
Who sat beneath it with a book.
So fond of tales was he – thumb imprinted it spoke.
Opened, he would run through the stories
To where a section was blank.
And often he’d yell into the darkness,
“But why?” – …never to hear a response.

There was a young man.
Alone with no leaves,
But ever so many books — and one,
An isolated spine, which sat quite still
And read so blank in its non-being.
Within this he had a dream
And in it, Saint Nik – a guy with an affectionate fuzzy beard,
Handed him pen and ink
And rumbled, “Write what you will, when you will, as you will.”

There was a person,
Standing at ease below the grandeur of a Moreton Bay Fig,
Holding all Traditions with equal regard and respect;
Remembering the filling up of paper with mind,
While a little girl tugged at a trouser leg
And held out a thought plate
Saying, “I’m done.”
For her, the new young, there was no need to be told
Explore as you will.

For it had come to be – that one was born of freedom
Where chapters could always be written,
And bottling into kegs of fear was only a memory
In a passing youth’s imagination…

The Golden Bridge

Vasilios Theodorakis — Thu, 29 Aug 1991 08:00:55 +0000

There is a place
Where the visible meets the invisible;
And there,
Beings stroll upon bridges
Created out of living, flickering star light,
All of which
Deposits itself
Wherever
The life forms choose to walk.

Malamati,
So long we’ve both waited.
You, for a future for our lineage.
Me, for a life.
Tonight both dreams joined,
To bridge the ravine
Turned on by wars and generations of walking dead.
But the light flows again.
I accepted your beckoning
To come,
And you accepted my reciprocation,
And smiled at me.
And as we walked the air
It became real.
A solid link created by souls
Whose history went wrong
And broke the unbreakable.
But Creation remade through two hearts – one past, one present,
And as we parted
You said you’d await my return.
Walking to our new home
I turned and looked back.
Behind, the glorious kingdoms
Of Asia Minor glowed.
In front, the sparkling mist
Of dreams
Waiting to be moulded
Into new realities;
Even greater futures and worlds
Than our Emperors did know.
And there, in this time
Will walk a girl called to brilliance,
Who will be your own.
And her line will continue the nobility
For she will be the first
Princess since yourself.
And what I have guarded for you
May at last be released.

Mentor, my mentor
Our embers burned low,
But look, we finally have futures
And in them,
Immortality and children.
Life in its full
And the Kingdom lives on
Through an unbroken line.
Corrected at last,
By souls who reached out
In the twilight
When the rest thought
We were dead
And the ravine had eaten well.
Throughout the seen and unseen
We clasped hands
And made whole again.
And that’s all that matters.
It is not for their eyes,
It was for us and our descendants.
Others need not know
That we are healed
From their lives.

And so we stand…

Too Fast.

Vasilios Theodorakis — Sun, 31 Mar 1991 08:00:11 +0000

There’ll be time enough
For hardship,
Adult ridden in decisions of pressure.
Why not,
Let the bright and breath of childhood
Saturate their souls for the while.
All too soon
Toys will be pushed aside
With an absence of laughter.
So why rush the process
Anymore than it must.
Let them speak of imaginings,
Throw fairy-floss,
Dream dreams
As the real things they are.
Let them splash thought scribbles
Fresh upon the story book,
Beside their innocence
And doona ravaged beds.
In time the security lights are extinguished.
So, why the need
To take the flame early?
Is it pay back
For one’s own loss?

Parents turn away,
Professing deafness
At
Such thoughts…

An Order

Vasilios Theodorakis — Fri, 27 Jul 1990 08:00:42 +0000

Step aside
Oh torch of darkness.

For there is a Meadow
And Daisy behind your facade;

To good to remain unknown,
And I will know it before my end.