Vasilios Theodorakis – An Online Author

What ever religion we follow – there is still only one Truth. All Mysticism and Spirituality is only a different (better or worse) interpretation of that Truth. You could sift through a thousand religions, but you would still end up looking at the same reality, only through different people’s eyes.

I continue to view reality through Trinitarian (Orthodox Christian) eyes, though its highly unfashionable and often gets me into trouble.

Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2007

There are no need for signs. Life is the sign, breath is its proof – all we need to do is open our eyes.

Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2007

Its taken so long for this site to launch that I was certain I had become trapped in a time loop. :) But finally, its here – a clean design, a few old poems and lots more verse, commentaries and stories to be added in the coming months (and years). Many of the static pages you currently see on the site, still need content transferred into them, but this will happen very soon.

Also, please keep in mind that my work will not necessarily appear at the start of the blog as each piece will be accurately date stamped e.g. 20 August 1991, in order to authentically highlight when it was written. This means that a new release will not necessarily appear as the latest posting, but will show up within the site. You’ll need to make use of the RSS feed (from the site) to know where and in which time period the new piece has appeared.

And finally, thank you to friends and family who’ve unconditionally supported and encouraged the creation of this site to promote my poetry (and other writing). A special thank you to my wife Helen, who harrassed me daily (for almost ten years) to begin releasing my work publicly. Helen – I’m sorry its taken this long, but better late than never. :)

So, I thank you all again for your patience, and hope the material you find on this website proves worthy of your belief in it, and in me.

Cheers – Vasilios Theodorakis – August 2007

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

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

May the angels of the quill be on your side, and may your paper flow freely below pen or processor.

Dedication (For Rachel Robinson)
Copyright © Vasilios Theodorakis 2007

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

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

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

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