Τετάρτη, 22 Μαρτίου 2017



Crowds are immersing themselves in parables
The choir is singing the lyrics without rhyme
A child is silent, echoing tears of lost dreams

The hills are filled with no hiding spaces
Armies are marching without a sound
A woman is clenching her fists, nails piercing through her skin
Research is being made for diseases
People die from avoidable harm
A man races to his young self, to take back the years lost
The virus of your sorrow
The seconds of your livelihood
The breath of your kiss
Creeping up your nerve endings
Diffusing through choices

Reciprocating for dysfunctional neurotransmitters

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Κυριακή, 19 Μαρτίου 2017


Waves travel from one source to the next
Bending through crevices, smiles, the humidity and rain
Only to bring news of the

The present is ever-lasting but never returns
The fingers on your hips will cripple;
Impulses will send the message for
Until it, too, will become a vivid, ever-lasting
Memory of
Momentary bliss.
You were there
And so was she.
It was not a hallucination.
You felt her, breathed in her existence
Caressed her cheek
Brushed your lips against hers in place of

You are not young in your youth if you
Condescend your present
You are not living while
Yearning for false hopes of your future
You are not grasping your potential
When you long for repetition of your past.

Catharsis will, too, come in waves.
One must be open to feel it.
One must be humble to understand it.
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Κυριακή, 12 Μαρτίου 2017

In the lad with the sun kissed skin
I see
Waves of laughter
Youth emerging
Dancing between the limit of

In the lady with the strands of keratin
I see
Coffee bean foam
Wet feet meshing with sand
Ankle bracelets hanging
Calm and beautiful
Above a small
But discernible
Maroon colored scar

In the child with freckles
Too many to count
A watch to remember
On the right wrist
Broken but forever changing
With dirty finger tips
Consulting the

Old Town Clock’s
A disappointing
Though comforting
Of return

In the face of anonymity
The untold stories
The inaction
The personal
Testimonies of
For closer proximity
For another chance
To seize the moments
Randomly planted
By and for us
The days before
Only for us to have the
Realization of
Waking up to yet
Another day of

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Σάββατο, 11 Μαρτίου 2017

A granddaughter learns about her grandfather’s past through editing his biography. He was an Armenian writer, publisher, teacher and editor. How ironic.

He sits on her bed, looking at her with a cheeky smile. His hands are interlocked and rest on his lap. His hard-rimmed glasses are quite notable and his eyes are fixated on each sound of the keyboard.

She takes a sip of her coffee and leaves her cigarette to the side.

I wonder what he was like. This thought has been on her mind since her early teenage years.
Her hair is just like my Maria’s… her nose too! Armenian nose!, he thinks proudly.
He once typed away like she is doing now.
He gets up from the bed and nears in.

I wonder what that illuminous square object is, he wonders.
When he gets the chance to visit his people in spirit, he has noticed these funny objects become more abundant and, perhaps, minute?
His hands are rested on each side of his waist as he tilts his head to the left and tries to understand this newfound futuristic item. It even has numbers and words! Oh my.

Anoushig? Can you hear me? He voices introvertly, loud and clear.
Her ear starts to tickle for some odd reason.

Must be the breeze, she thinks.
Hokis, I have something to tell you. You cannot hear me but that is okay. Where to begin..

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Δευτέρα, 6 Μαρτίου 2017


(Picture Source: http://inkpathsconverging.tumblr.com/post/157309959202/lisbon-every-back-street-worth-a-sketch-by-r#notes)

Midday melancholy
The gentle breeze curls around my earlobe
Following a pattern
Like the waves on the shore
The scent of honey and the diversity of flowers overpower my senses
With every step I am careful to listen

History was written in this alleyway
A woman walked to her death with the same number of
Men were sacrificed in their endeavour to sacrifice

A child looked out of the window
To the mosaic of houses
Bricks and debris which once formed a
Love was spread in that doorstep
In midnight, in hiding

Children, aged eight sat on those steps
Played games to pass the time
Until midday

The brink of maroon
The solitude of tiredness
The subtle irony of


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Πέμπτη, 16 Φεβρουαρίου 2017

Με την αναπνοή τους
Εισπνέουν το ίδιο οξυγόνο
Γένος - ουδέτερο
Γένος - διπλωματικό

Σμίγουν σκεπτόμενοι το ιερό τίποτα
Ακολουθούν τις σκιές
Κάτω από το φωτισμένο αξιοθέατο

Εκεί που δόθηκαν τα μεγαλύτερα ‘’θέλω’’
Εκεί που ψιθυρίστηκαν τα απλότερα ‘’σ’αγαπώ’’

Ονειροπολούν τη ξενιτιά
Αναμένουν την επαφή
Ενστερνίζοντας το απόλυτο

Γράφουν γράμματα που μήτε θα αγγιχθούν, μήτε θα ειδωθούν
Τρέμοντας με κρύα δάχτυλα
Τα απαγορευμένα λόγια
Της παράλληλης όρασης

Εκεί που είναι επικίνδυνα να προσμένεις.
Εκεί που είναι ανώδυνη η απραξία.
Το στυλό τελειώνει από μελάνι
Ενώ οι ψυχές τους αναβλύζουν

Αλλάζουν οι καιροί,
Μεγαλώνουν τα πιτσιρίκια
Προβληματίζονται οι ηλικιωμένοι

Μαζί τους, καινούργιο μελάνι αρχίζει να γράφει
Το επόμενο κεφάλαιο
Την αναμενόμενη αρχή

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Πέμπτη, 2 Φεβρουαρίου 2017

Pour me some wine,
Let it trickle down my throat
With quintessence, with patience

Pour me some wine
Let it follow the movement of my fingers
With delicacy, with meticulousness

Pour me some wine,
Let it surpass the flow of my blood
With insignificance, with melody

Let it leave my system,
To quench the thirst of our future lovers.

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