snow on the mountains
defiant of the warm sun
rests, sugar sprinkled—
—as I stand warming
in this brilliant sunlight bath,
the cross of snow melts—
no longer seeking
refuge upon my still chest,
where feeling returns.
Prayers for this world whispered lightly, softly as if fearful of offense. I wish to scream my discordant, unsung prayers into this world, letting …
My Prayers for this World – Annette Kalandros
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We, the dogs and I, stopped and watched a mockingbird chase a hawk away from her nest. She did not stop. She did not hesitate. Her bravery knew no …
Force of Nature – Annette Kalandros
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No doves live here. Only a sparrow stirs its wings, bristling against the chill of this grey misty morning of rainy cares. No peace found anywhere on…
No Doves live Here – Annette Kalandros
Pouring rain while the sun shone on a summer’s day… I will never forget that time, that moment, when I saw, without doubt, The Devil’s face, …
The Devil’s Face – Annette Kalandros
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A scent, remembered from morning deepens missing, yet the knowing grows green, healthy tendrils like the Golden Pothos sitting in the window, enjoying warming sunlight.
Inside a sarcophagus of stone, I have dwelled, a hard place in which to learn to live, no breath taken, heart stilled, where all living shrinks down, behind skin and soul, to be bound in hieroglyphic wrappings designed by others. Onlookers believing the pretense they wish to see-- as I stopped struggling for air, a mimic of the beating rhythms of life, accepting the coldness of the stone. Any warmth transitory as the sun in its travels from season to season from rise to set, in these years I have known only coldness after any fleeting glimpse of warmth. Such a bitter coldness-- though none would think I lived encased within stone, so life-like my hieroglyphic mask, a masterful mimic I had become. Until stone cracked, by mountain winds and sun, falling in splintered shards, crumbling to dust ‘round me. My tattered, faded wrappings torn, hanging loosely. Until a hand, as if in possession of long forgotten, ancient magic, should touch long dead embers, and in touching rekindle flame, swirling within, spiraling outward warmth that does not die upon the withdrawal of touch. A heat lingering, warming still, stirs hunger once thought dead to life. Sweetness pounds a rhythm out— starting a heart to beat again, blessed breath returns to deflated lungs, the shallow breath, the weak pulse hold ancient power, leaving flesh and blood and bone to move in life again, a life reclaimed from the stone of gray filled years. Cautiously, hesitantly, I step over the dust of shattered stone, making my way toward the touch that carefully, tenderly removed my tattered hieroglyphic bindings, allowing me to move freely within my own skin. There trembles within, a longing I never sought to find. Hope rises and takes Fear within its embrace, transforming it to joy, as I extend my hand to the warmth of you.
I’ve revised and reworked an earlier piece written in 2017 as a response to the terrorism of Hamas and the war Israel has declared. It seems to me that this slaughter by Hamas and the retaliation that Israel is now forced to take cannot be what any God wants. Surely, it is not what the Palestinian people or the people of Israel want either.
The blood of children falls as rain on Holy ground. The blood of their parents chasing after as if to save it, stopping it from concreating the land to evil born of old hatred as the world, emptied of all care, watches. No uprisings. No shouting in the streets as this blood rain of innocents falls, flooding the silent world as nations watch, hands bloodied in pretense of helplessness before turning their backs. The seven descend. Each with wings spread enough to fill a house. Shalom upon their tongues. Throughout the compass points they search to find all the gnawed bones, the muscles and sinew, the heart and entrails torn with teeth of hate. And once the seven gather all the tiny bits, With flaming swords used as needles, they try to stitch all humanity’s bloody bits into one thing well knit. Neither their swords, nor spirit of their breath have the power to seal the meat and sinew to bone. And then they know-- those who showed no mercy would be given none. Their heads hang-- Inshallah upon their lips as they ascend. Their flaming eyes weeping tears of fire as they see the red rider striding across the land. It is then the seven know humanity’s avarice and hate had broken the fourth seal. Maa shaa’Allah a whisper of smoke within their throats. From the seven sets of fiery eyes, their tears of fire stream Retzon ha-el across the night sky.
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