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Best Poems Written by Ahellas Alixopulos

Below are the all-time best Ahellas Alixopulos poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Three Messengers

Old and ugly and well married is the visage
that I carry, and yet, there is another world
that keeps opening up its magic door.
It sends me notes and emissaries
that I could be, 
I should be much more than what I am.

The first message, that I was aware of
came to me in the high desert where 
I sat Walden-like by a pool trying to 
get back to the source, I'm told, is
within us all.

Suddenly I saw a flurry
a mile across the valley floor,
a point took flight and became
a mystic preying mantis
that picked my shoulder as a perch.

Mid day church bells rang 
at that moment and I watched
the sound reverberate
shaking bushes and trees
down the valley, scattering
birds and small animals.

Yet the mantis on my shoulder
calmly sat, cocked its head,
and in its eyes there was a question.

I replied to the mantis' query that
"I was old and ugly and well married and
I am simply not quite ready,
but keep the offer open and 
I will be ready soon."

After a month of worrying that
perhaps I had gone too far,
in refusing to go through an open door,
I summoned it again.
Right there in my backyard I heard
a flurry and found a grasshopper perched
where you had perched before.
The question in its eyes left no doubt
it again was you.

I replied that I just wanted to make sure 
that the offer you had proffered still
was mine to take.
You flew away as I explained that
"I was old and ugly and well married and
simply still not quite ready but keep the offer open,
and I'll be ready soon."

Years went by and I forgot the magic,
indeed, avoided magic.
I went to a marriage yesterday,
I sat alone, away from the others,
on a bridge, by a pond,
amongst tall pines and redwoods.
I thought again of the mystic mantis.

Suddenly you were there.
You came out of a crowd of happy guests
and crossed into my solitary space.
You touched my shoulder and my hand
and kept it there for the fastest hour.
We talked about nature and 
books we had both read,
the giant puppets you made,
and about things 
I'd never tell a stranger.
I looked into your eyes
and realized
that we had met at least
twice before and saw the familiar offer.
In my mind I pleaded for more time because
I am old and ugly and well married,
but please, please keep the offer open
because I'll be ready soon.
Suddenly you were gone.

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Do You Have a Song?

When Whitman said
make your life a song,
had he spoken to old whalers?
Did they tell him of nights becalmed
on a pacific salty sea,
when no sound of lapping waves,
or rope stressed wood,
could interfere with the silence in the hold?
Did they tell of a time beyond sleep
long after the oil lamps were shut down?
When the silence of the briny deep
was broken by the eerie songs of whales,
oozing through the wooden walls.
Did they know, then, what they heard,
or did they talk in hushed tones
as ancient seamen did,
of harpies and sirens and
devils of the deep.
Did some say, "Those are our prey."
and recognize the song
and even familiar melodies and laments
from earlier seasons spent
plying these same seas.
Short songs and long songs,
and new songs built upon old songs,
pod songs and fractal songs,
and interminable songs of pain
and love songs that can be heard
by those who hear
from one edge of the basin
of the sea, under to the other edge.
Do you have a song?
Have you worked on it each season?
Is it short and repetitious
or have you worked to improve its sound
each turning of the moon?
Is it deep and subtle?
Does it provoke a laugh?
Would I recognize it far away
on a dark and briny night?
Would you mind if I wove my song
in and out of yours?
Do you have a song?

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Moving Lightly

I move lightly at sixty,
a little less than the max.
Any faster, and the sunflower shells I spit
blow back in my face,
and any slower and the driver behind
becomes too distressed.

I move lightly at sixty,
homeward through the rural landscape,
past barns and combines,
engine humming, without straining,
secure that I need not be anywhere,
or anything, but myself.

I move lightly at sixty,
through the longer shadows of fall,
short days and warm afternoons,
trees variegated with the leafy
nostalgias of the year past,
and the years before.

I move lightly at sixty,
the old van's engine drones
as I "OM", indistinguishable
one from the other, both well worn,
and oblivious of the
years we show.

I move lightly at sixty,
no longer with a need to lie,
or prevaricate,
in love with every woman I see,
and no longer afraid
to say so.

I move lightly at sixty,
in love with the journey,
rather than the goal.
In love with the moment
rather than the hour and 
the need to mark it.

I move lightly at sixty,
bemused by public anger over
a rappers words, knowing they
are far less harmful
than the blood shed
in my time.

I move lightly at sixty,
ready to gear down if necessary,
still able to speed up if needed
to avoid the hazards
of an overactive ego
and libido.

I move lightly at sixty,
content to be alone,
joyful to have company,
regretting neither,
thankful for old friends,
and old loves.

I move lightly at sixty,
finding that not acting,
is as important as the act,
knowing that one can be undone,
and the other, can't.

I move lightly at sixty,
like a comfortable breeze
on a fall day, a thermal for a bird,
uplift for a friend,
a drying wind for a
tearful cheek.

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Poet's Epitaph

"Xanadu of Oranges", the reporter wrote,
just one of many paper slips and notes,
left behind when the poet died, unquote.
To his very last moment, he had hopes
that he could write that one poem so supreme
in its cadence and rhyme, in its meaning
so sublime, that no one could miss his dream.
No one could misinterpret, none seeing
his words could mistake intent or lament
that he had regrettably missed his mark
or remark, "derivative!",or really meant
much of his work as only so much dark
comment on a personal life of strife and grief.
No, he meant a poem to sweep you off your feet.

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Fear

In the fifties leaders told
an innocent trusting
populace
to duck and cover.

Years later they felt
so foolish
for the easy way
they let their fears
be strummed.

It had worked so well
that with ignorance
and forgetfulness that goes 
with time,
and the arrogance that goes
with power,
and a populace drained
of will,
and hyped by televised fears,
many rushed out to buy
duct tape.

Now in a land
birthed in religious freedom
we argued over mosques
while desperate matters
are left unresolved.

Somewhere in this land
a jackass is braying.

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I'Ve Seen So Many

I've seen so many sunsets just like this.
Yes, the gentle closing of a spring day.
The cats on the fence are afraid to miss
their secret daylight duties fore the last ray
ascends the trees chased by the shadows
of twilight. The children next door sometimes
yelling but more muffled now cause night follows
and soon they will be jailed for day crimes,
so they think, as they are called for the evening.
Now all is still, not a leaf moves, slow mode,
silhouettes of lighted life, hushed, expecting
the appearance of a new god and a new code
that will rule the night and finally kiss
the dawn. I've seen so many sunsets, just like this

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Farming As a Terrorist Act

Going on down to the demos today
the last farmer has been put away.
They shot him down
just outside of town.
Police found him in his own cornfield,
where he resisted and  refused to yield.
Since his were crimes against the state,
then death obviously was to be his fate.

Going on down to the demos today
the last farmer has been put away.
He refused to buy corn from the corporation,
produced his own seeds for his liberation.
He refused to buy genetic sprays
to eliminate the bugs and the butterflys.
By his wanton self pollination
he threatened the food supply of our nation.
We're going on down to the demos today
to give thanks to those who put terrorists away.

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Huge Garage Sale

The residents will soon be moving.
There is lots of miscellaneous and
still useable items.
Some old growth redwoods 
and fishable seas, some 
breathable air
and unpolluted shores,
bargains galore so
don't hesitate
to make an offer.
All prices are negotiable
and everything must go.
Saturday, from 9-5, please,
no earlies.
Earth, the nearest cross-street
is Milky Way.

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Jan's Garden

This sweet gentle sonnet is for Janet.
In whose garden I've sat for the last hour.
There is no better place on the planet
to capture the grace and awesome power
of a person who thinks she has neither.
A silent orchestra of bright colors,
soloist and chorus of each species gather
in season from subtle to loud bellow,
in a silent sonata conducted
by a genius gardener spreading life
and beauty and love. Reward not expected
by our maistro except the relief
of life's burdens, a few ripe tomatoes,
appreciative children, any of those.

Details | Ahellas Alixopulos Poem

Euphoria

Euphoria this morning, it hits me
now and then. A feeling of joy and peace.
A feeling of well being, sense of we
rather than I, quickening, a release,
knowledge that there is another world
so close that I can touch it if I choose,
a sense of all the others that I hold
at bay on ordinary days, let loose
in the room, the house, in the universe,
and I know I am invited to join
them where they are, here and in the reverse,
seen and unobserved, a flip of a coin
away. I hold the door open slightly,
at times for hours, then, close it gently.