A hero of our times - a poem by Chris Zachariou

A beautiful young woman

My imagined life:

All the photos in the hall
football games in the park on Sundays
birthday songs and squeals of laughter.

The mind of a tortured genius - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Symbols of Societal Conformity

The crazed painter dips his brush
into the hues of his squalid mind.

He pours his twisted visions onto the temple walls—
putrid green to drown the lamb,
red and black for the demons dancing on the towers.

Mary Magdalene - a poem by Chris Zachariou

My love for The Son of Man and Christianity as a way of life is infinite, however, I find it impossible to believe in a metaphysical world.

This poem is my own personal view of God, Jesus, and Mary Magdalene. Please do not continue reading if you are easily offended or intolerant of other peoples' views.

This poem is largely inspired by the novel 'The Last Temptation of Christ' by Nikos Kazantzakis.

Mary Magdalene

My Lord, my life is yours. Since I was a little girl, I’ve lived for the day you’d come.

When I was but thirteen, and you fifteen, both almost children, your gaze sealed my fate. You held my hand and spoke strange words I'd never heard before, words I would never hear again. Then you pressed your lips on mine! I kissed you back, a child's kiss—innocent and chaste—yet we both sensed we had crossed forbidden boundaries.  You caressed my hair, our lips met once more, and in a daze, you breathed in the fragrance of my aching breasts.

Consumed by fear, you fled—a trembling soul possessed—stumbling and collapsing. I wiped your brow and cleansed your mouth, yet each time you quivered like a startled dove. I wept and beseeched Him to release you, but Jehovah, a cruel and jealous God, ignored my child’s pleas.

Seven sins came riding from afar across the Galilee knocking on my father's door. He cursed me, told me I was the bride of Lucifer, and commanded me to leave his house.

Since then, a red light burns in my window, and countless men defile my body night and day. I lie on my soiled bed in this room of shame with my face to the wall, feigning love’s cries—a love without love. Bites and scratches mar my flesh, and my tattered scarlet gown, always open to all the colours of the world, forever reeks of the stench of shameful sex. I search for you my Lord each night in all the insatiable mouths and in all the vile hands crawling on my thighs and breasts, and even though each morning I scrape and bathe in myrrh, the smell of paid-for sex still lingers in the air.

My Lord, all the nations of this earth have passed through my bed. I’m tormented, scorned, and shamed. I'm abused and always sold to the highest bidder, yet I'm still that little girl, unsullied by any man, waiting to be your beloved bride.

And now, you knock on my door, and you walk in with downcast eyes blushing like a virgin. You bleat like a lamb and call me sister, you say my shame is your shame and you tell me you want to save me. But tonight, I don't want sainthood or your God. Put out the red light, fall into my bed, and save my flesh. My soul will not tarry far behind.

The Migrant's Journey - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Distressed Migrant Mother and Baby

Our homes lie in ruins

and our daughters are abused

by the soldiers of a corrupted faith.

Children are forsaken by the angels

and mothers with babies yet unborn

are drowning in the darkest seas.

Talk with me - a poem by Chris Zachariou

loss

Talk
with me.

Silence!

A taste
of darkness.

The wedding song - a poem by Chris Zachariou

A Frida Kahlo-inspired Wedding

unblemished

the rose blooms
on the bridal bed
with no other chart

to guide her but
for the chart of love

The Moon Child and the Fairies - a poem by Chris Zachariou

moon child

the moon down beats a beat
on her shiny skinless drum
she beats a tune with without a beat
on her drum without a skin

and the fairies lure
a moon child to the forest
with red berries

The Sound of Christmastide - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Cyprus refugees 1974

Swarms of locust
shade the midday sun;

they burn the trees
they devour the dove
they rape the land.

“The Archangel is dead,”
the town crier whimpers.