Poems by the Greek Poet Dimitris P. Kraniotis

Fictitious line



of cigarettes

and mugs

full of coffee,


to the fictitious line

where the eddy

of words

leans against

and nods,


to my silence.



Snow-covered mountains,

ancient monuments,

a north wind that nods to us,

a thought that flows,

images imbued

with hymns of history,

words on signs

with ideals of geometry.



Noiseless wrinkles

on our forehead

the frontiers of history,

shed oblique glances

at Homer’s verses.


full of guilt


wounded whispers

that became echoes

in lighted caves

of the fools and the innocent.

The end


The savour of fruits

still remains

in my mouth,

but the bitterness of words

demolishes the clouds

and wrings the snow

counting the pebbles.

But you never told me

why you deceived me,

why with pain

and injustice did you desire

to say that the end

always in tears

is cast to flames.


Rules and visions 


Life counts

the rules;

the sunset, their exceptions.

Rain drinks up

the centuries;

spring, our dreams.

The eagle sees

the sunrays

and youth, the visions.



A roar of cars

seals the dawn

with short-cut answers,

with unyielding denials

that are repeated


every sunset.



One-word garments


Waves of circumflexes

storms of adverbs,

windmills of verbs,

shells of signs of ellipsis,

on the island of poems

of soul,

of mind,

of thought,

one-word garments

you wear

to endure!


The ‘don’ts’ and ‘zeros’


The night

that strangled

the endless moments

I had wished

to live,

passed by

without my lighting up

the candle

I had longed

to warm up

all the ‘don’ts’ and ‘zeros’.


What I ask


A ball of threads

my prayers



Foolish ‘I’s

are choked

without you ever


what I ask.



The fireplace

was eager

to put a fullstop,

in the sentence

where the road

of my dreams


upon the word of happiness

with sparkles

of wet logs

I collected

from the inside of me

that I dared

to turn to ashes.



Fragments of glasses

in the empty room

of the inarticulate whispers,


our limits,


with sores

the caress of our soul.



The cloud struggled

against the sand

underneath the rain

of ‘no’ and ‘yes’,

forcefully treading

on the rationale

that obeys

the impasse of ‘maybe’.