Images from the Edge Inkhole, PinkHole, & Sinkhole

Images from the Edge
  Inkhole, PinkHole, & Sinkhole

Pen in hand, trying to distill images,
diverted from across stone wall,
all encompassing Cerulean ocean,
demarcated by cloudless azure Ionian skies.
Blues  broken by one solitary pale green potted cactus
brought to housewarming three years ago.

Who brings a cactus as housewarming?
Dear Carlos did, transporting himself
and cactus from Portugal on a lark.
Or, better, on a wayward Kittiwake.

Carlos sits oblique to me at a cumbersome old hewn wood table,
molasses poured onto and soaking into a sunbleached canvas chair.
Canopied over dark sunglasses shadowing bushy brows and vamping eyes,
his frayed straw hat cools less than the Moschofilero quaffed all day
ameliorate the blistering Greek sun.

I  surreptitiously spy Carlo’s dick peeking out from the loose leg hole
of his stretched faded pink short shorts.  Studied?
Probably not, given his impetuous nature,
but enigma is reason enough why he, like the cactus ,stay welcome-
permanent transplants here to Kefalonia.

Coming from a history of Duoro vines, Carlos is also appreciated
for never complaining about our copious Moschofilero.
I must not weave a withholden story
without disclosing Carlos often causes darkened azure skies
to populate with non celestial stars added to actual ones
 I see  as furtive glances up between his shoulders and bushy brows.
Even noctural sea breezes cannot quell that blaze.

Then, there is Talia.  She came with the villa,
lords over our gaggle of straw hats and ubiquitous  sunblock
and takes prisoners with her ambrosial calamari salad
brought to frequent picnics at Myrtos Beach.
We rhapsodize over her salt baked sea bass that often
punctuates glorious sunsets soaked with still more Moschofilero.

Talia is lore of many island stories.  Her casual beauty and zaftig curves hide any
lines of life’s distress in her face.  Her smile comes easy but veils  staunch empowerment.  Talia tempers her timbre with solemn pronouncement,
“There is no ‘why’! It’s because I said so.”

She endears with her ferociously focused Xeri game play
morphing composed woman to a “rape and pillage” 
martinet of startling animation and vocal range
when she is losing, suspects irregularity,
or has suckled without throttle on the Tsipouro Brandy.

Many nights Talia engages the table with her embellished
telling of younger times with randy Greek mariners.
Ears are scorched with her ribald tales.
She is my anchor and protector with her gentle love and stern hand.

This daily core cadre is oft seasoned with mainland friends.
They come and shatter idyll with their worldly matters,
matters that often bring fanciful evenings to resolute silence,
our sobriety in gratitude for the  monotony of bliss we marinate in.
We shy from loading up with too many outworldly parcels to hold and balance.
The resident three eschew feeling threatened.

But, there is not a time that Carlos nor Talia, nor the Moschofilero and Calamari salad, or even the immigrant cactus, allow me to sink into a slough of despond.
Nary a regret that I lounge linger here, isolated
and disconnected in Ionian revel, and the comfort of continuity .
Leaving no undarned holes to fall through- this pen leaves you images why.
While Carlos and Talia bid you, Γεια σας από τον παράδεισο
(Hello from paradise)