She’s back — Afrodykie writes again!

These links have published an Ode to Eressos

Not only writing but ….. read on …..

Silver Trips&Tours


Lesvos Greece

places to stay
interesting outings/transport/cuisine


Eressos is a mountain village that takes time to know.

Siga-siga, slowly-slowly, that is the pace.

It’s seaside sister, Skala, is 4km away.

And in the middle, the fertile kampos sprouts all manner of fruit and veg and herbs and sheep and chicken eggs.

There are lots of interesting myths and legends about Eressos.

The ruins and remnants tell stories. Antiquity’s spirits speak.

The past alights in the present, and the future will too

 Book with #EressianDream at Silver Trips&Tours



The Traveller by Afrodykie

T is for … Thank you
THANK you for the music, the songs I’m singing … nah, way too cheesy, even for an Abba fan.
Thank you, Milou, for the washing machine, that’s what you want to say.
Milou? It’s Snowy in French. You know Snowy, from the Tintin comics?
The name is on the wall of their building, just metres from the sand and sea, in Skala Eressos.
Milou Bed And Breakfast
The kindness almost made you cry.
How sweet was that, to respond to a request on Eressos Connected, and to offer the use of their washing machine – and drying space?
It’s the warmest Eressian gesture you’ve had the privilege of appreciating — the second time in three months that anyone has invited you anywhere, and been nice to you!
You like soft landings…
And it was very soft at Milou.
Yonca added stuff to make your washing come out more delicate and someone, you don’t know who, pegged your laundry to the line.
You went for a swim and bought some vegetables and fruit while the sun lapped up its wet.
On Sunday, it was the day of the Big Full Moon.
You finished your online work and called Babis – you’re always calling Babis — to drive you to the beach.
You told him you’re getting a car on Thursday.
Ne, he said, and dropped you at the cantina.
You hitched your rucksack onto your shoulder and kicked off your slip slops.
The paddle ski cost E5 to hire for an hour.
And off you went, out into the Aegean, and around The Rock.
We call it the island, said the bloke who told you the do’s and don’ts of ocean rules.
The sea was choppy and the wind pushed you this way and that.
Around The Rock you paddled and then, boy o boy, you had to stop and plan.
The current pushed you back; the wind too.
You dug the oars deeper into the heaving sea, and still you didn’t move.
The beach looked very far away.
OK, don’t go straight into the wind, cut across it.
Phew. You could see the buoys again, and hear Parasol’s music pump.
Your plan had worked, and you paddled, sure and strong.
You went in and out of the shiny slipway in to the setting sun.
The church bells banged across the sea and the water splashed across the bow.
The ski slapped bumpity-bump, it clouted little waves, surly restless swells came at you.
You passed Da Luz then paddled back again.
The ocean was turning into silky oil, colour changing in the receding light.
You were ready for your swim, a lovely swim, and you found a sand bank.
Teens were playing Marco Polo there, and it made you smile, their carefree friendly joy.
Families, friends, they laughed and sprawled their happiness on the sand.
For once there were empty tables at the Blue Sardine.
You faced the sea waiting for your mountain tea.
It was soothing and warm. Like Milou.
And the moon smiled, and spilled its big bright light on you.

The Traveller by Afrodykie

L is for … Love
THE songs make you feel as if you could fall at her feet, hug her legs and put your face in her … her knees.
Why you thought of knees, heaven knows…
Maybe because its hands knees then the boompsie daisy!
Never mind.
Here is a compendium of some of your work about love.
Look up at the tree
Its branches full of leaves
Do you think it worries
It’s bending in the breeze
It’s succoured in the centre
Where truth will rest its head
It’s best, it says, to blow about
Than to live sore, half dead
It doesn’t strive for reason
It has no dread to trounce
The tree breathes its mysteries
Subtle and sure, its glories mount
Its heart it does not flounder
In the eye of wicked storm
It’s succoured in the centre
Where true true love is born

Wretched heart
Replays moments
Tender torn
Tears flood wounds
Gaping wounds
Puke pain
Sickly sorrows
Claw me cry
My heart
A desert
Bleak and baleful
Stinging sands
Please Bury
My doleful, my dreadful aching desire

Maelstrom madness
Sinks sweet heart
Love shaken
Depth for Chains
Wings clipped frightened bird
Soars sinks
Broken dreams
Nothing where you once were

I’m thinking that love is not about absolutes eg: we are made for each other.
It’s about nuance.
And if it were about absolutes marriage would be a thing that lasts forever.
And that’s where I think a lot of marriages go wrong: absolutely.
Nuance allows for growth, reaching out, drawing back.
It’s elegant, and sound.
It’s confident. Warm. Loving.
It’s mature. It ripens. Love ripens, darling, slowly.
Yes, I submit without guarantees, to the sound in my heart.
I believe in love, for love’s sake, a beautiful burgeoning.
I hold it close to me, treasure it; this little thing.
It draws my gentless, weeping, terrified as it manifests, a glorious brave love; all-encompassing.
A deep deep love stirs within.
You don’t want to lose your heart in vain. You don’t want to lose your heart to pain.
And nor do I, my darling. We do it to gain.

Jet black eyebrows burn
Streams of sunlight on your neck
Your red lips smoulder

It runs away, fast
Love on its wobbly last legs
It musn’t look back

Sea sore
Silk soft soft
Touch me
Touch tender touch
Your lips hint
of jasmine stars
and mint
fresh mint
dances on your tongue

UNREQUITED love… Before you all start sobbing into your handkerchiefs, and dabbing your tear-puffed eyes with the pointed edge of your sodden hanky, let me tell you this:
Some people estimate that 98 percent of living human beings have had the devilish door of unrequited love slammed in their sunshine faces.
This means you too are likely to have experienced the frustration of an unreciprocated passion.
You know what it’s like to live with those pesky feelings, those relentless upstarts Churn and Yearn. The little tykes, they bounce like popcorn in a hot pot, ready to blast off your lid of resolve; shatter your rational will to forget, to get over it.
No matter what you do, Churn and Yearn, they smirk their rude grins.
They elicit grief, the tyrants!
But Mother Time’s not taking any nonsense from those brats.
She’s there, the great healer, ready to slap them down.
Try telling that to Heathcliff and Catherine though, in Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights.
This magnificent novel of unrequited love joins many other books, songs, poems and operas in its eloquent elucidation of the pain and torment of a clamped heart.
Of course, unrequited love is also something to be lampooned, because it’s so maddeningly universal and ubiquitous, the cruel joker in this pack called Life.
Happily, I am not alone.