Silent Hour sits with a notebook on its lap or in front of a computer. Its pen is fine-tipped and black, its current notebook is also black and almost finished, and the computer is rather old.

Silent Hour is mostly night.

There is a window in Silent Hour’s room. A blue neon light appears from time to time across the street. It comes from a recording studio, whose owner seems to also prefer the night. Silent Hour misses the light when it’s not on.

Silent Hour is a bookmonger and a wordcubine. It reads, writes, watches.

It is thread wrapped around a spinning wheel.

It howls with the wolves with whom it wants to be.

Silent Hour is me.


City Maenad

Saturday lights, the city’s luminous eyes. Car engines, bike engines, the underground, they are all saints trembling in ecstasy. Athens sprawls and spreads to the four points of the horizon. All destinations unfold before my feet, but tonight there is only one. Parked across Academias Street, my little family is waiting for me.

The Journey Begins loud and clear in the car, while Stavros is wedging here and there into the traffic. Eleutheria, serene and esoteric as usual, is leaning against the car window, looking out as if saying goodbye. Elias and Alexis are sharing a joke, and then we are all laughing together. As The Journey changes to Take Hold, I refresh my cherry lipstick in the sun visor mirror. A glow in the hollow of my throat: hanging by a fine silver chain, the pendant I never take off these days. Every time I see it I remember fingers slim, fingers tracing this skin, fingers clasping this chain around my neck. Lips to bring the sky dome crashing down.

I lift my shoulders in a little act of indifference and reach towards my pocket. I’m wearing this special pair of pants with a hundred secret pockets and in one of them I’ve got magic wrapped in a tiny package.

The club: a country where illusions flourish. That’s why the long queue outside. There is smoking, and laughing, and talking, and calling out to a friend who just got off a taxi. There is foot stomping, cell phone checking, couple kissing. Strangers perfect smiling at strangers complete. Our lives, parallel lines, tonight intersect in this point of time that stretches into forever. This is our shared plane, our daisy chain. Mundane is for tomorrow.

Magic in our bellies, BPM pounding. My friends right here, radiating, dilating, saying something to me I can’t hear – never mind. Mint breath for everyone, courtesy of Stavros; a sip of water Alexis has brought; give a cigarette to Eleutheria and a hug to Elias. With eyes closed I wait for the lump in my throat, the sweating palms, some instants of anxiousness to come and pass; a sea wave breaking onto rocks, shattering into drops that turn into stars, fireworks flashing over dark plains.

The gates are unguarded, like new chamomile.

I’ll dance words wild, words in shards and words with cracks, crystalline whispers and clouded breaths. I’ll dance emigrating birds, the smell of poplar leaves after the rain, tattered repartees, walking on night streets. I’ll dance palindromes perfect like renewal, nymph float, movement sail. Exaltation is a full yellow woman bouncing towards me, then disappearing in the crowd. Slipping into a mixed language, I’ll dance a porcupine with a swordfish bill, a hairbrush floating over fields of wheat.

I’ll dance like a warrior, my feet pounding against the floor, my spear blazing in my hand if I had one. I’ll dance like a priestess, my arms raised above my head, my hips drawing figures eight. I’ll dance like a forest taking over railways, sunspots on a field of flowers, a maenad making a tree look threatening.

I’ll dance until my demons stop scratching and biting, and the city will be moaning under my stomping feet until the morning comes.

And you will not be here to see me.



City Maenad goes with Take my Heart Into Deep Water



The music in the car is:

Nicole Moudaber & Victor Calderone – The Journey Begins

Nicole Moudaber & Adam Beyer – Take Hold



© Basilike Pappa, 2018











The Versatile Blogger Award



Congratulations to

Christine Ray at Brave and Reckless\

Kindra M. Austin at Poems and Paragraphs

Allane Sinclair at Spo_oky

for receiving the Versatile Blogger Award.


Thank you for nominating me! You are all great writers and amazing people, and I am honored that you like my work.

Until recently I wasn’t sure I wanted to participate in awards. But now all three of you have nominated me and it just doesn’t feel right to say no.


So: seven things about me.

  1. Some words have flavors, especially in Greek. Some people’s voices have flavors too. It’s a good thing it doesn’t happen all the time, because I’d be hungry all the time.
  2. The first fictional character I completely related to was the unnamed narrator in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. She is twenty years old and I was nineteen when I first read the book.
  3.  I adore those rings with a hollow for poison under the stone. I’ve been looking for one but still no luck.
  4. My favorite drink is the mojito.
  5. A good winter is one that’s over.
  6. When I’m in the city, I’m a city person. When I’m in the countryside, I’m a countryside person. But sometimes I’m a countryside person when I’m in the city, and a city person when I’m in the countryside. Problem.
  7. I don’t know how to ride a bicycle.


And now my nominees. I don’t know why some of the spaces between them are bigger than others.

Friends, don’t feel you must accept the award because I said so. I just want you to know I really like you!
The Ink Owl

Isabelle´s thoughts

David Redpath


Charlie Zero The Poet

Truly Madly Ordinary.Stories From The Heart.


The Wandering Armadillo
Havoc and Consequence
M.P. Baecker

A Song With Many Voices: All the Lonely People

In the company of great writers on Blood Into Ink.

Blood Into Ink


I have always been here, among the lonely people. Despite having people around me, my battles exist within my head and body. To you, I may look normal, but on the inside is a scene entirely different. My constant companions are sadness, frustration, exhaustion — even a fortified fortress to shield me from what the world has and could continue to do to me. Those walls isolate me from my family. The shadows are filled with creatures that know how to hurt me if I move too close. So, you see, I am one of the lonely people. But I am not alone.
Sarah Doughty)

All the Lonely People—

they converge,

invisible at intersections

of Life and Death,

strangely untouched by hands of those


How can it be that so many similar

do exist while lost

to one another?

All the Lonely People—

they are unalone, and yet

View original post 811 more words

We Cannot Look Away: Not another 17, not another One




Just another day
just another town
bullet perforated backpacks
spilling loose-leaf lined paper, textbooks
onto blood stained sidewalks
helicopters hovering
to give us the birds eye view
I tried to avert my eyes
out of respect for the dead
the injured
but I could not look away
Christine Ray

Even though I should
Because I am ashamed
At the bullets that rain
At the bullet point pain
Etched in their faces, rivulets in their eyes
They were just children, stolen from their time
Not forgotten in these lines
But to their parents and loved ones
It’s a void they’ll never fill, and it shouldn’t
Lives shredded and ruined
17 times we’ve gotten the chance to do better
and for the 18th, we blew it
Just like those children who looked at their killer

Their killer is not Nikolas

The Killer is you
Devereaux Frazier

Seventeen blossoms
seventeen blinks of an eye
seventeen bullets in the body of spring
and those left behind
food to flashback phobias
memory outbursts
Spring won’t be coming
in a town far away
in a country across the sea
right next to me
Basilike Pappa

Running for class president
Running for the Varsity Football Team
Running to get in line for a movie they can’t wait to see
Running to embrace someone they love
Running and laughing with siblings or friends
Running to get to the dance floor before their favorite song ends
Running for exercise
Running for fun
They should never be running from the thunder of a gun
We’re destroying our future for profit and gain
While they run for their lives
And we’re left with questions and pain
Eric Syrdal

Look away, little bird.
The sky has adjourned, rejecting your flight path
well into wrath.
hell hath no fury like the anger turned apathy, semi-automatic rhapsody that plays on
the overhead speaker that once freed us
from maths.

It doesn’t add up, the physics, social studies, introduction to business, life and
death 101.

Nothing could prepare us for the words we don’t have.
Nicholas Gagnier

Lives swung into darkness
and voices numbed
Eyes losing hope
Blood on the hands, soul
screams and tears everywhere

Deafening silence of the death
and roaring sound of the violence
life stripped of its happiness
and tears losing the feeling

Yet again, My heart is hopeful
Lips in unison with the prayers
Trying to calm my self down
Thinking It won’t happen again

But deep down inside
I know we all are living in denial.
Megha Sood

Spare me your
thoughts and prayers.
Spare me your
people-kill-people babble.
Seventeen more names
added to a statistic
that will never be used.
So, by all means,
let’s keep sending
millions of dollars a year
to powerful people
in exchange for turning
a blind eye.
Proving over and over again
that dollars mean more
than lives.
Sarah Doughty

Seventeen more reasons we grieve.
Seventeen more reasons we’re
broken as a nation.
Seventeen more reasons we must
rise up
a giant against apathy, and
willful ignorance.
Destroy the dissidence.
End the agenda of greed.

Our freedoms are not free—
seventeen more innocent souls sacrificed.
Kindra M. Austin

True horror has unfolded,
We watch on glowing screens of disbelief.
With the voices of innocents ringing in our ears,
Fingers swipe it all away.
As others moved on with their day,
I could not look away.

Grief, pain, disbelief,
All right there, before our eyes.
Yet one headline replaces the next,
That gut wrenching sadness suddenly replaced.
As the topic changes to something else,
I could not look away.

Where is our humanity,
I ask as society moves on from this butchered elephant in the room.
Can’t we just stop and think,
Acknowledge the death, the suffering, the wrongness.
Another day will come and go, setting on our community,
We cannot look away.

Doomed to repeat this dreadful fate,
We need to choose to change.
Insanity is as insanity always does,
As we continue to place ammunition with malignant intent.
What can I do, the individual, the lone soul, this:
I will not look away.
Michael Erickson

Have ourselves
To blame for this
Again and again
An unsolved tragedy
We must hold ourselves to task
For every death. Every child
Like spent shells fallen to the ground
Souls adrift to haunt those who do not act –
Who do not act again and again and again
I cannot look away again, again, again
Again, again, again, again, I cannot look away, not again.
Stephen Fuller

I cannot look away
From the train wreck shit show
This country has become,
Where cash in a senator’s pocket
Outweighs the blood of our children,
Where losing your ‘right’ to own an assault rifle
Is more an abomination
Than Children being murdered in school
Than human beings dying at a concert in Vegas
Than parents burying their babies.
The blood on your hands will not wash away.
I’m with you in Parkland!
Where kids call presidents out on their bullshit.
I’m with you in Parkland!
Where they won’t let hypocrites hide.
I’m with you in Parkland!
Where they call BS on the lies.

I’m with you in Parkland!
John W. Leys



How Demons Get their Wings

Here comes streetlight

and me again


a lover’s cheap charms

all over her diary


ambrosial language

for naked game


erogenous trust

her throat moans deeper


my sliver of smile

how can she know


true love cuts

red is a singer


in vocal cords

to stain her dress


death is a river

to wash her away


my knife is fed

I feel them grow




Inspired by Zaroff’s A Lover out of Control



© Basilike Pappa, 2018

It’s the curve in her caress

Zaroff’s apparition poetry enters this poet’s room and finds the curve in her caress.


And we were instantly blown away with sensual machine gun fire

searching for trophies from the fresh kill.

delicate dining habits we must not break.

barren yet so very very full,fruitful,and frightful for what we want stands and stares with ravenous eyes .

yet we year for each scar for each tear taught us a new lesson to lie,cheat, hang on the very beat of your sentence structures firehouse slide fast a finger prick wouldn’t know what hit it.

this mixture of milk and honey haunt my dreams,screams,manifesting drowning wings.drop us and we shall fall so hard on hunkered hearts,legs for liking to the tiptoe through the house in the early morning hours bathroom walk.wake me from this writers reaches, round’ the edges of this house,this room for ruckus.

we shall choke on our cheating ways,as long as i’m with you;let me count the ways.

Inspired by Silent Hour…

View original post 9 more words

A Poet with a Room

A poet with a room


I am a poet with a room


I want you here

where my hand landscapes you


See with your skin

I am desire of a hunter

towards your lips I seek a treasure


I raw this romance in your breast



eat me, I’m hungry


I am a poet with a room


I want you here

to see me pull out the goods

these wounds horror me sensuous




torching delirious

I’ll pour the muse all over you

drink me, I’m thirsty


I am a poet in this room

I play the best lying game

any word rhymes with Beaudelaire




© Basilike Pappa, 2018


(Image: Pinterest)