The House of Benevolence
( To Katia, Part 1)

The mystic glass bead necklace you crafted once
and sealed with love around my timid aura
still glows through the dark silence
where the gravel island beech is slipping away
leaving behind the astral thread for me
to follow through the scattered masquerade mazes and wrong turns
where I roam in the grainy spaces of lost times as a narcotic spell.

In the beat of dreams I still return back to the ethereal Island house
that stands now lonely,
aging through the stairway’s prism sliced with long glooms
over the tight, crowded, curved stone street.
There, we hug under the big fig tree shadow,
and chat about years we missed in the back loggia,
where you are, as usual, one drop of lemon, a handful of roasted almonds,
a few raisins, and saffron spice away
from finishing the last touch of the soul lumblija bread
awaiting with a sunny smile a new loud reunion jubilee
magically encrypted in the circles of the family tortoise memory.

Suddenly, the electric clock beeps through the slid bits
of the evading dawn light
and speedy morning chomps the festivity
while braking the glass beads string
scattering warm drops of our bonds
over the white, lonely, city nursing-home floor.
I’ll wait for your next awaking
in a form of a ghostly breeze streaming from the room window,
I’ll pick the glass beads
and place the glowing sparks in your cheerful almond eyes.

Lumblia Bread
Lumblia Bread….






The Island of Benevolence
(To Katia, II)

Many years ago I came to your island as a surprise,
arriving on the old ferry wings of serendipity
with one suitcase of wonders
and tattoos from another clan.
While I was dancing on my childhood ballet shoes
The whispers and looks would stack
On my tiptoes,
Everybody sought of me to please,
Be different,
play another tune,
write another poem,
they dreamed another me, But you knew that was possible to embrace only one that was already there.
You knew:
children do not have baggage,
plots to play,
dreams to fulfill,
They are free spirits


To Dear Katija Who Touched My Heart and Whose Spirit Never Goes Away

Vela Luka Korcula

Whose arms should be hugged with sincerity that only a mother knows.
This poem is dedicated to Katija, my step-father’s mother who died in July of 2013. I wrote this poem when Katija was still alive and just turned 91 at that time. Katija’s life path led her to become a world-traveler.

As a young teenage girl, at the end of World War II she fleeted with her mother and the brother to El Shatt refugee center in Egypt, Sinai peninsula, where Katija witnessed the second brother dying. The first brother joined the Partisan resistance against the Italian fascist invasion of Dalmatia and was killed of age nineteen, soon after he became a part of the resistance movement.

Later in her life, due to her husband’s diplomatic career, she visited many places–it was lovely to hear never ending stories from Kabul, Afghanistan, New Delhi, India,  Moscow, Russia,  and the USA, Pittsburgh, PA, where she lived for eight years.

Dear Katija was able to attend the poem dedicated to her knowing English fairly well. Katija and her family were exceptional people accepting everyone and celebrating the blessings of life. I have to admit that as a child I was like the happiest “gypsy,” traveling from one Summer home to the other–from the Cape Stone House to the Islands, always expanding my heart…..


This poem was published on February 11, 2012.
Proisd, the Mystic Island

Proisd, the Mystic Island to Me









stonestairway Korcula









Korcula City Streets





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