Harilaos (Harry) Stefanakis is a versatile author, psychologist, and educator. He has published books on psychology, poetry, and fiction. Through his professional and creative work, he aims to document the human experience while also using words to mend life’s fractures and inspire life-affirming possibilities. He resides in Vancouver, BC, with his wife and son where he enjoys the emerald beauty of the Pacific Northwest and frequently travels to his ancestral homeland in Crete, Greece, cultivating a deep connection to his roots.
They were better than we imagined,
those lively beginning of summer days.
The sky a warm caress, cicadas singing
their secret songs in trees while we howled
like the wild things we knew we could be,
even as we dropped into the sea
to quench our flesh and feel
the rhythm of life blushing on skin
and when we rose sun soaked and dancing
we knew we were on blessed ground
Skinny Dipping on Ancient Shores
I invoke the fallen columns
in this city by the sea
this evening, on purpose
dresses us in warmth
our movements silent as the dusk
and everything remains
amongst us and the servants of life
released from our daily contracts
truth and memory spill out
of broken bottle messages – listen
to the call of shimmering glass
to the response of breaking waves
soon the day itself will fragment
into a curtain of glistening black
and our skins in shallow waters
concealed in failing light
– find freedom
The Gravity of My Need
I left Elysium with the night
on the tide that rose and fell
with the gravity of my need.
I filled this birthing with moonlight
and the vines’ fermented fruit.
I claimed my words in the old tongue.
A river flowed from my mouth
to a sea of waiting ancestors.
They rose, swirling into light,
becoming doves, becoming sails,
becoming song, becoming dance.
And the olives swayed.
And the cypress bowed.
And Dionysus laughed from the hilltops,
his cup overflowing with ecstatic moonshine.
The night is an owl,
its silence a waiting death
for those who have forgotten.
What remains?
The tide, the wind,
and a voice that refuses to kneel.
Poetry in this post: © Harilaos Stefanakis
Published with the permission of Harilaos Stefanakis