Some Poems
Click on the link to read the poem
Recycling
This is one of my favorite poems. It reflects on nature’s perfect cycle of recycling—the wonder of life and the mystery of what may lie beyond it, all within the vast cosmos we inhabit. At its heart, Recycling is about something we often fear or struggle to accept: the quiet beauty, necessity, and wisdom of death.
The true gift of life
Driving for hours through the Spanish night, as many times before, my mind is free to wander. Something amazingly exhilarating about those long, empty roads—especially in the days when you could still drive fast, the adrenaline keeping every sense alive.
A radio station was playing the music of Django Reinhardt. As the miles disappeared beneath me and his guitar filled the car, my thoughts drifted to the life I had lived—the places I had seen, the people I had loved, the adventures, the joys, and even the sorrows.
A temporary Sunday afternoon
In July 1977, I arrived in Madrid on a Sunday afternoon to learn Spanish. This was long before GPS, when finding your way meant asking strangers and hoping for the best. Unable to locate my hotel, I stepped into a bar to ask for directions. I tried the bartender first, then turned to a solitary, rather distinctive-looking man nearby. He wasn’t particularly helpful, so I thanked him and left.
It wasn’t until I stepped back into the bright Madrid sunshine that something suddenly clicked. The man in the bar had been Salvador Dalí. I never did find the hotel I was looking for. Instead, I wandered until I found one I liked and stayed there. I remained in Madrid for three months—a city that, much later in life, I would come to love profoundly.
But that is another story.
My Hammock
During my early years in Venezuela, when my son Christian was still a toddler, we often escaped to Chichiriviche. A local fisherman would take us to one of the small offshore islands, where we camped among coconut palms, swam in the lagoon, and I spent hours snorkeling over the coral.
At night, beneath a magnificent tropical sky and beside the dying embers of our fire, a world of wonder entered the mind of a young man searching for meaning.
Mount Athos-Driftwood
As Director of Sales and Marketing for a Danish dental-equipment manufacturer, I was asked to provide special pricing for the first dental equipment at the ancient Vatopedi Monastery on Mount Athos.
In gratitude, I received a rare invitation from the Abbott and a visa to visit the monastery, accompanied by two Greek dentists and an Orthodox priest from Cyprus. We drove from Athens to Nea Roda, near Stagira—the birthplace of Aristotle—and from there continued by boat to Vatopedi.
Only a week earlier, Prince Charles had stayed in the same guest quarters. Camilla Parker Bowles remained aboard their yacht, as women have been barred from the holy land of Mount Athos.
A country is not a company
The contentious 2016 U.S. presidential election inspired this poem and a simple conviction: a country is not a company.
Business measures success largely by performance and profit. A nation must answer to something greater—the well-being of all its people- while preserving the freedom and opportunity for enterprise, intellect, and hard work to flourish.
Prosperity and social responsibility are not mutually exclusive.
My soul is in a rush
Translation of “Mi alma tiene prisa,” by Maria Andrade, Brazil 1893-1945. A favorite of many, and you may wonder why.
My friend Diego posted a poem in Spanish, “Mi alma tiene prisa”, on our WhatsApp group. I wanted to share the poem with fellow English-speaking writers and friends. However, I found countless English versions online, but in my humble opinion, none captured the original intent. So I created my own interpretation; here it is…
Recycling
Jon Erii 2017
When I die, my earthly body
will burn, poof disappear,
or, host little creatures who
will enjoy a healthy meal.
The show, life, must go on
until someday when a fiery
sky eradicates all life
on earth that is.
What about the soul?
My thoughts, my memories,
lodged in neurons, floating
through pathways like creeks
assembling into a crescendo
of thoughts, desires, music,
sensing the scent of a woman,
from an afternoon, time past.
Will I continue to live on?
The soul’s strange particles,
jumping, no time to spare,
into one of the endless copies
of me in a multiverse as if
nothing had happened -
although I am dead, here
in the one, we call present.
Have I died many a time?
When I was four, falling
under the ice on the lake?
Or when that car came
right at me and I ditched.
Did I have that heart attack?
I thought so - or did a flight
never reach its destination.
Maybe I will go on forever,
to eternal life which sounds
scarier than death itself.
Imagine, time standing still,
a billion years without
silence, surrounded by all
the people who have ever
lived and died on earth.
The mystery of the beyond
is rationalized in a myriad
of myths and faiths. But
I wanna know, and I am
entitled to an explanation
after my last breath, when
embers slowly turn dark
then into ash, then soil.
Every atom in my body
will for eternity spin,
joining countless diverse
types of perfect life forms,
guided by nature’s wisdom.
Death is but recycling
the essence of all things
giving birth to perfection.
A county is not a company
By Jon Erii, 2016
The contentious 2016 presidential election in the United States motivated me to write this poem.
At the time, many business leaders, entrepreneurs, and even politicians opined that a country is like a business. Therefore, the argument goes, successful business executives should be uniquely qualified to run the government.
In my view, that is all wrong. Successful billionaire entrepreneurs, as we all know, are in general single-mindedly focused on products and making money. They are highly competitive, ruthless, and insensitive to people in general. That helps them succeed, but it disqualifies them for civil service.
A country's leaders must consider all its citizens. We seek leaders who are humble and caring, leading with intellect, integrity, and sound judgment. We must judge a country’s success not by a few admirable individuals at the top, but by how the weakest amongst us are faring while maintaining a business environment where intellect and hard work can succeed. It’s not mutually exclusive; progressive capitalism is a competitive market economy with social responsibility.
A country is not a company, with
hiring and firing as market demands.
No, a country is like a good family
found coast to coast, all over this land.
Proud of the children who succeed,
compassionate about those in need.
Some are born dull, some are bright,
but to all of them, we must do right.
Good shall prevail, that’s humanity.
The people decide; that’s democracy.
Humanity is not a single theocracy,
nor a single creed but joyful diversity.
We, the people, cannot thrive alone
God and Country are all of us as one.
Driftwood
As the Director of Sales and Marketing for a Danish manufacturer of dental equipment, my distributor in Greece, a company owned by two dentists, requested a special price for the first dental equipment for the monastery of Vatopedi in Mt. Athos.
In gratitude, I received a special invitation and a visa to visit the monastery together with the two dentists and an orthodox priest from Cyprus. We drove from Athen to Nea Roda, just beyond Stagira, where Aristotle was born. There we boarded a boat to Vatopedi.
The week before our visit, Prince Charles of England, sailing with a Greek friend, had stayed in the same guest quarters we did. Camilla Parker had to remain on the yacht, as no women are allowed in Mt. Athos.
Here is goes…
I woke to chanting baritone voices
and rhythmic bells. Hymns from the past.
The crepuscular light - an early morning,
the hum announced a new Byzantine day.
I saw dark clad Anthonite monks carry
treasures, in and out of the golden chapel.
Aromatic skulls, icons, scriptures, crosses,
symbols of Vatopedi’s ceremonial past and
its present, well-hidden here, deep within
the holy land of unworldly Mount Athos.
My spartan room had known many a king.
Men are equal under God, but no woman
ever set foot in the Garden of the Virgin,
only She, the ubiquitous spiritual Abbess.
Under domed starry blue, golden ceilings
in the richly adorned ancient refectory,
breakfast is attended. Bread and fruits,
served on worn marble tables, hollowed
by thousands of monks, centuries wiping,
a mind-blowing unreal measure of time.
Serenity and spiritual peace permeate
the elements of the perpetual mystery.
Faith, orthodox faith, all faiths, perceived
through the eyes and the depth of souls.
In this fertile land, mountains reach high
in the sky towering above the Aegean Sea.
I hear the echo of anonymous prayers that
amalgamate our sinful, diverse humanity
uniting this miraculous divine civilization
with a powerful and intense spirituality.
Can the sacrifice of these zealous monks
who chose nothing to have everything,
the collective consciousness of all people,
save us with their prayers and chants?
Wandering along the shore, an old monk,
told an ancient tale to this stranger about
mother Mary who miraculously landed,
where I stood, amidst a dangerous storm.
Without her, this mythological place and
my experience would never have existed.
Alone by the sea shore, I looked for a sign,
something significant reflecting everything.
I picked a tiny piece of driftwood shaped by
time and season, just like us, humankind.