old woman
at the windowsill
staring out

her skin
a veiny leaf
dried in late autumn

her lips
pursed tight
crows feet count her age


her hair
powdered snow
on black tar streets

her eyes
glazed yellow
staring at grandchildren

her memory
Spring air filling
a young girl's nostrils, lungs

running, laughing,
holding his hand,
her handsome boy

a smile betrays
a glimmer of youth
and for a moment she glows

a car horn
startles her giggle
to a sour lemon scowl

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

last night I took a stroll within a dream,
a slow procession through the dirt path aisles,
within her cemetery's mindful stream,
in search of my name carved in stone or tiles,

i'd almost missed the marker to my grave,
cold winds half-covered with forgetfulness,
no epigram was carved to hold and save
my memory, entombed in nothingness,

two bookend dates to mark my history--
when we were born and when we died in love--
my name, two words containing all of me,
a marker quite unseen from up above,

now from this stroll i've surely learned a lot,
to not inquire of what her mind's forgot

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

when they move on they never look behind,
determined eyes seek only what's ahead,
and those they've left behind are left for dead,
their memory does every heel step grind,

so no old fiber to their thought can bind,
and to alleviate that awful dread,
which weighs upon the heart like heavy lead,
they hum the olden song of auld lang syne,

and those they've left behind for some odd sin,
who long for, are deprived of, one last kiss,
and haunt their memories with dreadful sigh,

forgotten for they've surely never been,
no more in recollections do exist,
they shrivel as a memory and die

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

I often stare into the sky at shadows on the moon,
with my attention fullest on the days of the full moon.

Discerning craters, mountains on its dusty pockmarked face,
that glows when sun stares winking flares upon the blushing moon.

I squint to find the waveless flag, the rover parked somewhere,
discarded by the shiny humans come to greet the moon.

Her light gives sight so subtle as to soothe and not disturb
circadians whose radians are rhythms of the moon.

Tree silhouettes' slow pirouettes sway by the summer breeze,
bathed in the sun's own afterglow under the watchful moon.

Imagining the lunacy of werewolves in the night
who, bathed in glow, to dogs they go a howling at the moon.

While all around the nightsong sounds in symphony they croon
the ballades of the wonder of the lighted sky queen moon.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

Oh, woe!  Oh, woe!  Oh, woe, my girl has died!
Her funeral's tonight, oh, how I grieve!
I knew this day would come, I would not hide,
yet as the news has come, I can't believe!

A strong and faithful servant she had been,
who carried me when I was found alone.
She promised to stand by my side till in
the course of time my flesh would leave its bone.

In white attire she'll lay within the cask,
as my old marriage laid within the same.
I'll pour my soul as spirit from a flask,
upon her sleeping face and call her name:

Oh Hope, dear Hope, you've left me far too soon,
and joined my former wife in honeymoon.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

Presumptuous to speak the obvious?
If only what we see is not as such.
Then all presumptions truly weigh not much.
Investigations make demands of us.

With every word the world is on to us.
Their weight of stares requires of us a crutch,
analysis of meanings and of such,
until of reasonings they empty us.

No man lies naked splayed before strange eyes.
He wears the clothing made in current style,
to give illusion pleasing to the world.

And so the world peels back the layered lies,
and lays them in a neatly gentle pile,
until the truth of man is full unfurled.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

Through purple-greyish smoke billowed from lips both mine and yours,
our eyes glazed, blacklight seen reflecting on our silver ores.

Dark purple painted walls with red designs keep calm the folks
on leather couches billowing with eyes like silver ores.

Oh you and I, the strangers here, all have our many reasons,
some came with them, some made them here, eyes glazed like silver ores.

An Artificial Reason calms our minds in this Mad Season,
crucified on G-clef staff, eyes glazed like silver ores.

This sanctuary, whispered 'round, and found through word of mouth,
somewhere, we've all forgotten in the glaze of silver ores.

Our therapy, if long or short, time counted by the songs,
recovery is measured by the glaze of silver ores.

As one leaves so another comes, replacing on the couch,
the glaze of one with glaze of other's eyes like silver ores.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

The lips conjure the trinity which can be heard, not seen,
which hands may manifest to eyes what ears have heard, not seen.

The lips beget belief so faith may be what it's not been,
until the hands may work that faith may see what's yet unseen.

The trinity, no man may see, composed of just three words,
enters into the darkness of the heart which none have seen.

"I love you," radiant, divides the dark of night from day,
the corners of the heart, illuminated, then are seen.

The trinity, by lips conjured, embue a godly breath
into the breast of one long dead, the miracle is seen.

Though life begins, it too must end, eventual the death,
if hands then fail to manifest the trinity, unseen.

But if the hands bring forth the words to prove them to the heart,
then death is thwarted, life remains and paradise is seen.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

Like cotton puffs of white the clouds float by on cyan skies,
the lamb fur hassock of the angels praying in the skies.

Their occupancy hidden but for subtle clues for eyes,
a shadow in the cloud reveals an angel in the skies.

Their bows are permanent, their heads fall once but do not rise,
the stillness of the clouds betray the angels in the skies.

Their motionless prostration is their very best disguise,
creating doubt upon the earth of angels in the skies.

What of the consciousness of those in tombs we all surmise
have fled to scenes beyond the eyes among the clouds of skies?

Where are the shadows of their seats?  Despite our many tries,
we see none in their names we find cloud-written in the skies.

I call to those who've left too soon, their names among my cries.
Their answers whisper in the hiss of rain from cloudy skies.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

The astral umbilical cord which tethers flesh to soul,
in Death is torn, the spirit soars, the man is no more whole.

In life when man is put away outside the city gates,
untethered by a scornful wife, his spirit bears the toll.

Untethered, man may roam the paths of cemetery aisles
as dead, yet spurned by those in graves--the living corpse's role.

As dead in spirit, living flesh hangs rotten on its bones,
yet breathing still it can not qualify to rest in hole.

Though charitous among the living offer food and clothes,
I only seek from those I've lost to fill my begging bowl.

Declining shelter I have chosen life under a bridge,
that I may watch my loved ones from afar, their ugly troll.

Where love is life, a loveless life is spiritless corpus.
In my decay in search I stray to find again my soul.


(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

i knew a girl, not well, but i
          knew well enough to be
a floating cloud upon the sky
          when need arised to see
if some temptations had the gust
to move her into someone's thrust
          and as it were i rained into the sea

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

I knew a lass I did not know too well,
a church acquaintance not too close a friend,
of which we shared harmonious a spell
on Sundays, this became a steady trend.

One day I passed a knick-knack in a store,
a coffee mug just like a camera lens,
and thought, a fitting gift one slightly poor
could relish on his shutter-bugging friends.

And so I grabbed the knick-knack, paid for it,
on Sunday told the lass of what I'd done,
surprised, she deemed it inappropriate,
rejecting it, of this she would have none!

How good intentions sour so easily,
a new acquaintance quick unfriending me.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

This gun thing on the news it scares me so,
appears in schools and homes, beware the gun!
The kids will be in trouble, they should know,
they cannot make the shape of it for fun.

Don't eat a pastry till it looks like one,
or shape a Play-Doh mountain like an "L".
The teachers quake in anger, looking stunned.
You'll see the principal before the bell!

And even pointing fingers, they can tell,
your index and your thumb, if from the side
looks like a gun, they'll sound the scary knell,
and grab the kids into a room to hide!

As if you'd cock a finger when you pull it,
and out will come a magic deadly bullet.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

it charged at me, this muscled bull enraged--
its flaring nostrils snarling, snorting breath,
a steam--unleashed from some unnoticed cage,
and trampled hap-strewn bookbags to their death,

along the closest aisle 'tween students' desks,
while on its beeline path straight toward me,
she, by some scalding fury magic hexed,
transformed into this vile monstrosity,

with hands-turned-talons grabbing clump of hair,
my side-yanked skull and body followed suit,
i tilted right and toppled with my chair,
'pon impact with the floor i faced her boot,

hot breath screamed to my face and singed my eyes,
obscenities, growled expletive assaults
so pummeled ears while spittle mixed my cries,
lambasting accusations showed my faults,

for i had done some very taboo thing,
was loud or spoke some word unwittingly,
and so was hung to die upon a string,
while lashings of her rage whipped welts on me,

after my execution was complete,
she buried me, my grave a league so deep
in homework, i was crushed before her feet,
and made a slave for all the year to keep.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

If I were sure you'd take me back I would
delay myself to ask instead, would I?
Rethink the question, not as would but should!

I would have once done everything I could
to stand again before you eye to eye,
if I were sure you'd take me back.  I would

have climbed mount Everest and stood
upon that peak that scrapes the clear blue sky,
rethink!  The question, not as would but should

I then return to that once happy 'hood,
that turned its back the day you said goodbye?
If I were sure you'd take me back I would

examine your once vibrant heart turned wood,
to analyze your once hot blood gone dry,
rethink the question, not as would but should

believing good turned bad can turn to good
bring joy once more or turn again to sighs?
If I were sure you'd take me back I would
rethink the question, not as would but should.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

my love and i, while pondering one's death,
          and counting all the ways which one may die,
discussed what happens after one's last breath,
          exhaled into the void of empty sky,
discussed the many ways a man may go,
the best and worst of ways which we both know,
          which do allow or stifle one's goodbye.

she asked, just playfully, how i should die?
          i thought of it, and i began to say:
"i'd shrink to four inches and here i'd lie,
          and you'd just walk and go about your day,
and as you'd come my way, you'd spot me here,
with gladness and without an ounce of fear,
          you'd step your heel and crush me on your way."

with furrowed brows she asked me then, "but why?
          of all the many ways you'd choose this one?
and why choose me to cause your life to die,
          i'd be to you a weight so many ton?"
"because," I said, "how fitting it would be,
that my dear crush should crush the life from me,
          as every day her loveless smile has done."

with eyebrows raised, quick lowered, she agreed,
          she understood i understood her well,
in truth her selfishness was fueled by greed,
          unhidden, she admitted this to tell,
"it's true, i have not been a dear of late,
and for you i no longer palpitate,
          so i'd agree to end you with this spell."

"please let me know if you have found a way,
          and to your wished-for end i would oblige,"
she answered, clicking heels she walked away,
          i watched her shoes slam down and quickly rise,
in sync to my own heart this heartless lass,
who found me lacking, of a lower class,
          had spoken truth concealed within her eyes.


(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

He claimed to harness energy, not found,
imagined, but not measured from the ground,

and from the positive of cells now known,
like energies our knowledge in has grown,

The energies, all positive, that flow,
so do, unblocked by furniture for show,

and by the absence of the negative,
slow-shooed by candle color, scent it gives,

This he believed and now more so believes,
unmeasured energy that comes and leaves,

is in all things and is all things in form,
for every form is energy in dorm,

and now he looks at everyone the same,
as patterned energies upon a plane.


(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

oh once upon a time i found a soulmate,
filled my heart, it overflowed, i drowned
so deep to ocean's floor i simply died,
translated to the heavens of the skies,

though years, it was a drop in ocean's depth,
that we would be together in our bond,
against all my beliefs and thoughts it broke,
oh yes, so possible, it truly did,

she changed and fell right through the floor of glass,
past clouds and vanished to the earth below,
so mortified to stone i followed suit
and landed in an open grave closed shut,

to my surprise a new love, moschiach,
did resurrect me from my stateless tomb,
and showed me things i'd missed from my dear love
long past but not forgotten in the mind,

yet she could not accompany me there
upon the clouds in steps rising to sky,
for she was chained to one some distance off,
and she was his, and though our hearts be tuned,

we could not mesh and cleave into one flesh,
yet showed me soulmates are not one for one,
for there must always be another one
somewhere in space and time, like us, like this,

and now standing before my former grave,
with hope for life yet hopeless in my search,
should i climb down and sleep or walk a path?
a path to where? to whom? now death, now life...

and so i wait, eternity if must
be done, somehow, for here alone i can't,
an oddity among the pairing souls,
comprising all that heaven's meaning is

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

there are those certain ones, those special friends,
they fall down from the sky, like white snowflakes,
that land upon my nose and tongue, and melt,
that chill me, wake me from complaceny,
and melt my heart to water, falling rain,
our time together short, so very short,
and gone, they leave a sore and open wound,
which nothing filled, could fill or ever will,
just holes, i'm full of holes, i am a hole,
come one, come all, come more, come fall some more,
and tingle my dear nose and tongue and heart,
and make me live and die again, again

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

oh it's the end, the world will end today,
the Mayans said, they said it long ago,
according to opinions people say,
the modern sayers saying what they know,

it's noon, the morning hours i have survived,
now fifteen minutes till the clock strikes two,
i find in all the silence i'm alive,
the sayers thinking twice 'bout what they knew,

survivalists in barricaded doors,
with rifles loaded, ready on the walls,
will pace upon their dusty wooden floors,
awaiting for that ring when death makes calls,

today for many, dying one by one,
the prophecy was right, their time is done

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos