oh hey, what's up? I'm your next interview!
What's that? Oh yeah! These are my favorite jeans,
you know the ones so comfortable, they're you,
so ripped and faded, comfort seam to seam?

No way. No wearing suits, that's not my style.
My hair? I like the messy look, why ask?
My favorite show starts in a little while.
Could we get on with this, speed up the task?

Your company? I haven't heard a thing.
Don't you guys sell, like, thrifty shoes and socks,
and bells? Oh, closing bell! The one they ring,
the floor, you're trading with the Payless Stocks!

Yeah, no. I don't know anything 'bout that.
I'm anti-corporation anyway.
But hey, you want to see my brand new tat?
I show it off at every gig we play.

I don't know spreadhseets, Word or Powerpoint,
but my new iPad's got those Angry Birds,
and I can show you how to roll a joint.
Hey, where's the bathroom? Got to drop some turds!

Aw, ****! It's out of order, you should know.
Oh sorry dude, that silent smell's a ****.
I think I'll get a mohawk, let it grow.
I'm hungry, are we done, when do I start?

This Monday? Are you kidding? Yo! High five!
Oh, wait, I'm going fishing with my girl.
How 'bout next week, whenever I arrive?
I'll celebrate my new job till I hurl!

I'm glad you like my honesty, that's fair,
to give more guys like me an equal chance.
My laid back mind's a breath of fresh new air.
and honesty's a virtue at a glance.

When I come in I'll do the best I can,
with all the missing knowledge in my head,
the many skills I'm lacking in my hand,
and all the bad production you all dread.

I'll see you when I see you Mister Boss,
I never asked your name, who gives a ****.
There's something on your lip, is that lip gloss?
Oh, wait, you're not a dude? Oh, sorry ma'am!

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

there's something 'bout jazz music, fills the eye
with thoughts of woodwinds brass and smoky dives
where clubs and streets meet moonlight in the sky

the music notes, arpeggio, they fly
with drinks around, the smoky mood arrives
there's something 'bout jazz music, fills the eye

the New York nightlife entertains the eye
past midnight, sewer smoke floats up alive
where clubs and streets meet moonlight in the sky

with Songs From the Night Before, Sanborn is high
and carries all, along with him they jive
there's something 'bout jazz music, fills the eye

the room is dark but for a stage so nigh
spotlight exposes New York's heartbeat live
where clubs and streets meet moonlight in the sky

where jazz songs live forever, never die
the spirit of New York at night it thrives
there's something 'bout jazz music, fills the eye
where clubs and streets meet moonlight in the sky

(C)2009, Christos Rigakos

Oh, why give credence to the speechful lass
who judges sanity among the two
admirers differently, one fail, one pass,
and take to heart the failure judged in you?

Why question why--when both have done the same
exact deed with no difference in the act--
should you be deemed a nuisance and insane,
and he a hero, opposite of fact?

"He stares at me, this stalker and a creep,"
says she of your mere passing little glance.
"That staring handsome hunk I think I'll keep,"
she coos, his eyes ******* her in dance.

Attraction makes acceptable the deed
that otherwise repels the heart in need.

(C)2012, 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

traffic horns
inside car windows
Bob Marley

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

She stood atop her balcony and stared,
Beyond the masses fawning at her face.
She raised a stoic chin  frozen in place,
A porcelain visage emotions spared.

While all around pomposity adorned,
With brightly colored fabrics, silver sets,
Gold, diamonds, gems and pompous little pets,
All things of which the huddled poor were scorned.

The centuries' tradition well remains,
Ingrained such that even the poor decree,
The rulers rule, the ruled should not be seen.

Yet none the privileged logically explains,
The separation's needed wide degree,
Why God who's blessed should more so save the Queen.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

six years have passed, the family is fine,
for we don't speak about him anymore,
but mother, with a frequent random line,
which closes lips, draws eyes down to the floor,

no, we don't speak about him anymore,
but fill our mouths with all things that distract,
our open living room has one closed door,
we chat about all things except one fact,

discussions, all sweet-tempered by our tact,
with tact we step around the elephant,
our dire necessity's survival act,
we've learned to force the smile and quell the rant,

at end of day each one within his room,
speaks to his memory in tones of gloom

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

there is a place i want to see
          which no man yet has seen
a city built around a tree
          where it has always been
where animals feed off the fruits
and no man's dared to step his boots
          where flirting sun in sky just smiles and preens

a city built around a tree
          which no man yet has seen?
how could a city none could see
          be built and always been?
who built it if it wasn't man?
could animals, and if they can
          would they also build zoos for you and me?

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

since our parting
another's taken her place
loneliness
with unwavering loyalty
never leaves my side

(C)2001, Christos Rigakos

The normal way of life is such:
          the old give way to young.
To understand does not take much,
          explained in simple tongue:
Adults that love do procreate.
Their selves they form and replicate,
          continuing the song which they have sung.

The first into the world are first
          to leave the world behind.
They dry and shrivel in their thirst,
          are ground to dust and rind.
They find their solace in their spawn,
inside whose flesh they carry on
          their signatures, in place of their old mind.

The next await their counted turn,
          with shovel at the hand;
enjoy the lives which must adjourn
          into the unseen land.
Then find a mate to spawn their own,
before their own flesh from the bone
          departs into the dryness of the sand.

Yet once upon a blood red moon,
          the normalcy defers.
The next in line depart too soon,
          in snares of life's dark lures.
The first must intern on the shelves
of crypts the flesh that holds their selves,
          and taste what to the next this life confers.


(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

the tunic slid down off her
          supple *******, the milk
and honey of my hungry eyes, slow flutter-
          -by like butterfly kisses,
eyelashes on my heart's now fevered skin,
          for skin, yea, all i'd give,
to touch smooth porcelain-like
          vase, or marble Venus, statue-
-esque I stand, attentive now she covers-
          -up, i too take cover, diverting
eyes, in opposite directions carrying
          the weight of just one moment

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

An often wish, that time were stored somewhere,
Accessible to all, yet more to me,
A day relivable in all its flair,
To hear, to feel, to taste, to smell, to see.

Full sense-infused, the recreation'd be,
As real as present moment ever would,
A place and time to any time I'd flee,
To when and where I'd flee if flee I could.

If possible the question would be, should?
Should I relive a scene that's long since past,
Whose ground is gone upon which once I stood,
Whose sky has fled and clouds have long since cast?

Our memories whose present time has left,
Are lessons learned when of them we're bereft.

(C)2014, 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

i wax nostalgic as I pull my hair,
as they have always come, again they're here,
my friends, they sit like corpses and they stare,

lamenting how my life's been most unfair,
while quivering and lapping up my tears,
i wax nostalgic as I pull my hair,

and as the follicles from skin I tear,
they hush their tongues, in silence lend their ears,
my friends, they sit like corpses and they stare,

how long have two lone brothers been a pair?
how much was shared between two hearts most near?
i wax nostalgic as I pull my hair,

yet how much can these friends of mine more bear?
i've burdened them with pity year by year,
my friends, they sit like corpses and they stare,

fatigued of me, yet one day more they dare,
to sit with me, for one more tale to hear,
i wax nostalgic as I pull my hair,
my friends, they sit like corpses and they stare

(C)2009, Christos Rigakos

for months we grew in knowledge and in love,
through loving--leaving--loving, holding still,
always both snarling wolves and cooing doves,
both love and anger rendered my heart ill,

i bid her fond farewell but for a spell,
to clear the mind and cleanse the ailing heart,
i asked, please wait, yet if you can't, be well,
and find a good man, make a brand new start,

i watch her from my secret distant place,
her growing closeness to a man i chose,
my blessing sits half-twisted in my face,
both wishing well and not, to what now grows,

though bluntly wrong for me i so adore,
the one i've loved for months behind my door

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

a thousand what-ifs swarmed before my eyes,
and stung me as if I had rocked beehives,
the woulda-coulda-shouldas, if-only-I's,
all buzzed their screams, that he'd be still alive,

yet I had done all that I knew to do,
the breaths of life I gave him, much too late,
the EMT's three-quarter hour, their crew,
could not revive my father from his fate,

his heart had fibrillated, lifeless eyes,
were blind to all, his ears heard not our screams,
upon my breath his breathing finalized,
he fell to sleep the sleep where are no dreams,

now on that couch where father there reposed,
not we nor our dear cat to rest there goes

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

i trained a bloodhound in my quest
     to find the fount of youth
upon its memory impressed
     the habits of a sleuth
round every rock and grass and tree
it spied what others could not see
     in search of one most abstract hopeful truth

the training ground was in the park
     where children roamed and played
the bloodhound, trained to bay and bark
     where innocence displayed
it sniffed the scent of every child
with purity not yet defiled
     its diligence always duly repaid

by daily treks its efforts grew
     enthusiastically
and by the same i surely knew
     the end was soon to be
round pools and lakes and finally
a river leading to the sea
     the fount of youth would soon belong to me

at last one day upon the dawn
     the time was now at hand
it came to me, my head it fawned
     its tail most quickly fanned
the hound had licked my head around
it barked and bayed and i had found
     the end was quite unlike what i had planned


(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

I stand upon a precipice
and stare into a dark abyss
where subtle echoes faintly stir,
whose source's bright and warm allure
has brought me here with puckered kiss
for one whose soul I deeply miss
and if I fall into this hole
together we'll again be whole.


(C)2009, 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 **** a finger when you pull it,
and out will come a magic deadly bullet.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

Upon this hill I plant the flag--
     Of every imp and scallywag,
rapscallion, rogue and rascal, knave--
      Whom kingdoms' laws could never save.

I gather every varlet, scamp,
      Around the bonfire of our camp,
And pass around the speaking torch,
      For storytelling tales that scorch,

To every sullied man, uncouth,
      Unwashed who smiles a scurvied tooth,
The scarlet-lettered harlot, *****,
      Who loves to scallygag her mensch,

The whoredom-loving scallyhag,
      Who trollops round the pirate's crag,
The tousle-haired and greasy scullion
      Cooking all a hot slumgullion,

And after tales of those unnerved,
      And scullion's slimy stew is served,
I toast a round of filthy ale,
      To all who live beyond the pale.


(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

I oft' remember him with what he wore
at home, so often in his leisure time,
those cutoff sweat pants and those dull grey socks,
and right away I see him sitting there,
the corner of the couch, the one at right,
a dinner plate upon his lap, so full,
Lo Mein with beef and rice, duck sauce on all,
a burp, then slapping tummy, sounds are made,
oh, why won't he do anything again?
what would I pay to have him back again?
to hear his laughter and his joking ways?
the memory, it fades into a snap,
as I am jolted back to here and now
where absence sits alone on this here couch
and I can only call him in my mind.

(C)2007, Christos Rigakos

She asked, he gave, they smoked the night away.
They shared the fire they'd held between their eyes,
until the smoke gave way to light of day.

How long had she felt burning in this way?
Not longer than he'd held her in his eyes.
She asked, he gave, they smoked the night away.

He'd watched her every move and every sway,
and hid his aching pain from all the guys,
until the smoke gave way to light of day.

They told her of his longing, burning way,
and she denied her own with see-through lies.
She asked, he gave, they smoked the night away.

I saw the smoldering within his gaze,
and told her, but she called them brother guys,
until the smoke gave way to light of day.

She lied about the time she spent all day,
with him, he was a lover in disguise.
She asked, he gave, they smoked the night away,
until the smoke gave way to light of day.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

she boiled my blood inside a *** of steel,
with bread she cooked it thoroughly till foam,
had covered all, unseeable, unfeel-
-ing, vengeance wrathful, hardened to a loam,
          where blood is life, she caused the life to be,
          unlivable, no more a life to me

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

This evening, alone, I dim the light.
The needle crackles on the vinyl disk,
and Billy Holiday expounds.  The night
belongs to 1933.  I risk

forgetting all the present, modern days
sinking.  In leather deeply I recline,
absorbing all that special era plays,
and all I never lived are surely mine.

With every sip of bourbon on this night,
they come alive again through jazz and song,
from album cover pictures, black and white.
We dance in black ties, black tails all night long.

And when the morning sun has woken me,
I will have lived my night in history.


(C)2014, 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

spring afternoon
the clouds rain
till they are none
when my last tears fall
i too shall vanish

(C)2000, 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

on the tree branch
outside my window
a squirrel chews furiously
on a walnut

as sales have fallen
business declined
frustration
is a fat sweaty man
sitting on my chest
i cannot breathe
i surrender
and lay as if dead

watching
outside my window
as the squirrel
finally cracks the shell

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

B** egan the day with only half a face,
E xiled from normalcy with half-dead look.
L eft chewing on the right side without taste.
L eft side will not be moved except to droop.
S tress wakes the hypochondriac in me!
P er chance it was a stroke?  The Doc said, No.
A ll signs point to a common malady,
L eaving inflicted many out the know.
S urvival is assured, but some will find,
Y outh’s strengths have now been ordered left behind.


(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

With pompous fanfare I delight those few,
To smiles and loud ovations from afar,
Who sit upon my daydream's blessed pew,
And light night's darkened pathways as the stars,

With half-truths, bland omissions, outright lies,
I paint the murals colored by success,
To cover over failures, my disguise,
And hide their idol God has yet to bless,

For had I told the truth and never lied,
Those precious few would see and nod their heads,
Acknowledge my ejection justified,
Accept their children's love for me as dead,

For any food that fails to carry taste,
Is cast aside as utter worthless waste.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

i am the sun

that rises from its nightly earthly grave
propelled by hope to find her love in skies
unmasking galaxies for their disguise
his mighty queen, pursued by lowly knave

and finds but empty space littered with stars
its solar flares upon its face but scars

descending then it falls into the sea
and drags the heaven's colors to the floor
its light extinguished through the closing door
in dying for a spell will cease to be

i am the sun

(C)2012, Chistos Rigakos

in recess, children walking 'bout the yard,
are playing, chatting, sitting round in groups,
declaring statements, all without regard
to hands on basketballs and hula hoops,

their promises to one another, found
expressed in ways most dear to their own care,
the boys do carve their words into the ground,
the girls do whisper them into the air,

in twenty years when all, then grown, return,
recalling promises so far gone made,
how will they recollect, will they discern
the choices memory has wiped to fade?

the boys will find their fossils waiting there,
the girls will find a silence in the air

(C)2011, Christos Rigakos

A simple thing, no simpler than this:
the rising, falling of a breathing chest.
When gone, nothing is missed as much as this.

Another simple thing added to this:
the rise-fall thumping of a beating chest.
A simple thing, no simpler than this.

One day he laid, displayed, without a hiss,
his movements stilled, in frozen final rest.
When gone, nothing is missed as much as this.

I stared intently, watching for just this:
a hiccup or a twitch, a laugh in jest.
A simple thing, no simpler than this.

The days we played and laughed in sunny bliss,
I never once took notice of his chest.
When gone, nothing is missed as much as this.

And since the lid closed shut, this much I miss:
a simple kiss, a hug, the warmth of breast.
A simple thing, no simpler than this:
When gone, nothing is missed as much as this.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

ineffable the moment of one's death,
between the final beat and darkness....
when consciousness takes notice of no sound
within the chest while fading into numbness,

yet moreso inconceivable is then
the moment of the numbness into dark,
before that step into oblivion,
when final thoughts yet feed upon a spark,

the final thought, the final one indeed,
its ending more precisely mystery,
its closing, its transition where it leads,
into no thought, nor zen, no more to be,

since none are dead who ponder on such things,
to those who live no understanding rings

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

dear wife of former marriage will you be
entrenched forever in your hidden spite,
against your former husband tauntingly
in flaunting other men who are more right,

when each succeeding man, like one before,
has failed as per his character so wrong,
who rush so passionately through your door,
and exit likewise at your final gong,

while all the while the husband whom you left,
so steadfast here remains the best of them,
yet suffers silently of wife bereft,
a prince among a crowd of pauper men,

open your eyes and see what you once knew,
i hold the only heart that loved you true

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

her marble bones, cemented to her skin,
her warmth, imagined, from this porcelain,
encased a heart, if any, in its shell,
which beat for me as far as i could tell,
yet beat for some as well towards the end,
though in the end i couldn't tell apart,
the sounds of stone and non-existent heart.

(C)2006, Christos Rigakos

there is a lengthy space surrounding me
a radius the length of single arm
that isolates my soul from all i see

i am an island in the midst of sea
to separate my soul from any harm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me

i'm buffered from the hordes rejecting me
it might be called a gift, a special charm
that isolates my soul from all i see

my blessing is a curse that's spat on me
for when I seek another's soul as warm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me

and where I'd like to go I cannot be
my buffer zone's a barren empty farm
that isolates my soul from all i see

there once were people dancing 'round with me
yet something shooed away the loving swarm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
that isolates my soul from all i see

(C)2008, 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

Eight years have not diminished buried pain,
nor dulled the temperature of love beheld.
We proudly wear your dark and crimson stain--
our mark of love, remembrance long held.

We miss that flesh, dismantled long ago,
that lived to fill our world so vibrantly,
which held on till by slumber had to go--
its vibrant spirit from it had to flee.

And now we hush a moment, welling tears,
remembering your life, recalling death,
to honor your own silence of eight years,
that so began with your own final breath.

The silence of your void rings in the ear,
the only sound of you remaining here.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

the last red balloon
from your last birthday party
now deflated
i slump in my chair
staring at your pictures

(C)2001, Christos Rigakos

there is a blight upon the earth, it bears a name,
it draws in air much better used by worthy men,
my namesake drains the sea, the manner is the same,
the food it wastes through use could feed a better ten,

earth's scarce resources it consumes, returns nothing,
though years have passed, remains a liability,
an asset to the world its hands have yet to bring,
a change in its demise no one can sure foresee,

as inert gas unnoticed seeping into cracks,
it poisons happy minds and smiling thoughts it kills,
then hisses into skies, so soiling white doves black,
when noticed men strike matches to it for the thrills,

there is a place for one who's nil before the world,
to lie beneath the feet of all, a rug unfurled

(C)2012, 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

A day will come when they'll collect my soul,
as they have done with all those before me,
to pass me through the forty different tolls.

To analyze my character's life role,
with words and deeds in burning third degree,
a day will come when they'll collect my soul.

My guardian, with good deeds in a bowl,
will show the toll booth keepers all of me,
to pass me through the forty different tolls.

Have I ordained to fill my empty bowl,
that I may pass through tolls efficiently?
A day will come when they'll collect my soul,

the day when I'll have reached my life's last goal,
but will they find a purity in me,
to pass me through the forty different tolls?

It won't suffice that I've a gaping hole,
with mourning's sufferings that I can't flee.
A day will come when they'll collect my soul,
to pass me through the forty different tolls.

(C)2009, Christos Rigakos

When lust at last imposes in the heart,
It sets ablaze the ground and smokes the mind,
And no compelling order to depart,
Can separate the soul from thoughts that bind.

For when lust's made its great impassioned catch,
Its hold outweighs the best escaping skills,
Its talon's grip's a solid iron latch,
And won't release until its aim's fulfilled.

The lustful man deliberately will go,
Ignoring will to do what lust must do,
Where talons only **** him to and fro,
Ignoring moral peace which he once knew.

And when the lust has finished with a scream,
The weakness seems was only but a dream.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

with iron bolts rust-fastened to her copper face,
her brass eyes only move her pupils elsewhere far,
resolved and steel-willed she has left my side, her place,
her gaze and love for me now hang upon a star,

cold metal forged within her furnace blasted high,
a permanent visage no more will feign to move,
her thoughts aloft so far, the sight of her so nigh,
she's stopped the stopwatch of my time to prove,

amazing how the human flesh can turn to steel,
how fascinating transmutations quickly peak,
how one so loving woman quick unlearns to feel,
how one who knew no silence quick unlearns to speak,

unraveled slow to tatters, now we've come undone,
i sleep the moonless night that's lost its living sun

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

with brother
in the grave
my spirit
without him an empty shell
now roams the earth

(C)2007, Christos Rigakos

Once in a while frustrations boil over,
spilling all over my white shiny stove;
dousing to smoke my flickering pilot,
exhaling my courage like inert gas.
And woe to anyone smoking their anger
'round me or near or yet even far;
I’ll blow up a tempest in porcelain tea cups
and throw up a hell of a storm in a jar.

(C)2004, Christos Rigakos

they love me secretly; and i surmise
they'll whisper from the rooftops with cupped hands,
and nowhere will it echo through the skies,
and none will be aware among the lands,

for if the heart-shaped flakes fell from above,
upon the heads of certain worry warts,
these questioners would question why this love
should still remain within my loved ones' hearts,

for i have been rejected from their home,
and so it goes their love should likewise be,
the value placed upon these commenteers,
is valueless and meaningless to me,

for worry warts could question me and stare,
and i would walk away without a care

(C)2011, Christos Rigakos

Were you just made for me? I ask because
I asked for you one day, was I the cause
of your arrival simply 'cause I asked?
Was my request enough to cause His Task?

Were you returned to Him because I left
our home and left your side a void, a cleft?
Had you fulfilled your role, companion, friend,
and thus your clock had reached its circled end?

Insane, the thought, insanity it seems,
yet now I see you only in deep dreams,
for you arrived promptly at my behest,
as soon as my two lips had formed request.

And soon after I cleaved to my dear wife,
not two years passed, and so likewise your life.
Your presence seemed with mine to coincide,
and when I left, yours too had left to hide.

Yet who was I that God would grant me you--
a child so unimportant and untrue,
and who am I that God should take away
the brother that I love until this day?

I never once deserved such precious love,
a gift of my request from heights above,
companion, brother, seeking just to be
a best friend who could always walk with me.

And did I love you as you just deserved?
I often held my feelings in reserve,
until the day you chose to say to me
those truest words, your very last to be:

"I love you, brother," said to my dismay,
as if you knew there'd be no other day.
So undeserving for your smiling face,
I should have been the one in your dark place.

For all the years you sought my closed embrace,
only to find my hand stopping your face,
the gift of life should have remained with you,
and sleep for me, forgetting all I knew.

Yet seemingly it all became reversed,
you've died, I groan under a grieving curse.
Oh, who am I that I remain to be?
Oh, who am I? Were you just made for me?

(C)2010, Christos Rigakos

she barged so uninvited in my space,
so futile were my palms and outstretched arms,
forbidding her from entering my place,
mistrusting her that she may bring me harm,

rebuttals--counterpunches to my claims
that she was just another soulless ghost--
had penetrated fences, and her aims
to win my heart succeeded more than most,

but here we are almost a year from then,
i've pushed her off, she shares her heart with one
not me, but one who seems above all men,
and i have lost where once i thought i'd won,

now i'm the one who's barging in her space,
my own rebuttals falling in disgrace

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos