there’s that flower
the ancient rock by the street
we come of a village
a sinuous path
that leads to the next
but our village has no name
it is not of specifics
there is no history here
no identity to cling to
and no exotica to marvel over
it’s all the same to us
your village or ours
and we welcome with palms open;
there’s no dogma or Heavy Books
on our tables
we start with no musings
and we shape no theology
and grand ideas
all that we have is clarity
that blooms and withers, only to bloom again
no  affiliations, no special-ness
and it is the clouds
and the earth we read
in our village
in our homes
that go by no name or labels
and no exotica to marvel over
it’s all the same to us
your village or ours
and there’s that flower

with every thought of you,
my heart explodes roses,
filling my mind's sky
with rose petal rain,
and every red petal
bears your name,
showering me with smiles
with every thought of you.

(C)1997, Christos Rigakos

The morning, milky white,
was dripping from sky to earth,
like desert sands, it extends
beyond my mind.
White flows like benediction
of the cosmos, I tell myself,
is it real or the illusion mind creates?
I swim to the depths,
an emerald cave, so familiar
in many lives, comes to sight,
I take the sword kept there
from its sheath, and dive up
cut the chain of illusion with it.
The white blood of silence
gush and spread everywhere,
I gaze at  the face of truth
hidden by golden leaves*
till the moment before.