We are to come and leave and not return,
But hand our secret scroll to those who'd be.
I'll pass the writings on which passed to me,
And shrink to blackened ash with flameless burn.

As far as those who'll be--of whom will earn,
That secret scroll containing some of me,
Quite like yet quite unlike, in no way me--
They'll mourn for I'll have gone and won't return.

To live on in a heart or memory,
Is not living or life or anything,
But trite consoling words of sympathy--

A metaphor or best a simile--
suspending truth, and grief that loss will bring.
In truth no more am I nor shall I be.


(C)2015, Christos Rigakos

Diminutive flowers burst onto the scene.
I am grateful to at last see that it really is Spring.
I was beginning to wonder-

The Winter birds will wing their way on;
Flying long distance to their Summer home.
They are a wonder-

Winter brought heartbreak, but some fun and joy.
A happy farewell to that harshest of seasons, boy!
Little wonder-

Your father has paid
Good money for the
Artist. Sit very still,

Deepta, the man needs
You not to fidget, he
Says, placing his hairy

Hands on your shoulder.
Why must women move
So? Is stillness alien to

Your nature? You thought
He was going to laugh or
Smile but he does not; his

Lips disappear into his huge
Moustache and beard. The
Artist moves you to the left

Slightly, his small hands
Moulding you to the position
He requires, his eyes studying

You, dark brown, you notice,
The thin moustache thinly
Grown. Your father stands

Where he can see you. He  
Folds his arms and stands
Stiffly. The artist seems

Nervous, he fiddles with
His charcoal, his fingers as
A dancer warming up before

The dance, his eyes moving
Over you as if his mind has
Already taken you in, has

Swallowed you in a huge
Gulp. Father nods, then rather
Slowly leaves the room, his

Hairy hands behind his back,
His fingers crossed. You
Breathe easy; the artist blows

Out air, his anxiety away, he
Smiles at you. Men often smile
At you, it is their way of

Capturing your image for
Their sleepless nights, for
Their empty lives, replacing

Your beauty for the dullness
And ugliness of their wives.

sometimes I stop at you
and look
with eyes of grateful wonder
your spirit still all shiny
yet you are still here with me

yes  some things aggravate
but why should they, if unsurprising?
they shouldn't really get to me
it's  your different way of singing

well-seasoned are my campaigns
i've loved and lost a few
i come with all my baggage
to be here with you

i think that I am blessed
and live by this adage
happy with a playful angel
not being unaccompanied baggage