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The clay *** on the shelf that one day fell,
     And broke to shards and splinters of itself,
     Bemoaned its fate, bewailed its shards to tell
     The other pots of clay upon the shelf:
"Oh, help my rotund but so stricken frame!"
     "And meld the cracks and all the parts of me!"
     "Behold the mess I am, behold my shame!"
     "For what am I if I can't hold my tea?"
Oh, silly ***, what are these things you say?
     Who knows you better than your planner-plotter?
     Yet you confide in other pots of clay?
     Why not instead confide in your Potter?
They cannot help others if not themselves,
So seek the one beyond the pots and shelves.


(C)2020, Christos Rigakos
English/Shakespearean Sonnet
Inquire not of me, nor of my life!
     All knowledge, by instruction, is withheld.
     Our blood line cut, your kin no more my wife,
     your right to know by your own hand dispelled.
Your silence had you ousted from my heart,
     when I besought your most beloved names.
     Your hush kept me at bay, and us apart,
     as I sought you, my son-ship you disclaimed.
Now if perchance a thought of me has raised,
     please quick extinguish it and mind me not.
     Why resurrect the ghost of one you've razed
     upon your kin's request, and made as naught?  
True love, when born, has immortality;
when false it lives only conditionally.

(C)2018, Christos Rigakos
English/Shakespearean Sonnet
I travel nightly to and fro on windswept sandy dunes,
and watch the far side of the moon, for it won't face me here.

I hear the Mourning Dove start sighing meloncholy tunes
in morning light, which starts too soon, and always finds me here.

I ponder life so quizzically, and contemplate the rhunes,
for I must never ask the Moon, whose silence chills me here.

Behind the glowing clouds that veil the fine majestic moon,
the bride awaits beloved groom, as I stand watching here.

"I am your mate, have you forgotten, my dear silent Moon?"
"We are a single flesh, in tune.  Why have you left me here?"

"Your face aloft and turned away, to stars you wail and croon,"
"and seek your other now lost Lune, while I am waiting here!"

Her farthest edges faintly glow. I'd pay to watch her swoon,
to my heart's rhythm late in June, yet I'm imprisoned here.

My chest, that swells by what I knew of times our love did bloom,
deflates remembering its doom, and I am stranded here.

"Too high to reach, in clouds cocooned, my far beloved Moon,
return to me on Earth and soon, or find my bones still here.

(C)2020, Christos Rigakos
Ghazal
The seed is in the fruit, indeed,
     the fruit is in the seed.
For what is it that grows from it,
     by coding that it reads?
And can it be a different fruit,
     if to this code it heeds?
It is compelled by code to swell,
     before by birth it's freed.
And as the seed becomes the fruit,
   the fruit's indeed the seed.


(C)2020, Christos Rigakos
One's lofty dreams, ambitious goals, what not;
     One's self-esteem, self-worth, self-praise and such:
Delusions of a stumbling drunken sot!
     Esteemed values whose worth weighs not so much.
One's intimates, loves, friends become a crutch;
     Of comforts, safety, food, concerns and care
Held tightly, are released from one's own touch,
     When oxygen is scarce and breath is rare,
Corona's taught us very well the worth of air!

(C)2020, Christos Rigakos
Spenserian Stanza
An unseen force has plagued the Earth at last,
     And shuttered man, and cleared his busy streets,
     Unlike those unseen forces of the past,
     For homes have now surpassed all man's retreats.
In New York City's heart, Third Avenue,
     Congested with Taxis, buses and such,
     The silence and the breeze are all so new,
     To few masked 'Yorkers, distanced not to touch.
Yet love abounds throughout our pestilence,
     Yes, there are still some swelled, afluttered hearts.
     Their masquerade is made with diligence,
     And tantric love is made six feet apart.
Those lovers not yet quarantined in homes,
Stare longingly like new masked garden gnomes.

(C)2020, Christos Rigakos
Christos Rigakos Dec 2019
All who have come into our lives and left,
     have taken us with them and we of them.
     Though these are parts of which we are bereft,
     they've left within the imprints of a gem.
So priceless are the memories of when
     They crossed our five bridges to leave their mark
     Upon our hearts, adorning time called Then,
     That one mere thought of Then inflicts a spark:
A subtle rain, or storm of lightning arc,
     Across the carpet clouds in skies of mind,
     Flash long-gone faces smiling, glint or stark--
     These gem imprints in imprints left behind.
Although we are long broken, set apart,
In memories we'll always be one heart.

(C)2019, Christos Rigakos
Spenserian Sonnet
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