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

like chicken in tomato soup lain still,
one arm protruding off the bathtub's edge,
red water steaming, still at edge, none spilled,
and 'neath her chin a pill-less bottle wedged,

her forehead, raven hair, an island forest,
in a sea of calmness sought and found,
a chaos turned to peace, its calm attests,
now what has sunk beneath will meet the ground,

and as the soup's released into the drain,
her paleness, wrist cut red, and kitchen knife,
exposed to all, her face relieved of pain,
yet not enjoyed, devoid of sensing life,

that torment, plagued her soul with agony,
now transferred to her grieving family

(C)2012, Christos 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

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

shall i compare you to a pizza pie?
you are more cheesy and more temper-hot,
as overcooking turns the dough too dry,
so summer days cause dough to bubble-spot,

sometime too hot the flame of oven burns,
and often oven doors keep men away,
and pizza guys do wish the pizza'd turn,
to cook all 'round with much more even sway,

by chance or nature's changing course untrimmed,
men eat too much pizza and then gain weight,
and no diet can help to make them trim,
for they cannot return the slice they ate,

so long as men eat pizza, drink coffee,
so longer will they sit to crap and ***

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

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