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

I hear the colors waving in my thoughts,
with yellows rising, reaching to the white,
and falling grand arpeggios to blue,
then burying to violet and black,
beyond the grave of my perceptions—gone.
The undulating rhythms flickering
like candle flames of solemn holy mass,
an everlasting birth-rebirth of life
in rampant earthly sprints that, to and fro,
arrive and leave like those we’ve met and known
who’ve disappeared and now simply exist
in just such thoughts, as colorful and vain.

(C)2004, 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

Some say the world will end--2012.
Can count the years remaining on one hand.
How will we deal, how will we all survive?
Who cares? It doesn't matter, not at all.
For death is death, no matter how you go.
And once your heart stops, and your brain shuts down--
a curtain call, the lights dim down, that's it,
and all your fears extinguish with your eye.
Why fear the rumored, what may come some day?
Why fret about the quakes, the floods, the fires,
the falling skies, the screams and crying eyes?
The bus may hit you in the morning light.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

dearlovertrytounderstandiunderstandyourloveforme,
yetirejectitfor­oneveryspecialreasoncan'tyousee?
there'ssomethingmissinginyourver­ylovinggivingloveforme,
thatstealsmyairyoureverystareweakensmyver­ywilltobe,
andthoughyourlovewaslikeasalveitoverflowedtheedgeforme­,
andnowinspiteandoutofspiteichooseoncemoretobeempty,
devoidofyou­avoidingyouinevermeanttohurtyousee
without you  here   or    even     near      inhaling's       easier        for         me.

(C)2012, 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

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