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

old pigeon bones
aside the maple tree
not touching
a winter wind blows through
our kindred spirits




(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

i have no eyes to see nor ears to hear,
no speech beyond my teeth or any breath,
i'm dumb for lack of thought in front or rear,
and paralyzed to stillness in my death,

so by enchantment i am moved to ask,
do ever you adorn my stone with wreath?
or is even a wreath a burdened task--
a limestone needing pulleys to bequeath?

and if no wreath, are you yet moved to haunt
this resting place to whisper to my mound?
or does this too remain a task that daunts
you to refrain from passing by around?

i often wonder if my plot still yields
a headstone or the mark of potters field

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

She asked, he gave, they smoked the night away.
They shared the fire they'd held between their eyes,
until the smoke gave way to light of day.

How long had she felt burning in this way?
Not longer than he'd held her in his eyes.
She asked, he gave, they smoked the night away.

He'd watched her every move and every sway,
and hid his aching pain from all the guys,
until the smoke gave way to light of day.

They told her of his longing, burning way,
and she denied her own with see-through lies.
She asked, he gave, they smoked the night away.

I saw the smoldering within his gaze,
and told her, but she called them brother guys,
until the smoke gave way to light of day.

She lied about the time she spent all day,
with him, he was a lover in disguise.
She asked, he gave, they smoked the night away,
until the smoke gave way to light of day.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

her marble bones, cemented to her skin,
her warmth, imagined, from this porcelain,
encased a heart, if any, in its shell,
which beat for me as far as i could tell,
yet beat for some as well towards the end,
though in the end i couldn't tell apart,
the sounds of stone and non-existent heart.

(C)2006, Christos Rigakos

seashells
line my bare shelves
barely--line my bare walls
collecting emptiness to fill
my house

(C)2000, Christos Rigakos

father's face
buried in his hands
the weight of grief




(C)1999, Christos Rigakos