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

Presumptuous to speak the obvious?
If only what we see is not as such.
Then all presumptions truly weigh not much.
Investigations make demands of us.

With every word the world is on to us.
Their weight of stares requires of us a crutch,
analysis of meanings and of such,
until of reasonings they empty us.

No man lies naked splayed before strange eyes.
He wears the clothing made in current style,
to give illusion pleasing to the world.

And so the world peels back the layered lies,
and lays them in a neatly gentle pile,
until the truth of man is full unfurled.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

when they move on they never look behind,
determined eyes seek only what's ahead,
and those they've left behind are left for dead,
their memory does every heel step grind,

so no old fiber to their thought can bind,
and to alleviate that awful dread,
which weighs upon the heart like heavy lead,
they hum the olden song of auld lang syne,

and those they've left behind for some odd sin,
who long for, are deprived of, one last kiss,
and haunt their memories with dreadful sigh,

forgotten for they've surely never been,
no more in recollections do exist,
they shrivel as a memory and die

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

the humble priest who, clothed in black and drab
old moth-holed garb and well-worn holy shoes,
saw yellow-orange men with breath infused
survive while hammered under concrete slabs,

adorned with seizure's scrapes and new dried scab,
a monk's black cap and simple wooden cross,
from Shaolin's breath could not be pushed or tossed,
or even budged when by his arm was grabbed,

then one whose throat withstood the point of spear,
did ask the priest what powers blocked his chi,
the humble priest explained and this he said,

"from chi's destructive force i had no fear,
for i did what you could not hear or see,
recite the name of One raised from the dead"

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

We see the world through crests and troughs of light,
That points to many things, returns to show,
What's there before us so that we may know,
The world existing in our precious sight.

Yet what if what we see, and think is right,
by virtue of unveiling of its glow,
Is merely part of what the light won't show,
of that which lives forever in the night?

What could there be that human eye won't see,
Which by this lack of sight we sure deny;
And what of those we love who've passed away?

Between the crest and trough at some degree,
Are things on Earth attributed to sky,
And by a few degrees are kept at bay?

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

Oh foolish man, do recognize your place,
Has changed, and what is now's no more as then.
She's planning to estrange her passion when,
She tells you solemnly she needs some space.

Do not agree, for it is not the case,
That she will merely wait within her den,
Return to you upon the count to ten.
Do not let go, and if you have, give chase!

For in that space of time you'd be apart,
She'll seek her courage, muster what she can,
To overcome the love, do what she ought,

And unobstructed, strangle her own heart,
Untethering to meet another man,
And render you a silent afterthought!

16:29, 3/23/2014

Your love, with anguish, shows me passageways,
To exit doors and places of escape,
That I may flee impending sorrow's scrape,
Against my heart-skin in the coming days.

But love's advice begins my own malaise,
I'm smothered as under a weighty drape.
My heart compressed then loses its true shape,
While trampled under words of your own phrase.

I'd live serenely separate from this pair,
You often warn so bluntly yet so coy.
The thought of this is more than I could bear.

I'd rather live in service to your care,
Caressing you through duty or through joy,
Than live on loveless in such deep despair.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

Oh, Love's infinity he often feigns.
The arrow's tip is buried in the heart,
Yet Cupid's weapon penetrates in part.
Though head pierce deep the tail outside remains.

As Love's infection spreads about through veins,
Its sweet eternal myth sets out its start.
Yet myths fade soon and hearts are torn apart,
And one who loved before so soon disdains.

Because the hand can touch the arrow's tail,
It pulls the length of it out from the soul,
The Mythic Love then dissipates to cold.

They all who buy the myth are doomed to fail,
Becoming merely halves who once were whole,
And fabled myths become a thing of old.


(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

The congressman from Mars whose many gaffes
Led to his drop in ratings at the poll,
And whose awful decisions marred his role,
Had found his explanation drowned in laughs.

And following his footsteps and his paths
The congressman from Venus bared his soul,
Explained why his career has borne its toll,
By drawing on his skin some stats and graphs.

Because I'm green, the Martian dared to tell
Constituents, that's why I'm hated so!
Because I'm purple, the Venusian cried

Unto an Earth whose races blended well
To shades of black, and who have learned to know
That gaffes behind a color can not hide.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos