When growing up I pushed away my father's molding hands,
     asserting I was different than he was and was my own,
     yet I allowed my friends to mold me, there I had been hewn,
     becoming them in function form and every fiber strand.
I disappointed him who spawned me from his very *****
     and saw me henceforth as a stranger living in his home.
     At last resigned to this demise he hid his hands and tone.
     I had betrayed my maker for a sack of thirty coins.
Far later I'd returned to him a prodigal old son,
     and hinted, showed and sang and danced his many favored tunes.
     Disinterested he questioned it.  No longer did he care.
These days I search my father's mind, though now it's surely gone,
     and seek those ancient treasures gone by very many moons,
     and wish he'd know that I am him though he's no longer there.

(C)2019, Christos Rigakos

It's not the time of dandelions;
they've all been blown away;

those fragile fragments now remind
the shooting stars of day.

And though the seedlings blown away seem gone;
they float as static light and air along
as pieces of a never ending earth –
a universe recycling its dearth.

All matter is
and always is.
A dandelion
may be his

smile. And think – drink water from your sink –
it may be reimagined stars you drink.

She stood atop her balcony and stared,
Beyond the masses fawning at her face.
She raised a stoic chin  frozen in place,
A porcelain visage emotions spared.

While all around pomposity adorned,
With brightly colored fabrics, silver sets,
Gold, diamonds, gems and pompous little pets,
All things of which the huddled poor were scorned.

The centuries' tradition well remains,
Ingrained such that even the poor decree,
The rulers rule, the ruled should not be seen.

Yet none the privileged logically explains,
The separation's needed wide degree,
Why God who's blessed should more so save the Queen.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos