We used to be one and the same,
saw the world through
one set of eyes;
where my thoughts left off
yours picked up
before they even
left my mouth.
We would get high
on autumn nights
and laugh until we
blacked out,
our hair braiding together
on the pillow
until it was impossible
to tell yours from mine.
But as hard as we could laugh
harder we could fight;
we threw words
like they were knives
hoping to find home
buried between the
other's shoulder blades.
Now harsh intentions
run through our veins
and my blood churns
at the sight of your
face.
We traded matching smiles
for matching scars
and when you finally
shut the door
there was a pool
of blood
left on the floor.
It was impossible
to tell yours from mine.

i trained a bloodhound in my quest
     to find the fount of youth
upon its memory impressed
     the habits of a sleuth
round every rock and grass and tree
it spied what others could not see
     in search of one most abstract hopeful truth

the training ground was in the park
     where children roamed and played
the bloodhound, trained to bay and bark
     where innocence displayed
it sniffed the scent of every child
with purity not yet defiled
     its diligence always duly repaid

by daily treks its efforts grew
     enthusiastically
and by the same i surely knew
     the end was soon to be
round pools and lakes and finally
a river leading to the sea
     the fount of youth would soon belong to me

at last one day upon the dawn
     the time was now at hand
it came to me, my head it fawned
     its tail most quickly fanned
the hound had licked my head around
it barked and bayed and i had found
     the end was quite unlike what i had planned


(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

My heart is the book,
My conscience is the author,
My childhood is the prologue,
My growing phase is the pages with the most lessons,
My ideas are the metaphoric words,
My successes are the exciting paragraphs,
My challenges are the hair-rising lines,
My teenage life of naiveness is all the questions of the story,
And my adulthood answers it all, maybe some.
The last chapter defines what is right and wrong in my life,
The time before my passing is the page that holds you from continuing -to finish, to accept that it wont last.

And it ends,
And you flip the last blank page,

Thereafter, only God knows what happens to the story, to me.

We take a shortcut
through the narrow walkways
of the old village

across the cobblestones
and by the white-washed tabby wall

to the waterside where slave ships
once plied their trade

My dog lingers nose down
as if each stone has a story to tell

and ***** an ear to the wall
where the auctions were held

She looks at people differently now.

When there was a heaven drops
           sparrow smiles
           cuckoo wets
           nightingale sings
           leaf  shines
           flower blooms
           tree dances
           river glitters
           sea swings
           cattle enjoys
But  Still your crying remains
Is that you feel for humans
DON'T WORRY !I'm there for you to feel your pains...

just to get
so far,

and I just
want to be
right where
you are.