"pikes" poems
I wake up
Each morning,
Head to my closet,
And arm myself
With clothes
Thick as brick walls.
I rummage
Through various
Pairs of greeve-like
Pants
Looking for
The right foundation
On which I
Will build
The day's
Exoskeleton.
Fix my hair
Like the rest
Of mankind.
Hair that
Acts as the cloak
That ascribes me
To anonimity.
Before I leave
I put on the
Weight of
My outer person,
The one which
I have carefully
Built out of
Various yous
And none of me.
The skin
That I Have worn
To see my soul
Forlorn.
I go, parade myself
Like a sentinel
Emblazoned
With all the
Merits;
Look and behold
A hero that
Beckons to all who pass
A hero who
Hides all the dross
Of the Inside.
The inside
of whatever is left
Of my
Dying kingdom.
I go as a bastion
With jutted spears
And sharpened pikes
Wounding those
Who advance
Whether in peace
Or in strife.
No, I will not
Let anyone
Through the gates
Of my starving
King.
All my life
I was being
Built as a
Stronghold.
Father, as a mason,
Taught me
That strength
Is measured
Through how
Much pressure
My structure
Can endure.
Mother, as an artisan,
Raised me
As a dam
That will not break.
Taught me
That my worth
Is measured in the
Volumes that I can keep.
Suffering be now
The mortar
That binds all my griefs
Together.
Pain, *****
Barricades
Around my thirsting
Prince.
Comrade,
Stay as a facade;
Hide the muck
That have accumulated
Throughout
The years.
Lover,
break me down.
Strip me of all
My armor,
Break down the walls.
Turn my spears
Into soft dandelion *****
Wade through the tar
And see
Through the veil.
Unseam
All my scars;
Bleed me dry
Until you reach my core.
See me for
Who I am.
Witness the king
That I have
deprived.
Caress the face
Of the prince
That I have denied.
Satiate my famished spirit,
Oh, you, lover of my soul.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
ALTHOUGH I shelter from the rain
Under a broken tree,
My chair was nearest to the fire
In every company
That talked of love or politics,
Ere Time transfigured me.
Though lads are making pikes again
For some conspiracy,
And crazy rascals rage their fill
At human tyranny,
My contemplations are of Time
That has transfigured me.
There's not a woman turns her face
Upon a broken tree,
And yet the beauties that I loved
Are in my memory;
I spit into the face of Time
That has transfigured me.
4k
my daily regimen, focused, intense,
a pugilistic kata of the tongue,
in preparation for our oral fence,
run laps around ideas, expand lungs,
my visualization of that day--
we spar with strikes and parries, counterstrikes,
in reasonings' most ****** kumite,
my verbal knuckles down her oral pikes,
so armed with good reasons to reconcile,
arriving at the place where she should be,
she proves to be so much more versatile
absent, my wasted versatility,
i cannot win with passion or with rage,
a lover's heart which simply won't engage
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
Packets of peace cordoned off by fences and barbed
wire, hooded lush in manicured fields.
Endless stream of labour crossing over water pikes:
hear, no see - river in the bush.
Emerges curved a mirror on a pole: three directions,
The three birds, tinier than my forefinger, eating grain.
Lisping away in the wood the warbler and the shrike.
Wild flower, pops out red from a corner
of the cultivated green: and I am...
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
Death waits beyond the gates and stuck on pikes or up on spikes,the heads of malefactors.
Eyes ****** out by greedy beaks and tongues torn by the laughing winds,ears that hear no rivers flow or travellers as they go to and fro across the bridge.
Skulduggery and thuggery hand in hand the outlaw land across the Thames,tarts and carts and herring bones and fish wives heading off to homes beyond the liberty,where lawlessness is more or less the way things are,
and a penny a *** of gin is a lot but for twopence you get one free,
the ribald are eyeballed and marked as fair game and as the fayre starts up on the ice,
everyone gets a slice of the quince as the fey boys mince down on mincing lane and head to the borough to join in the game.
London by nature and London by name and someone to scrub the bloodstains from the hands of those who hang loose in the
outlaw lands.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
We wage wars with words,
Whetstone sharpened wit.
Wounds win rounds of applause.
A pause,
While metaphors are mustered,
Rusted dictionaries dusted,
Cobwebs shed from unread shelves.
Pikes of pronunciation
Pick apart
Portraits of ourselves.
While poetry parries,
Prose pivots,
Prepares and rallies,
Stares down violet valley below.
The violence of lavender
Shines like silver in the snow.
A scent sentenced to silence,
Flowers on death row.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 7:51 PM UTC
Standing on the devil's spine
Looking out on the abyss
Of lost green souls caught on brown pikes
Thinking of what would happen
If I joined their ranks
Then I notice
I am falling
Looking at the head
Of the devil himself
Grinning at his new soldier
As I look
Upon my soul's decent
I cherish the freedom
Of that falling sinner
For it's time to start over
And finish the walk across
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
It’s the billionaire’s coup–Trump, Putin and Musk.
They’re bleeding us out, from dawn until dusk.
Consumer protections, arts, farms, forestry–
the billionaires say they’re not necessary.
From the money they save, the tax cuts will come
to the billionaires, the millionaires, their daughters and sons.
Balance the budget, so they can all have some.
So many workers deemed useless and lazy,
such as nuclear engineers–whoops! Are they crazy?
Shredding all of Congress’s appropriations
and thumbing their noses at all other nations.
Except Putin’s, because, he’s one of them--
the billionaire’s club of rich white old men,
who share dreams of ransacking the whole world, entire,
until all of it ends in storms, floods and fire.
Then off via SpaceX past the Milky Way’s limits.
No, that’s not possible. But deep down they’re dimwits.
You can fool some of us, all of the time,
You can’t fool us all, and I’ll end this rhyme:
We’ll protest, we’ll sue, we’ll go out on strikes.
And if the time comes–their heads stuck on pikes.
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 12:50 AM UTC
Your smile is humble, your laugh enchants.
As we walk back home I absorb your words,
your coy allusions to some past romance,
your mentions of your discerning taste,
of how you only drink expensive wine
and how French Roast is superior to Pikes Place.
And your breath quickens as you recount that time
years ago, when you were in Europe and
you single handedly rescued your family
with your Spanish and now you’ve gained the upper hand
by casually admitting you’ve seen every film I’ve seen
and more and even read the books they’d been adapted from and—
You’re speaking only beguiling lies.
I wish I could just tell you to shut up.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC
Peter sought his merriment
While standing in the sediment
And fishing in his element
For something good to eat
He wasn't unintelligent
But suffered an impediment
Conversing wasn't eloquent
A stutter had him beat
One day, on the r-riverside
With hunger to be satisfied
And p-p-planning homicide
He cast his l-l-line
But bang he was immobilised
Attacked from the w-waterside
A giant p-p-pike astride
The struggling s-swine
The scene w-wasn't glamorous
The p-p-pike was amorous
The gossip would be scandalous
Someone might s-s-see
The struggle was c-clamorous
P-Pete was v-victorious
P-popped up like L-Lazarus
To f-f-f-f-flee
He promptly pattered homewardly
And cursing pikes internally
His hunger sat infernally
His hook remained unlured
The pesky pike had planned to be
Inside of Peter, rectally
To poke and **** him naughtily
But hang on..... he was cured!
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
A woman's body spikes and hikes
It glows like sun to a man on heat
the very body that spins and pikes
It bears and nurture a seed's seat
A woman body is tender and meek
*It houses the ***** crazed rods*
the very body that recycles eggs
It's the mother of the earth odds
A woman body ages rapidly
It's bosoms burst and sag with age
the very body that speak mercilessly
with milk that flow with abundant sage
A woman body knows the cycles
It rolls every month with pain
the very body that roars in circles
The up and downs of a woman bargain
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 5:45 AM UTC
There in the trenches
I've seen headless henchmen
Bending spoons
For hapless children
Cremated too soon
Demons croon
They zip
They zag
As the lower class picks their scabs
The gift of gab
Sent towards rips from packs
The rush alone could make one gag!
Have you been there?
Would you go back?
There in the trenches
I've met widows and wives
Carousing with voyeurs
Polishing pikes
Their best years behind
Spent on pyrite-
Euphoric alibis
Which eviscerate bright eyes
Will the Church draw nigh
Or watch the stranded die?
Into the trenches
Few do proudly go
Ash pollutes the snow
Falling like pyrex smoke
You might choke
When violence hits your nose
Deathblows
Thrown by the dead broke
Cross your eyes
And clog your throat
Check your pulse
As an ambulance clears the roads
Would you leave ivory thrones
To reach a people with no hope?
There in the trenches
Christ spent His time
Teaching the poor
Healing the blind
Who are we to stand aghast?
Shrugging our shoulders
Fine wine in antique glass?
When revival comes
Will it move your feet
With Gospel passion
Down the cracking streets?
Could you spare a dime
To prepare a meal
For a drooping reed
With snakebitten heals?
There in the trenches
Good News must flow
Will you remain aloof
Or be the one to boldly go?
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
Falling over the lip of the precipice
Into inky stillness
Where the heart sings dirges
Of the dead and lost souls
Holes poked through and dripping muddy waters
Like the sons and daughters
Of the god of decay
Rusting in the back of the pantheon
Running on down into the catacombs
Of black corridors and Minotaurs
Weeping for salvation
Red hearts beating on pikes in blue flames
That burn hot but no light
Nothing to bright the abject savagery of the surroundings
These things show no mercy
That hold old souls under rusted grates
Sluicing juices into terra firma
Thousands of feet below sea level
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
"The Queen, the Queen,
The Queen does come forth," yells a girl from St. Anne's to the patrons in court.
The Queen's procession wraps around the lake right over the bridges and up to main gate.
The criers are ringing their bells.
"Make way, make way," yells Saint Blaise.
The next to come forth is the Kriegshunde of old yelling knockviter to those who would be bold.
Steel Bonnet came next, clinking and clanking like a rusty steel mess.
Then the footmen came forth with pikes so high that they slice through the trees with a fright.
The Mariners came shambling past, those sea-loving folk, you know the ones without anything that floats.
Then the flags of all companies converge in front of the nobles we so deserve.
As you see the drummers called Rolling Thunder precede the Queen's chair,
and a patron yells, "Is that the Queen of the faire?"
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
we were born
empty
vessels to be filled with
longing for
purpose
only to be
the used
versions of ourselves
living to
pursue living
denying
to pursue
dying
consumed by all
desire
lay across
my
paths discretely
****** by constant
wants
to change
how the world views
me
sun comes a
new day!
the body becomes
empty slate
begins
sliding
swinging
by again!
Nightingale reappears
forwards
my emotion
primal
to contain
vessels open
by
unused
space
and parts
to fill the
whole.
we are designed
escape the Torment
souls (have faces too)
ashes endowed
roots to
uncloud
the human mind
free
begins
in deep pikes
Breaking
the ground.
we,
to You
resound
Consciousness
vile disguise!
freeing
vessels no more.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
They march
withered but undying
with mud
fallen sweetly on their faces.
A new sky and a tender wind
grant severance from the sea.
Haunt us no more
with your pikes and arrows.
Blend our moanings and call our names:
the sunflower,
the wind,
the moonshine breaks
a mirrored frame,
a knighted sky,
and iron cast in embroidered lace.
I lay my hopes in
a hinterland of grace/waste.
What will a soul bring
that a body cannot
in sorrow or in death?
When sentiments of corpses
hang high from windows
paneled by offense,
stars fall on broken strings.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
Freakishly tall trees on both sides, all ceasing and dying
People's din, cars, trucks, motorbikes,
youse all barefooted, watch the pikes
Tall handsome man, all cool, without trying.
He never pussyfoots, he only calms you with his eyes
**** he sets the gardens ablaze
all barefooted, all in a daze
flickering bulblights, everything still dies.
Silky crinkly smooth voice like sonnets
Look, concrete cages hits concrete
bones crack to the beat
they split him open with onyx.
Always a joy, always a delight
sauntering down the avenue
smoky homes and billboard hue
boys drink joke **** girls drunk ***** fright.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Have you ever seen Santa Monica pier in July?
Ever seen pikes peak on Christmas?
Have you ever sewn the sky glisten in the morning
Or a full moon
Or volcanoes erupt
Birds fly
Have you ever seen birth - new life
Have you seen a mother cry?
Have you seen the rainforet at 5am?
Or New York City in winter
Me either
But once, I saw you love me
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
King Glærden Wârd of Drψngle Moψntain
Celebrâtes the Yærly Birth of Græt Øgdân
Dwârves from all Mountâins of the Reâlm
All Bow To Glærden's, Shield, Sword æ Helm
Ûpon the Tâll CarvenStone........
King Câlls For Øgdân's Dæ
With Boom of Dwârven Drψm
And the Chime of Hammered Metal Bars
Anounce that Øgdân's Dæ's begψn
Dwârves ât Forges ând Anvils gâve
Thier Finest Work to wær that dæ
All Polished, Contests with Pikes took plâce
As Flâgons of Bârley Mæd,
Spræd Spirit along the Crowds Glee
Dwârven Short Swords Plâyed to Gâmes
As with the Twilight the Troll Hunt Câme
Drψms, Swords, and Pikes âll roψse
As the Troll Hâtred from the Croψd
Rises like â Forges Flâme, to hârden
Dwârven Hærts to Blame,All Trolls
As thieving Rotten **** ât the
Sound of the Elk Horn the Hψnts begψn
They spræd down these river beds
Hψnting til â troll they Find, to be
Pârâded by the Dwârven Kind
Bâck to the Hærken Stone, ând the end
Øf Øgdân's Dæ, With Stroke of Axe
Doth Roll a Trolls Head.......JMF 11/20/14
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
go take out the trash, a little voice says
no, you reply
I'm comfortable right now
lying here on my bed in my pyjamas
but you have to, the voice insists
not now, you reply
I'll do it later
it goes on like this
it happens every day now
but you always answer
later
later now becomes much much later
you're getting more and more skilled
at ignoring the little voice
every once in a while it pikes up again
take out the trash
but you don't listen
you're too comfortable
too lazy
too tired
too anxious
too hurt
too anything
too everything
you never take out the trash
until years later
you have to vacate the space you're living in
and the suffucating amount of trash you've accummulated
becomes quite obvious
and now
you have to take out the trash
so you go and take out the trash
and you go
and you go
and you go
no end in sight
until you start to wonder
if it will ever stop
or if you're now trapped
in some kind of eternal hell
of taking out the trash
and you start resenting that little voice
that now utters something that sounds a lot like
I told you so
you should have listened to me
yes, you should have listened to that little voice
so now you start resenting yourself
for not listening to the voice
but the one question that now insistently nags at you
that won't leave you alone anymore
if you managed to hoard such a huge amount of trash
by just never taking it out
what does your mind look like
you've never taken out the trash there either
and you nervously ponder
how it will end
the day you will have to vacate that space
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 2:58 PM UTC
The drawbridge spanned
An arid moat where peasants
And soldiers perished.
The lane lead through the portcullises,
And I started my tour in the dungeon.
Here the iron age apexed
In shackles, chains, cages,
Burning coals and spikes.
Here they forced their truth.
I placed my feet on the first step
Of a coiling staircase
Ascending past rooms of crossed swords,
Picts, pikes, mounted heads,
Coats of arms.
In the centre of the dining hall,
Resplendent with gold plates
And silver candle sticks,
Was the refectory table.
I continued the tour past
Arrow slits overlooking
The beseigers,
Who waited for victory
Or salvation.
The arduous spiral
Lead to a parapet, a high place:
Here, I imagined I saw the
Kingdoms of the World.
No Thanks,
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
Have you ever seen Santa Monica pier in July?
Ever seen pikes peak on Christmas?
Have you ever sewn the sky glisten in the morning
Or a full moon
Or volcanoes erupt
Birds fly
Have you ever seen birth - new life
Have you seen a mother cry?
Have you seen the rainforet at 5am?
Or New York City in winter
Me either
But once, I saw you love me
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
Dishonorable, repugnant, grotesque.
Words highlighted, bright,
In correlation with your actions.
Gristle filled morality.
Chewing on the facts;
Unable to digest.
Audacity to ask
For cruel silence.
Allegiance forcibly chosen.
Claws against ribcage
Something's trying to escape
You put in chains.
Thoughts off the edge
Falling in circles
Crashing on pikes.
Hands clinched tight
On brittle strands
Of ***** blonde hair. snap
A cowards lies
Tattooed on my bones
"Approved eyes only."
Can't breathe
Atmosphere is toxic
Gassed by friendly fire.
Status quo upheld
Smile, pretty white teeth.
Ready to rip out.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 4:53 PM UTC