ang ngiti mo ang sumunog sa puso ko
ang ngiti mo ang umalipin sa kaluluwa ko
at kapag ikaw ay tumititig sa akin
napapaso ako, mgpakailanman

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos


*
(Translation:

my first poem for my Zera, in Tagalog

your smile sets fire to my heart
your eyes enslave my soul
and when you stare at me
i burn in your gaze for eternity)

ngiti mo sumunog sa puso ko
mata mo alipimin kaluluwa ko
kapag ikay nakatitig sakin
napapaso ako sayong mga tinging magpakailanman

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

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

(C)2000, Christos Rigakos

under dirt
in a box
no voice
     teaching about nutrition
no breath
     exhaling cigarette smoke
a brain
     shrunken
          no more knows
shut down
     irreversibly
          dismantled
in silence
in a box
under dirt

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

empty bench
beside a grave
silence


(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

we met like two birds landing on a wire
and chattered with our chirping sounds that sing
at distance where no flights could we conspire

though thoughts of love nests set our ******* on fire
like humans holding tight to form a ring
we met like two birds landing on a wire

that laid upon the face of earth's attire
so far that only light-boxes could bring
at distance where no flights could we conspire

yet caught by love like wings snagged in a brier
two lovebirds sought to ease loneliness's sting
we met like two birds landing on a wire

and dreamed since then of hatchlings we could sire
with eggshells cracking at the scent of Spring
at distance where no flights could we conspire

above the clouds now dreams have floated higher
and soaring past the heavens there do sing
we met like two birds landing on a wire
at distance where no flights could we conspire

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

The mourning dove--it casts its shadow long,
from windowsill, along my bedroom floor,
black sprawled across my bed until the door--
it fills my ears with morbid sighing song.

Throughout the day on paths I walk along,
it sits on bare tree branches up on high,
and sounds aloud its four-tone lonely sigh,
its presence ever-subtle, ever-strong.

And when I then return from where I've roamed,
in my so vain attempts to daily flee,
where I realize there's no escape from me,
the mourning dove, it greets me when I'm home.

Perched on my windowsill, within my sight,
it starts once more its melancholy song,
and casts again its shadow growing long,
that blends into the darkness of the night.

(C)2007, Christos Rigakos

opposite
the cemetery
laughter
echoes over headstones
children's peek-a-boo




(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

I find myself...
mesmerized,

by family photographs,
whose subjects all are...

dead...

the great aunt smiling,
frozen in mid-song,

the little boy squirming,
in her lap,

the tabby cat on the floor,
watching them both
intently...

all eyes looking,
frozen in mid-stare...

their actions,
frozen in mid-time...

those very vibrant,
living loves...

gone...

forever


(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

Seashells
line my bare shelves,
barely--line my bare walls,
collecting emptiness to fill
my house.

(C)2002, Christos Rigakos

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

like chicken in tomato soup lain still,
one arm protruding off the bathtub's edge,
red water steaming, still at edge, none spilled,
and 'neath her chin a pill-less bottle wedged,

her forehead, raven hair, an island forest,
in a sea of calmness sought and found,
a chaos turned to peace, its calm attests,
now what has sunk beneath will meet the ground,

and as the soup's released into the drain,
her paleness, wrist cut red, and kitchen knife,
exposed to all, her face relieved of pain,
yet not enjoyed, devoid of sensing life,

that torment, plagued her soul with agony,
now transferred to her grieving family

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

sunset
over the horizon
our love
sinking into the sea
of distance


(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

A teardrop from a woman's eye,
contains a magic so immense,
to shake the stars out from the sky.

A man may unceasingly try
yet fail to match one as intense--
a teardrop from a woman's eye.

It matters not if truth or lie,
once one among the men is sensed
it shakes the stars out from the sky,

and men will rage forth low or high
to save the damsel from distress.
A teardrop from a woman's eye,

which can be conjured with a lie,
un-twines sinews of muscled men,
and shakes the stars out from the sky.

Her greatest weapon is to cry
and warriors will jump the fence.
A teardrop from a woman's eye
can shake the stars out from the sky.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Full moon--
lone traveler
in a boat of white cloud,
drifts across the silent dark
night sky.

(C)2002, Christos Rigakos

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




(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

under the full moon
the ceaseless howling
of a dog
i join in kinship
for one so far away

(C)2002, Christos Rigakos

What's rendered me an impotent of life,
while others live a life with vibrant hum?
A curse that's hedged me by a wall of strife!

While other lives with fine success are rife,
my own's deplete, a curse has sure become
what's rendered me an impotent of life!

Through failure to provide I've lost a wife!
Though I believe, there are those doubts in some,
a curse that's hedged me by a wall of strife

cannot exist, they say, I'm a midwife
to all my troubles, I am who has done
what's rendered me an impotent of life!

Or maybe I've insulted a spaewife,
who cast, to love and money make me dumb,
a curse that's hedged me by a wall of strife.

I've searched from North Recife to Tenerife,
and failed to find a way to make undone
what's rendered me an impotent of life,
a curse that's hedged me by a wall of strife!

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

the good old baritone advises her,
his sopranino daughter tweets disjoint,
arpeggio his point, her counterpoint
a syncopated rhythm of meter,

her high pitched protestations in her pleas,
and low-pitched grumbling sighings alternate,
as puntal, contrapuntal altercate,
to musically the rolling of her eyes,

his stern yet soft soprano wife defers,
while yielding to her baritone's movement,
conducting, though, the orchestrated theme,

as tenor, alto sons  caesur' occurs,
her soothing background voice reveals eschewment,
with daughter's movement stuck 'tween measures' beams

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

It's ten degrees under the morning sun,
imagine coldness buried underground
where all he lays in is a suit undone,
in darkness where, to roving eyes unfound,
he could not grumble even though he would,
and ask to those who love him up above,
a blanket or a hug if but we could,
to warm the heart that always shined with love.


(C)2009, Christos Rigakos

She strolled along the narrow pathway through
the park.  Her soft skirt flitting  in the breeze,
her long legs smooth and pampered, sandaled feet
took mellow steps under the Springtime sun.

She caught the eye of Fred, who from his book
rose up bespectacled and drank the scene
of one young beauty carried by the breeze,
and thanked the Lord for all His wondrous things.

She noticed that he noticed and she sneered,
disdainfully and crushed him with the lids
of scornful eyes that closed upon his face,
and cursed the womb that birthed this pervert live.

She caught the eye of Tom, whose magazine
dropped to the bench from fingers preening hair,
his lion's gaze devouring this gazelle,
and she took notice of his notice there.

She threw back hair and turned to meet his gaze
with sideways glance, a wink, and half pursed lips,
amazed a stroll from bench to bench could find
a pervert and a stud so side by side.

Both men came to the park to sit and read,
and read indeed, then both, like men, did do
what men so do, and neither differed there,
yet one was deemed a pervert, one a stud.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

another winter's come, the trees lay bare,
mere skeletons, stiff standing, 'pon the ground,
like you, protruding from the mind, no sound,
a quiet remnant, gone, but always there,

the trees wait patiently for that one day,
when life returns to every waiting thing,
I, too, await the Day of mankind's Spring,
when you'll return from where you've gone away.

(C)2009, Christos Rigakos

Through purple-greyish smoke billowed from lips both mine and yours,
our eyes glazed, blacklight seen reflecting on our silver ores.

Dark purple painted walls with red designs keep calm the folks
on leather couches billowing with eyes like silver ores.

Oh you and I, the strangers here, all have our many reasons,
some came with them, some made them here, eyes glazed like silver ores.

An Artificial Reason calms our minds in this Mad Season,
crucified on G-clef staff, eyes glazed like silver ores.

This sanctuary, whispered 'round, and found through word of mouth,
somewhere, we've all forgotten in the glaze of silver ores.

Our therapy, if long or short, time counted by the songs,
recovery is measured by the glaze of silver ores.

As one leaves so another comes, replacing on the couch,
the glaze of one with glaze of other's eyes like silver ores.

(C)2013, 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

that Scythe has rent my heart, i'm penetrated
the blade's removed yet its cold steel remains
our spirit's gone, our breaths remain abated

upon us both the crime's been perpetrated
and though the blade is marked with just his stains
that Scythe has rent my heart, i'm penetrated

his essence from my own's been dislocated
my life remains with only his remains
our spirit's gone, our breaths remain abated

my soul's been scraped, upon my thoughts' been grated
his blood powdered, mixed with my tears, i'm stained
that Scythe has rent my heart, i'm penetrated

and as grief's torments whip my heart striated
all joy swirls round and round a filthy drain
our spirit's gone, our breaths remain abated

i frame my memories,they're venerated
as cries repeat in minor key refrains
that Scythe has rent my heart, i'm penetrated
our spirit's gone, our breaths remain abated

(C)2010, Christos Rigakos

my eyes
like puppy dogs
follow you everywhere
happily hopping
tongues hanging
tails wagging
my eyes are yours
and you walk them
on a leash.


(C)2000, Christos Rigakos

my wedding photo hints of some foul play
          of death, destruction lurking, looming 'round
as four have cracked or burrowed under ground
          while two remain who yet have lived to stay
for two by two the years have counted them          
who've left this picture someone has condemned
          and neither they nor evil can be found

from left to clockwise tragedy has struck
          this picture taken in 2004
a blissful wedding day with bliss in store
          has seen no bliss yet only jet black luck          
for two years is the pattern found within
as if installments paid for unknown sin
          and two by two the years have taken more

2006 my brother passed too soon
          at thirty this was not his time to go
from one disease a cure does not yet know
          and from his loss we still are not immune
as one by one his organs fell asleep
until he too slipped through, we couldn't keep
          and he was just a prelude to this show

2008 my grandpa, ninety-five
          had lived a healthy, fruitful fulfilled life,
outlived even his loving doting wife
          by eight years more the man remained alive
for two years of his grandson was berieved
whose name he often spoke of as he grieved
          an old man overwhelmed with burdened strife

2010 the blissful pair had split
          whose wedding day this picture to us bore
after six years her joy had been no more
          explaining that my throne no longer fit
for i'd become a burden to her cause
and cut off, bleeding freely without gauze
          i cannot find the life i had before

2012 my father's heart had failed,
          in April he was saved but for a spell
until in May his heart one last time fell
          despite all of our efforts as we railed
and as it were, a grandson he'd not see
a son of my wife's flesh enjoined to me
          now how this pattern plays i cannot tell

the back row in the picture's marred complete
          the front row bears the two that now remain
this pattern of two years i can't explain
          but if continues more will see defeat
the clockwise movement left to right is done
now right to left the foreground move will run
          2014 promises new stain

the next in line, my mother in two years
          and two years after her my aunt is left
then i will be of everyone bereft
          an orphan, fate fulfilling all my fears
by this 2016 none may laugh
but one, this silent chilling photograph
          completing all my family's great theft

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

straight through my spine the desert winds blow flute,
before my burial under the sand,
my skull an empty can, whistle and hoot,
my ribs a xylophone, femur in hand,

the dissonant cacophany--my taps,
a song for funerals devoid of men,
the vultures took my flesh in neat-sized scraps,
efficiently disposed in nature's den,

oh, once a garden, lush with greenery,
our love, abandoned by my rib's dear Eve,
now with her heart removed, the scenery
decayed, and to the burning sand i cleave,

my covering completes with eve's new dusk,
out of her sight, this old forgotten husk

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

tickling
squirm and giggle
lead to grabbing hands and
holding hands and stares while drawing
nearer

the eyes
draw faces close
before the hungry kiss
and held hands release to embrace
with fire

the kiss
now ended nice
recalling the tickling
realizing it wont work again
that's past

(C)2002, Christos Rigakos

Unpacking an old box I scrounged and found
a card for Mother's Day from my ex-wife,
professing love for mom that will abound
through time and space until the end of life.

Four years have passed--since first she filed divorce--
no card or letter, nor a seldom call.
A once abundant love could not be forced
to crease a smile, for it would now appall.

Why do I flinch once more and wonder how,
the love departs, which oaths swore never would?
Why they all say, "but things are different now,"
though hearts were sold as things that never could?

Amazing, how such endless loves quick end,
as flimsy tattered fabrics quickly rend.

(C)2014, Christos Rigakos

hospital sheets
laying crumpled on the bed
my father



(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

The vapor trails across the starry sky,
they seem to span the universe but they
mislead my aching heart, my searching eye.

Like rainbow's end, if only there could I
locate that *** of gold, I'd surely spray
the vapor trails across the starry sky,

to find again the one for whom I cry,
yet always hopeful dreams in words I say
mislead my aching heart, my searching eye.

Without a *** of gold, or any prize,
the floating road may yet still lead the way.
Oh, vapor trails across the starry sky,

if I could follow, would you be close by
to my brother? My mind, now gone astray,
misleads my aching heart, my searching eye.

Now as I stare above, with blurring eyes,
night winds have blown the vapor trails away.
The vapor trails across the starry sky,
mislead my aching heart, my searching eye.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

the compensation for my competence?
     a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with sticky notes instruction-filled and dense,
     with worn old shoe string thick and tightly bound,
a brief hurrah before a list to do,
if time were air, with duty i'd turn blue,
     a present given as a false pretense,
  
his recompense? a crushed Coors can atop
     the boss' desk, a drop spilled on the wood,
a single sticky note stuck to the drop,
     "your list of things to do, i could, I should...
yet reach up to that single book, top shelf!"
("Learn How to Fix Your Life--Do It Yourself!")
     soon management will purge all its dead wood,

and driftwood i will be among the planks,
     and crates expelled above board for to stay
afloat, the company in all its ranks,
     will learn that without wood the boat will stray
not only from its sure intended course,
but from the surface to the floor of course,
     to join the tiger shark and manta ray,

soon supervisors, managers and such
     will join department heads, vice presidents,
chief officers valued, appraised worth much,
     thrown overboard to chase those dividends,
that sink so silently to ocean floor,
where there exists no air lock's safety door,
     when futures join the pasts through these presents,

my recompense for knowing when to quit?
     a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with smiling lips and laughing breath of wit,
     my happy feet in new shoes leather-bound,
a new ship where appreciation rings
the ship bells of respect on many things,
     smooth sailing through safe seas without a ground.

(C)2012, 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

he swore
he didn't have a gun
"Kurt Cobain"
etched in stone
on this songless night

(C)2001, Christos Rigakos

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

i wish, i wish, i were a simple fish,
that spends a thoughtless life in salty sea,
is hooked, and fried, and ends up on a dish,
deboned and sliced to pieces silently,

for i have been too human-like for me,
and cry out salty rivers held by dams,
for losses that, to fish, would never be,
with words upon my inner teeth enjambed,

yet if i were, the salt would grow by grams,
the sea in saltiness would **** all life,
before the fish had any chance to scram,
avoiding death to live with heavy strife,

for all my tears in water'd be unseen,
fish mouths agape would know not why they scream

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

Oh, woe!  Oh, woe!  Oh, woe, my girl has died!
Her funeral's tonight, oh, how I grieve!
I knew this day would come, I would not hide,
yet as the news has come, I can't believe!

A strong and faithful servant she had been,
who carried me when I was found alone.
She promised to stand by my side till in
the course of time my flesh would leave its bone.

In white attire she'll lay within the cask,
as my old marriage laid within the same.
I'll pour my soul as spirit from a flask,
upon her sleeping face and call her name:

Oh Hope, dear Hope, you've left me far too soon,
and joined my former wife in honeymoon.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

i am
disconnected
among the living, dead
i move about unseen, unheard
unknown

the world
rejects my face
it hides its eyes from mine
it wears the face it shows the dead
unseen

i walk
deserted streets
where midnight moon alone
illumines roads for creeping things
unseen

(C)2002, Christos Rigakos

I knew a lass I did not know too well,
a church acquaintance not too close a friend,
of which we shared harmonious a spell
on Sundays, this became a steady trend.

One day I passed a knick-knack in a store,
a coffee mug just like a camera lens,
and thought, a fitting gift one slightly poor
could relish on his shutter-bugging friends.

And so I grabbed the knick-knack, paid for it,
on Sunday told the lass of what I'd done,
surprised, she deemed it inappropriate,
rejecting it, of this she would have none!

How good intentions sour so easily,
a new acquaintance quick unfriending me.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

their warm arterial embrace was ripped
the day you tore your heart from mine, it died
alone, its beating stopped where once it skipped,
it withered in its solitude and dried,

now pluck this deadened fruit from out its vine,
and crush it into powder fine and white,
from purity of love it is refined,
a remnant of my love unspoiled, zinc bright,

freebase it and inject it in your veins,
or mix with water, drink it as an ale,
or snort it yet don't leave a single grain,
or nebulize it, deeply do inhale,

my essence seeks to once more be a part
in some way with your unforgiving heart

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

staring
into old pictures
a way back
to a time when brother
did what he did in pictures

(C)2007, Christos Rigakos