"shaolin" poems
Not every one knows who shall pass in the end,
Watching the training of Monk ***** Defence.
Who will manage the attack real well and defend,
And who will step aside and run away with good sense.
The time to compete is nearly at hand,
With a new weaponry style to commence
Come to training today and see how you withstand
The attacks on you person with Monks ***** bare hand defense!
And after all this that excellent Brew
That we will share and enjoy immense.
Look forward to training with You,
That most awesome of styles which we call Shaolin Self Defence
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
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
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
We are all poets;
when words come quick,
shaolin blades slicing pixels
in angry, poetic kung-fu;
when words come smooth and slow
in fleeting, awkward caresses
pulsating across goose-bumped skin,
every new lover a poem.
When we sway on the barstool,
flag poles resisting booze’s steady gale,
arguing for that one last drink
before the white light cuts through
the swaddling shadows and the barkeep
sees the reds of our eyes,
every slurring plea a poem.
When we beg the officer
to let us go gently into freedom’s violet dawn
and when unsuccessful,
to crack the back window of his cruiser
just enough to keep the world from spilling in,
spinning into violent oblivion,
every handcuffed squirm a poem.
We are all poets;
when both heart and home sputter,
energy from a rusting machine crawling
from check to check until
chair becomes wheelchair,
house becomes apartment,
fruits of past labor
line the curb in piles of bags,
every unpaid bill a poem.
When we stare out over the water,
rolling sheets of morning fog across the lake,
still, except for ripples of dew drops
painting the water in widening circles;
revived campfire crackling next to
snug, sleeping children;
quiet, like a poem’s end.
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
the slums of shaolin
gave rise to nine buddha monks
to each...four chambers
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 7:51 PM UTC
I cry all night
I cry all day
Thinking that you
Will never come back
I soon read the love songs of the
6th Dalai Lama
Then you come in
My heart leaps
I lead you to
My bed
We kiss
I ask you your you name
You say that’s it was karma.
Mine was Jin Mai
We continue to kiss
Passionately and fall on
My bed and on eachother
I can feel your hardness
When you undress eacother
And make love
My gentle soul.
You ask why I was so sad
I sad that
I forced to horrible things
And you didn’t care
You pulled me closer
And kissed me
Deeply.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 4:45 PM UTC
I hated being a concubine
Having to be mean to the others
And being taken against my will
Every night
So I disappeared from the palace
During my escape in the south
When I came
I saw you
A beautiful
Almost feminine
Young monk
From the near by shaolin temple
Our eyes connect
Something strange when down my spine
I walk back to my house
Not knowing that you followed me.
When I close the door
I see you
And let you in
The old me would
Say get out
But this is the new me
So I invite you in.
You said that I was
Beautiful
We soon kiss
And hold eachother
In eacother arms
In the safety in my bed
We couple
Tenderly
Then you had to leave
I kissed you
Saying that you are always welcome
For my home is our love nest.
I cry myself to sleep.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 4:38 PM UTC
What Should I do?
On a Sunday afternoon
Alone in a suburnan home
In a quiet mountain suburb
The homes here are ranch style
First built in the fifties
This is Pasadena
Home of the Rose Parade
I guess I could
Wander out again
With rain clothes
Or wait until it stops
I suppose I'll go up the
Mountain
Or to the park
I'm not sure
No parties to go to
No money to spend
I went to the gym today
Watched a documentary
On Shaolin monks
I don't know
What to do
With myself anymore
I've spent my life
Alone
It was nice to meet
With the therapist
Funny you don't realize
How much you enjoy
Someone's company
Until they leave
Well I'll be somewhere
Out there
Walking around
Searching for what
I do not know
I figure the female friend
Is not coming
I am content to
Walk around for hours
Earth is strange
A great mystery
Sometimes
I dream
I live in a community
With other people
I can spend with
Sometime
Oh
What should I do?
The mountain view is beautiful
Perhaps I'll just go to
The park today
I am a bit tired from working out
Strange
Human life
Incredibly strange
They say no man
Is an island
But I'm close
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
with a kung fu kick
inside shaolin temple
ego surrenders
© 2017
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
welcome to my brain
I was born upside down,
Preikestolen in my spine,
Baldr whispered, “Run wild,”
and I never learned to walk—only charge.
I meditate in chaos,
hold breath till the silence shivers.
Doctors panic.
I just smirk.
Two minutes is peace to me.
I kick air to remind gravity
that I’m still the boss
and punch walls of thought
just to hear them echo.
Luzifer lights my thoughts—
not evil, just awake.
Baldr wraps them in gold.
Shaolin monks?
I’d spar one,
bowing with bruises and respect.
Poetry drips from my lungs
like fog off the fjord.
I speak in sparks and
rhyme with thunder.
My mind’s a temple with no roof—
every god welcome
as long as they listen.
I am ADHD
in motion and meaning.
A storm wearing headphones.
A spliff-lit oracle.
And if you feel too much—
if your heart rattles like mine—
don’t run.
Sit.
Breathe.
Roar.
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 6:43 PM UTC
During the Tang Dynasty
A yellow haired
Girl from Lunan came to a small Han town
To escape the bandits
There she met a
Shaolin monk
Of the similar age
They fell in
Madly in love
And only met up at midnight
That was when
He taughted her his ways
And they would kiss
And couple
She wanted to bring him to her
Home
So she felt loved and safe
Their travels
And love affair
Ended tragically when
Her love interest
Was struck down
That’s when she became a nun
While carrying their
Love child
But she soon took to the *****
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
Blades in your mouth but you're not chainsaw man
Any opportunity to be an opp
You take it by hand
Forever you swear we tight
Like a Shaolin clan
Yet I see a katana eveytime
You say “You understand”
We grew side by side
Edamame
Call each other family members
Uncle and aunty
So why anytime I trip
Over my family tree
You were there waiting
To catch and bury me
In Homeroom debating cartoons
To lying about taking shrooms
With the water girls to see
If they part vacuum
Thought our college days be
A different world
You saw it like who “the best man”
Now our friendships otherworld
Maybe in the next life, we can
give it A whirl
Until then where’s the knife
We have a lot to unfurl
Continuing to grow making room for
A family
Adding decimals to make their life more
Exceptional
It always seemed medicinal until the economy went critical
Now it's every man for themselves
Even if there’s enough on the shelves
You see me and mine as wanting
Yours to fail
At least that’s what it looks like
When I scroll on my cell
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 9:14 AM UTC