"shooed" poems
I help you through hard times, as you do I
But you really don’t know how much I hide
Even though we are the best of friends
I really don’t think you can understand
I can’t bear the hurt, I can’t stand the pain
A feeling of numbness I can’t explain.
This is a life in which I walk alone
Full of hope shattered and broken
Always angry for no reason at all
Constantly wanting to end this brawl
Fighting with myself again, and again,
Sometimes I want this life to end
Mom’s depressed but chooses to hide
Takes out her anger on those by her side
Doesn’t understand I try to help
She shuns me out, and hates instead
Grandma’s enduring an unstoppable fate
sickness has gotten her on the plate
Its sad to see such an innocent person
Become another cancer victim
Too many friends are hurt as well
Thinking that their life is hell
Too many friends wanting to stop
Thinking suicide is the only option
But inside me is the worst of all
I don’t know how long I can stand tall
Memories of happiness are shooed away
But horrible twisted thoughts to stay
Nothing I do can make her proud
There’s no silver lining on her clouds
I’m a rainstorm filled with dark black skies
And a haunting rainfall full of lies
I only wish I could make her see
I’m trying hard so I can be
Someone she that can trust and love
Instead she tells me I’m not good enough
Everything I do is a wrong decision
She constantly tells me I’m not living
The path that she truly wishes I’d take
But I’m only one big mistake
If I could I’d erase myself from here
I wouldn’t have to live this fear
I also wish I could be skinny
And always happy, fun, and pretty
Instead I look at myself in the mirror
Disappointed in the reflection that appears
It’s hard to live when you don’t love who you are
Wishing that you could change it all
Every day I make a mental note
How much would I miss, if I decide to go
And how much hurt makes me lean towards the edge
Is slowly creeping up the hedge
How much longer can I last?
Before my life becomes one of the past
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
Take the knapsacks
and the utensils and washtubs
and the books of the Koran
and the army fatigues
and the tall tales and the torn soul
and whatever's left, bread or meat,
and kids running around like chickens in the village.
How many children do you have?
How many children did you have?
It's hard to keep tabs on kids in a situation like this.
Not like in the old country
in the shade of the mosque and the fig tree,
when the children the children would be shooed outside by day
and put to bed at night.
Put whatever isn't fragile into sacks,
clothes and blankets and bedding and diapers
and something for a souvenir
like a shiny artillery shell perhaps,
or some kind of useful tool,
and the babies with rheumy eyes
and the R.P.G. kids.
We want to see you in the water, sailing aimlessly
with no harbor and no shore.
You won't be accepted anywhere
You are banished human beings.
You are people who don't count
You are people who aren't needed
You are a pinch of lice
stinging and itching
to madness.
Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
6.8k
(Inspired by article below)
I.
Continuity
your filibuster egg of sand
dazzled curiosity
with creaky shell of hints
heaped upon the tedium
of knowledge's unfurl undeterred
by encyclopedic impatience
Assurances of rip(Van Winkl)ed
economics shooed paper strings of
revelation like anarchy-powered
taxes summoning a foreword
to anachronistic campaigns
of environmental friendliness
II.
Meanwhile years
have been filed down to flashes of
chronology for continuity's organic rebus
However long it took
the economic karma to fall into the
abodes of hedonistic pharaohs
it was instant
Skin that ruled behind the constitution
of allergic breath
bailed on the bones against their most
sublime intentions
Limbo-treading landlords
huddled in their mummified freeze
after breadline bashers scolded them
with the spoils of a new brand
of pyramid scheming
Robbers of the coffin palaces
stole the intimations of identity
theft from today
Immortality and freedom
were compelled to share a meaning
like estranged siblings
or bound dynasties
I(a).
Abydos
how you coyly toyed with us
with a diversion bordering on monolithic
04 23 14
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
Drug; he controls my brain.
He stirs an irresistible blend of chemicals in my body and convinces me to fall for him; he increases blood flow to the primitive areas of my brain and activates the circuits responsible for love and desire.
Adrenaline; he balances my stress.
He keeps my heart strong and healthy as thoughts of him and us dominate me and excite me, prompting me to get tachycardia (fast heart rate above 100 bpm) and my blood pressure to rise.
Dopamine; he regulates my focus.
He stimulates desire and triggers pleasure in me; I remember everything about us, then forget about my surroundings; I am motivated to please him, then I daydream and become unable to stay on task.
Serotonin; he stabilizes my mood.
He charms and induces me to perspire and relax, crave and distance him, lose and gain sleep, feel pain and relief, get happy and upset, and decrease and increase my immune system functions.
Medication; he forces my loveswept cells to go haywire.
He has cured my lovesickness, shooed away my regrets, helped me move on from my past, boosted my (self-)confidence, made me look forward to tomorrow, and offered me a ticket to bliss.
Oxytocin; he enables me to produce lovestruck hormones.
He affects my moral molecules as he attracts my undivided attention, pushes me to trust him, raises attachment and empathy, brings psychological stability, and encourages me to want to be closer to him.
Vasopressin; he causes me to secrete lovetastic chemicals.
He renders me monogamous and continues to have me hooked onto him; he makes me thirst for him, display amorous behavior, defend him and us, and maintain a strong partnership.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:18 AM UTC
god stood by me, he hid in my pocket like a piece of amethyst
when i ran he turned into the forest to envelop me
his spirits became soft grasses, scented woods and colorful flower
The elderly woman in her garden in the early morning before the sun rises too high. She never sprays chemicals to get rid of the snails, instead she works and plants for and around them. This garden is to celebrate life, not to take it away. The wooden fence bordering her property is low and unoffensive enough to allow through woodland creatures who are never shooed away for taking a walk or a bite through the herbage. Perhaps she is atoning for a life of death and destruction. Or perhaps she is a saint.
They enjoyed things like making forts out of sticks and blankets and cardboard boxes and dressing up and going to the opera.
Memories, fresh like a wound.
Sometimes something so small. Going to the post office. A slideshow of post offices in my life. The disinfected paper smell, the lines of people waiting to mail a package, the solid colors of the interior, gray, black, white. A scrubby short haired black carpet, well worn.
I turned into a set of wings made out of crayon or colored pencil markings. As if pushed and pulled by the wind I stunned through the air, waving in the sunlight, pencil dashes of red and blue and purple. Like an animation from Reading Rainbow.
Thrown and tossed about like a lightweight wale in the sea. An enormous behemoth of grey and blue leaping like a kitten among the waves. It should be terrifying and would be if its teeth were any larger or sharper and if there was not such a happy gleam in its huge eye.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
When I was 17 I watched a man **** himself,
I remember the morning like it was yesterday,
the air bit at my heels
and it was too cold to be at the skatepark,
there was a lounge area of
weathered tables and pine trees
about 50 yards north,
I still remember the look in his eyes
confusion filled mine,
he was old, around 70
and I kept skating around,
he just sat there with
saltwater in his veins,
holding a long barrelled
30-30 it looked like,
I kept skating and fixating
my eyes on what he was holding,
it manipulated my vision,
reached out to hopeful ignorance
and yanked it through my throat,
we never made eye contact,
his eyes were buried down
a steel thief,
I kept rolling back and forth,
and I never knew thunder had
the ability rip the bearings
from the wheels,
the crack turned the bark
on the tree behind him
to a yelp,
and I’ve never saw blood fly
until that point,
I still remember how fast
it turned from a picnic table
to a crime scene,
how aimlessly the yellow tape
flew in the wind, as if nothing
ever happened,
time forged a signature
on a death note to man
who never felt the chill
bite at his heels that day,
that barrel screaming for forgiveness
knocked at a door with perspective
standing at the peephole,
I saw myself in his shoes
when I saw the life leave his body,
I went back that day
and saw the city worker
spraying the pavement,
running an eraser over
the pen-painted picture
in my mind,
the chill shattered my
porcelain heels that
day and shooed me
away from the
griptape forever.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
i dreamt of you the other night and i cant say i've felt the same since
why were the bumble bees on the appalachian trail so furry and friendly? Maybe it was the fresh mountain air that turned them into fuzzy mutants. I swear i could feel them softly whispering calming pleasantries into my ear, like stop worrying you're going to fall off this mountain silly girl, that wont be the way you die.
a white spotted greyhound tagged behind our group on the trail for a solid thirty minutes, my heart ached for the loneliness and hopelessness it must've been feeling, depression cant only be limited to humans? i thought about that dog obsessively for a week straight while everyone else shooed it off easily. No living thing wants to die alone and that dog reminded me of that paralyzing fear i inhabit.
bare feet padded down the beaten dirt path, walking sticks and grime galore. smiles graced their content dirt streaked faces. this must be an early preview of what my heaven will appear as.
cows were dotted everywhere, in another life i hope to be apart of a cow herd on a mountain filled with dandelions. they aren't weak, they are assertive and docile, only a ***** if you mess with them.
i wish words could fathom the beauty in the orange that sunrise contained. rustling sleeping bags and soft sighs of sleep enveloped the tent in a hazy glow, chilled faces turned rouge from the bittersweet breeze. this moment awakened my resonating need for individuality, the feeling of standing alone amongst others who seem to be enduring each day in a sleepy zombie like state. Only surviving for the moment they can finally collapse into their homely, bundled sheets. I'm afraid of being like them.
where did i leave off on you, something about a dream?
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
A tiny man walks in the class,
And says, "Hello".
A crowd of staring college kids,
Say "Think its time to go".
"there is no class today,
loads of time to sleep".
Then in comes, Mr. Shrivastava and says
"Guys why do you leave?"
"This is your new faculty,
he will be taking your class.
Be on time from tomorrow,
or from your grades you part".
A look of shock crosses the face,
No one speaks a word.
Trying to let the fact sink in,
And someone in the back says:
"He is weird".
He comes and introduces himself,
Asks our names too.
Out of the thirty six,
how many he remembers,
is a question though.
And on with the class he goes,
Showing pictures on the screen.
Showing logos and *** hole ads,
Untill a hairy scene.
A boy interrupts and asks:
"Whats the meaning of this?"
Wham! goes the teachers heart,
He was not expecting this!
So, he thinks about it for a moment,
no wanting to appear a fool.
Sure he must have taken then pictures from somewhere,
And was acting ****** cool.
He gave us topics,
And shooed us away, saying...
"Lets meet on tuesday!"
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
Give me a man
who will wrap his fingers
around my waist,
treating his life like
a flexible toothpick
to prevent my caving in
towards the stained harmony
of celibacy
and I'll provide the cure for cancer.
Provide me with a man
who will take these
drapes of solitude
hanging upon each shoulder
(all corners weighed down
by the lead of self-ambivalence)
and toss them as if they were
patches of cloudy fabric
waiting to be shooed away
like a mosquito with thoughts
and I will hide you all from
the surgical hands of Fate.
I've already wasted to null
the charm of an Annie Hall.
***** the carnal camaraderie
of the girl next dorm,
and now the last resort is
quid pro quo, world.
Quid pro quo.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:51 AM UTC
Last night when I came home, I noticed a very delicious
fragrance enveloping me. The jasmine was not in bloom,
so I knew it couldn't be that stealing through window drafts,
and the incense sticks were long extinguished.
Was it Lakshmi? Her divine fragrance perfumes the three
worlds and I sensed an unusual lightness in the atmosphere.
This morning I still detected a unique aroma, though not as pronounced.
I went outside, in the backyard, to let the dog out and observed two orange speckled butterflies dancing near her doghouse. I shooed them away protectively. As I did this, they moved over to another location, but one hovered near my hands.
It fluttered around my hands for a good minute. I was able to hear,
witness and breathe in the amazing oscillation of it's fragile wings.
Gorgeous mosaic patterns glittered between the rays of sunlight bathing
our golden communion. I could clearly see its ebony face peering curiously up at me.
Soon a third butterfly joined the party, and a trinity of sweetness pulsated close. After a while they all took off in different directions.
Later, I reflected while swinging in the garden jhoola how wonderfully connected we all are.
This Unity transcends the mental, emotional and physical barriers, preconceptions and dimensions of our ordinary awareness.
Love has a lot to do with it, respect, peace, truth and right conduct too.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
He skims the haze of the day
like a cat seeking its food
prowling lane alleyway
to find you in bitter mood.
On your door the unwelcome guest
you would not call him to stay
with him time is a waste
he would better be shooed away.
You hate when he starts to speak
his sunburned face is a bore
must cut him short pretty quick
behind him close the door.
Like you are nine of ten
but he knows his job is done
is rewarded all his pain
if he can charm just one.
The one that ears lends
a carer who knows well
how it greatly depends
a family on one sale.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
The mirth crease on my face,
Are the traces of scoff,
Laced in my heart,
The oath I swore,
I hold with pride,
And the throne;I shall surely ascend,
For in their minds are nefarious surmise,
Bequeathed by their fathers,
As an epitome of my exactitude,
And in the reverence of their supposed lore,
"He is powerless"their honored lingo,
"He is powerless"their honored lingo,
The webs I cast,
And crown the ravens on the orbs,
Somersaulting the flamboyance and alluring sciences,
In the follies of their fantasies and lust,
Their souls are clipped with taint claws,
And shooed into my den,
"He is powerless"their honored lingo,
In their temples and synagogues,
Are my dote ravens,
Quoting the collars of their scriptures,
And stalking their honored lingo,
In their desperations for excellence and deliverance,
Their minds and sight,
Are bewitched with elixirs,
To their satiety,
And drove in slavery,
'He is powerless"their honored lingo,
In their moments of quandery,
I hover on the corridors of their thoughts,
And whisper the "B" plans,
Brewing the animosities and cruelties among theirselves,
Carving justification for the aftermath,
But still;"He is powerless"their honored lingo,
Apostrophe'
©Historian E.Lexano
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
It was in a musky instrument shop
that I found myself hungry, so hungry.
I didn't know any Russian.
I told the old cashier,
a small woman with a brown bun-top,
that I'd really like some food.
She cocked her head,
shook off the dust, and jarbled back at me.
"Please," said I, as dough-eyed as one could muster.
She pointed to the door.
My belly grumbled.
I fell away sideways, walking out all lowly-like.
I began through the doorway
and the shopkeeper woman screeched.
I heard a moan come from above me.
There stood a 9-foot-tall, Slavic boy,
plagued with acne, hooked nose, and sallow cheeks,
with a metal clamp around his neck, right next to the door frame.
I thought he was drapes, ragged window drapes,
but he existed there and then with hands the size of cantaloupes.
The shop keeper whined and pointed at the boy.
I looked up at him,
and he, down at me.
She spat into a tissue and then shooed me again.
I grabbed his chain off its hook
and stoically proceeded out the door.
The boy dragged his feet behind me, begging and crying.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
She slouched against the smoke stained wall
Her skeleton hands both trembled
She sighed heavily with effort
Then emptied another stiff drink
This was not the place to mention
But she revealed her affliction
Then shooed away further questions
Acting startled and offended
She knows I am familiar
With obsession and starvation
And the resolve to self-destruct
For never being good enough
But I witnessed devastation
Then I resolved to keep living
Or at least to keep on trying
A death’s not worth its weight in grief
Now I can't just shake this from her
Reorganize her scrambled mind
Retract my own comradery
And convince her she will be fine
So dangles her mortality
In faces of those surrounding
Watching us plead desperately
While she starves something worth feeding
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
My thoughts were upon one moment
When above my head a lonely moth
Did fly. I walked in a line a zig zag
But he still did follow above my
Brow little wings did flutter about.
I stopped for a moment to my amazement
Where there was but one now two did
Drift within the air. Hello little ones I did
Ask what does bring you upon this hour
Floating above my head over my hair.
I walked a while pretending that the
Flickers were imagination not really there.
But where two once were now three glided,
Fluttered above I felt the cooling air.
Why follow me wee ones why do you care.
Little ones who fly with me, I ponder in
Thought yet you effortlessly spiral above
My figure. Can I ask why you do this, could
You cease this. Would you possibly reconsider
As interrupting my remarkable endeavour.
But on I walked where so few had once been
More did collect above my feature, I shooed
Them my arms did wave above my head.
People walking past looked and sniggered,
Great now I look crazy as you do flutter.
I carried on my thoughts still bright, even
Though these above my head you think
It would dim get gradually dimmer. But
A light had gone off and would not flicker.
Then I realised what had caused this action
The thought so bright it was a metaphorical
Light upon my feature. So bright the idea
Did they see, so hovering on the gleam.
I sat upon a bench and out came paper and
Pen, my thoughts now concentrated from
Thought to matter. With that the little
Reflection now emptied scribbled on paper.
Where many had floated above all now
Were dispensing as the light had slowly
Grows significantly dimmer. But one did
Stay it saw potential of brighter, bigger.
So if a moth on a dark night decides to
Hover and you just had a thought.
Realize that these little ones can see
The light and the ideas that flicker.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
curled and cuddled carefully in a cubbyhole
was a rolled reminder reveling in it's reality
why do reminders seem to pop up just as you regain your sanity?
when your profanity was steadily decreasing and you forgot what you've been missing?
nope! i choose to stay in the past, before this wretched ring reminded me of things
(it's gone now)
if i deny, and defy the event, the feeling won't last, it won't sting.
Uh well i guess it didn't happen then
but it did
(UGH IT STINGS)
but it means nothing right? if i fight it, lose sight of it, i might just forget.
-i- -CAN'T- -be- around- -anyone- -right- -now-
they'll peer in! they'll see my sin, my feeling!
Feelings aren't cool!
******** excuse
check
deny the truth
check
focus on bogus pain, force yourself into the rain, make sure you don't try too hard
......
now i'm alone
why is there so much sound in here, i think i'm going to go deaf
i can only hear me, and i'm only thinking of one thing
break
come on break
let everything out, everything is at stake here, my brain is foggy
but tears are clear
aren't they?
they're so transparent, i stare and observe but the second i taste them
they're so salty, but who's fault is that?
THEIRS
HOW COULD THEY DO.........stop
what am i doing?
i'm wondering why no one loves me while ignoring a flooding sea of text messages and facebook updates, my hate covered my friends birthday, i put my family on wait, to sit and grovel a mistake i mistook.
umbrellas keep out the rain, but the pain remains the same, it just means you only let your tears stain
and that faint tap on the shoulder
now feels like bruises when you see
how many people you shooed away
storms are only faint reminders that someone is willing to cry with you. to scream with you
to strike down a fiery bolt of lightning with you.
to remind you
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
Ed thought he was a cat
So he gave a rat
To his dearest friend Magee.
He didn't take it lightly..
The rancid little thing
That poor Ed did bring,
Fell from Magee's hand,
Into his frying pan.
The rat cooked in his dish
Among the chips and fish,
And neither of them knew
The rat had joined it too.
The men clambered, glorped, and glopped
Until the timer stopped.
So they put it on a plate,
And then it was too late.
The grimy paws dug in
As Ed's face begin to grin,
And Magee was most aware
Of some furry little hair.
Magee quickly threw it out
And hit Ed all about.
He shooed his pal away,
Soggy Ed was now a stray.
But Ed finished up the dinner,
Though felt a little thinner.
Now old Ed has fleas,
And will probably get rabies.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
He claimed to harness energy, not found,
imagined, but not measured from the ground,
and from the positive of cells now known,
like energies our knowledge in has grown,
The energies, all positive, that flow,
so do, unblocked by furniture for show,
and by the absence of the negative,
slow-shooed by candle color, scent it gives,
This he believed and now more so believes,
unmeasured energy that comes and leaves,
is in all things and is all things in form,
for every form is energy in dorm,
and now he looks at everyone the same,
as patterned energies upon a plane.
(C)2013, Christos Rigakos
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
The fire for learning Plato’s philosophies and the history hidden
behind the Iron Curtain had burned us out. We were restless, sleepy
and thirsty. Mischievous by nature, we were sick of going nowhere.
The blooms of the red schizanthus and yellow calla lilly’s against the sun
blazened sky bid us farewell as we traveled west toward the city of emerald raindrops.
After all, freedom was only one tank of gasoline, two Red Bulls, a bag of bugles,
a handful of mixed CD’s and four hours away. We were going to lose ourselves.
Plummeted forward by the up down, up down rollercoaster
of the seaside landscape our faces shine brighter than ever
because we find ourselves in rainy day adventures
Pike’s Place Market found us braving the stench of tuna, bass, salmon and sushi
for crepes and chai. Strawberry, vanilla and salmon crepes made by the man
with skin the color of milky chocolate and a foreign accent that we lusted after
because we’d never heard it before. We weren’t running away from home but instead
were living in African slums where the skin comes smooth like milk and
the music has a character, full of power and pride, of its own.
Wandering the drenched streets where downpours don’t stop the salesmen. The sax
player and the bread maker still ask us if we’d like a sample. Rain is no matter. Coveting
warmth from the storm we find a steel slab of a parking garage downtown where
mirrors on elevator ceilings occupy our time and attention until security shooed us.
Shiny objects attract the shadows on the walls who proceed to make funny faces.
Watching America’s sport in cheap seats with over-priced beer and nachos
helps us remember our roots and value tradition a little more. It draws us closer to home
where any storm can be weathered. The drive home after a surprising win and
spirited riot is quiet. The crisp night air and booming bass free our minds of the
mischief caused as we chatter ourselves voiceless away from the emerald raindrops.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:26 PM UTC
I was a dreamer
who dreamed many dreams
a dreamer who wrote
with a pencil and paper
instead of an illusionary
paint brush and canvas
I would sit for hours staring at my paper
dreaming of words that swirled about
creating clouds filled with rain,
pouring down on the earth
but only a few drops would even touch me
for a wind resembling mind block,
shooed the words away
while simultaneously hailing
on someone else’s mind
collecting and soaking up all the wonderful words
that were supposed to be for me
and me alone
But a dreamer never stops dreaming
no matter the circumstances
a broken heart for instance
or an interval of inability to write
can never stop the dreams of a writer,
for long,
at least
Heart break and ache have
found me once again
and the few rain droplets of words
that have so stingily fallen on my mind
have yet to hinder my love to dream
for writing is my passion
and one true love.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
Dogs smell tyres.
Chew on bones.
*** on tyres.
Get shooed away by stones.
Life menstruates.
Much too feminine.
Too much to cry about.
Too much pain.
The smaller you want.
The bigger you get.
The bigger you expect.
Nothing you get.
Years pass by.
Numbers keep rising.
The loop of trust diminishes.
Sitting by a fountain.
Chase a butterfly.
Wait till it sits.
Hold it within your palm.
Hold it till it fits.
Life ***** around.
Too much stink.
Too much to wash about.
You dwell in the stink.
Listen to big hearts.
Believe in small minds.
Trust in what you want to.
Life still grinds.
Fight gravity.
Stay up till you fall.
Right after you fall.
Don’t believe in gravity at all.
Gauge equations.
Evaluate situations.
Fatigue creeps in.
Your mind; and its discretions.
Love till you die.
Die till you love.
It’s all unfair.
Unjust.
Love; and it expectations.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
*If this isn't good,
I don't know what is.*
I thought to myself.
It was a habit I picked up
from reading too many books;
to acknowledge the good
occurrences when they occurred.
It seems they happen more often
when you pay attention.
However, don't imagine
that the scene was perfect.
We woke up
on a hardwood floor,
hungover
and sleep-deprived.
My jacket was
the pillow,
and, luckily, someone
had draped a blanket
over us.
A cat wandered
under the blanket,
and sat down on my
naked shins,
which shook us
from our slumber.
She laughed as his tail
swooshed slowly across her leg
and pulled my arm
around her.
"I never expected
to wake up next to you."
She said,
in a whimsical way
We shooed the cat out
(he was quite stubborn)
and laughed together at the
absurdity of it all.
Later, we kissed farewell
and promised to meet again.
Now, I sit in contemplation;
recalling all I can about the night.
Moments are just that --
moments.
Parsed smaller and smaller
the further you look.
I don't need to remember each
minutiae -- how many seconds
elapsed between each breath --
only how I felt at her side.
I think this is what I'm aiming to do:
to hold each reminiscence sacred.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
"In Modern Drama we turn a critical eye
into the conditions of real life and morality." --- Arlen Rambush
Modern Drama 101
Her life had become an Ibsen scenario,
cloaked, as it was, in furtive AOL chat rooms,
seeking the romance no longer orbed in marriage,
rather to be panned from the internet wellspring.
It wasn't so much inconstancy, as it was whimsy;
more a channeling of Deneuve, than profiling Gabler.
And she found they flocked to her,
pigeons to be shooed away, should they get too close.
Soul of the house, everything to husband and family,
yet, it was in cyber tryst where she flourished,
that informed the powerful intellect at intervals
with mother and a carte blanche ingénue.
It's possible she sought to reform them,
tear them down --- or no --- it was conquest.
It was not she that needed men,
it was she that absorbed them in hedonistic pleasure.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
a radius the length of single arm
that isolates my soul from all i see
i am an island in the midst of sea
to separate my soul from any harm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
i'm buffered from the hordes rejecting me
it might be called a gift, a special charm
that isolates my soul from all i see
my blessing is a curse that's spat on me
for when I seek another's soul as warm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
and where I'd like to go I cannot be
my buffer zone's a barren empty farm
that isolates my soul from all i see
there once were people dancing 'round with me
yet something shooed away the loving swarm
there is a lengthy space surrounding me
that isolates my soul from all i see
(C)2008, Christos Rigakos
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:11 AM UTC