tonight I’m calling fearful souls
the peers of my tribe
there is chaos in the heart of stones we are casting
there is a lot of pain in unborn desires
we are trembling, we are holding our breath –
what does it mean to feel safe
we are dreaming and waiting
old mothers are screaming unheard
the tyrant is playing backgammon with God

I am searching for each of you in the safety of dawn
the beast with bottomless eyes is here
Inside
so difficult to grasp our soul
to endure this: a world of faceless people
we cover our eyes, mouth, hearts
bottomless eyes are smearing

the body as a battlefield
oh, we remember what we want to have forgotten
we collapse under the burden of our own fragility
the history repeats itself shutting down stories
so many stories of cancelled love

the slaughterhouse soul is too heavy
and I can’t remember the ancient joy and innocence
the simplicity of being
words have just exploded
and my heart is cracked open

and now I am afraid even of my words
of that which should not be named
the murderer of soul, dignity and poetry

I am afraid of staring into bottomless eyes
without my peers
without my tribe

When you borrow trouble
The interest rate is
Very high.

     ljm

Love
Loyalty
Respect
Charismatic
Cultured
Romantic
Clever
Rich
Be­liever
Good person
Strong a *****..



Select several by age range.
They all poison you.:))

Perhaps maybe I should have asked
what is loyalty
If not some sort of conformity
that we mostly  seek in return

And you wonder
Why do I agree with you
if its not to fuel
Some sort of
Social agenda
that is either
Useless or filled with
Sycophany

The ones that have condemned us
To always believe
And follow
Like a sheep to a slaughter house

Cloaking ourselves
On what should be known as
Fundermental of stupidity

For every soul my soul does meet,
     they are a soulmate on their way.
I am the sole pressed under feet,
     replaced when fully worn away.
We are both sole-mates, they and I,
     most symbiotic, as you see.
And when they leave I carry nigh,
     the scent of memories of we.

(C)2019, Christos Rigakos

It hadn’t been good that year
With emptying drawers
And foraging around the Azer
Finding seed pods fallen in the
Yellow grief stricken grass lawn.


People visited in their silks
Stretching hands to comfort
What could not be tolerated
Infiltrating the harsh reality
Suffering with bespoke smiles.

Love Mary