three skinny kids, boy, boy, girl

beat on a fourth
and leave him
wheezing
in what they know better
than to call
but call anyway

     forest.  the beaten boy

swoons
into tree after tree
and loses
his memory.  

     he spends a few good hours trying to pin
the small shadows
of overhead birds
beneath his feet.  

he thinks there might be a girl
watching him, that she might weaken
for one

who possesses
odd powers.

A silence with you
Is not
a silence

But a moment rich
with peace

At some unnamed night,
and it will be bright,
I’ll go away.
The door I will never
close
the flowers will keep
fragrance.
My children will have fallen asleep
the most deeply
covered and caressed
and somebody will cant to them again
a cradle song.
It will be light like in a temple
and clear like a voice
in mountains.
Then I’ll leave
forgotten all the words…

A branch in the white snow.

Like cotton puffs of white the clouds float by on cyan skies,
the lamb fur hassock of the angels praying in the skies.

Their occupancy hidden but for subtle clues for eyes,
a shadow in the cloud reveals an angel in the skies.

Their bows are permanent, their heads fall once but do not rise,
the stillness of the clouds betray the angels in the skies.

Their motionless prostration is their very best disguise,
creating doubt upon the earth of angels in the skies.

What of the consciousness of those in tombs we all surmise
have fled to scenes beyond the eyes among the clouds of skies?

Where are the shadows of their seats?  Despite our many tries,
we see none in their names we find cloud-written in the skies.

I call to those who've left too soon, their names among my cries.
Their answers whisper in the hiss of rain from cloudy skies.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

The lips conjure the trinity which can be heard, not seen,
which hands may manifest to eyes what ears have heard, not seen.

The lips beget belief so faith may be what it's not been,
until the hands may work that faith may see what's yet unseen.

The trinity, no man may see, composed of just three words,
enters into the darkness of the heart which none have seen.

"I love you," radiant, divides the dark of night from day,
the corners of the heart, illuminated, then are seen.

The trinity, by lips conjured, embue a godly breath
into the breast of one long dead, the miracle is seen.

Though life begins, it too must end, eventual the death,
if hands then fail to manifest the trinity, unseen.

But if the hands bring forth the words to prove them to the heart,
then death is thwarted, life remains and paradise is seen.

(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

our boy is gone.  boy’s mouth, boy’s knees.

I drop my jaw in an open field, turn my head
while pointing
at a kite.

     a man sets a chainsaw
beside the ax
at my feet.

man
calls the ax
a quitting
cross.

he seems so disgusted, honey, so disgusted
I lose hope.

the last time our daughter
fell asleep on my chest
must’ve been the last time
our daughter

fell asleep on my chest.

-    

    I hear you sometimes
using my razor.

father would later say he did it

not to smack the name out of my mouth
but to give it a good limp
on its way
to my heart.

I think of my blood as an evening wake.

my heart
as this woman
one day buried
with a man’s
cane.

The astral umbilical cord which tethers flesh to soul,
in Death is torn, the spirit soars, the man is no more whole.

In life when man is put away outside the city gates,
untethered by a scornful wife, his spirit bears the toll.

Untethered, man may roam the paths of cemetery aisles
as dead, yet spurned by those in graves--the living corpse's role.

As dead in spirit, living flesh hangs rotten on its bones,
yet breathing still it can not qualify to rest in hole.

Though charitous among the living offer food and clothes,
I only seek from those I've lost to fill my begging bowl.

Declining shelter I have chosen life under a bridge,
that I may watch my loved ones from afar, their ugly troll.

Where love is life, a loveless life is spiritless corpus.
In my decay in search I stray to find again my soul.


(C)2013, Christos Rigakos

Driving west we reached an inn
A group of friends around a table
Laughing, joking, talking
About the usual things

As local, native as can be
But their language
Incomprehensible to me

Not similar or remotely related
To the sounds that come from my mouth

They speak my language too
But theirs by choice
It lives and thrives across the whole of this lovely country of theirs
Wales

History comes alive
My eyes are open wide
To diversity
Reminding me
Ours is a land of immigrants
Always has been

I heard myself reprimanded for childless behavior.  I saw myself as two of the same people.  my older brother gave me pennies he thought were sleeping pills.  we later agreed I thought the same.  the funny talk went from my mouth into god only knows.  strangers begged me to repeat myself but not a one could tell me what I’d said.  those far to me sent word, or meant to.  my sister showed up out of the blue but stayed just long enough to send her privates into hiding.  my mother and father promised to punish me for no reason.  I began to love them for giving me a son.  I began by telling them I was in some trouble.