we're cursed to find our end within the ground

we're cursed to find our end within the ground,
beneath the feet of others living on,
the tree that won't produce good fruit's cut down,

coincidence, that sunny skies seem bound
to anyone but us, as they go on?
we're cursed to find our end within the ground,

where we no more will taste a light or sound,
for there will no more be another spawn,
the tree that won't produce good fruit's cut down

are we pariahs in our cosmic town,
that we deserve to vanish by the dawn?
we're cursed to find our end within the ground,

where one by one increasing we are found,
forgotten with the growing of the lawn,
the tree that won't produce good fruit's cut down

what have we done, that Reaper's swings abound,
to cut us one by one till we be none?
we're cursed to find our end within the ground,
the tree that won't produce good fruit's cut down

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

my greatest sin--to add more sin

my greatest sin--to add more sin,
without a pause, without a cause,
to end of day from day begin,

in retrospect, from where I've been,
to where I go, I break the Law,
my greatest sin--to add more sin,

I plead no ignorance within,
the Law I've heard, I've read, I saw,
to end of day from day begin,

and though I preach of ways to win,
mere breath of sound from clacking jaws,
my greatest sin--to add more sin,

I pose for all like mannequin,
in holy postures for the Law,
to end of day from day begin,

my transformation must begin,
before my end's a hopeless cause,
my greatest sin--to add more sin,
to end of day from day begin.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

while here, he was excluded from my dreams

while here, he was excluded from my dreams,
I had preferred the days before he came,
now gone, I reach for him in wishful dreams,

nine years alone, I had no friends, it seemed
my folks gave me a friend who shared my name,
while here, he was excluded from my dreams,

I'd found new friends, no need for more, i deemed
him just unnecessary for my games,
now gone, I reach for him in wishful dreams,

regret my childish child in painful screams,
how could I've known I'd feel such nagging shame?
while here, he was excluded from my dreams,

I'd much preferred a sister, folly gleams,
exposed in sunlight's view as it is tamed,
now gone, I reach for him in wishful dreams,

none can undo what's done, and so it seems,
I'm left with extra space to flog my brain,
while here, he was excluded from my dreams,
now gone, I reach for him in wishful dreams.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

the house that was a home is broken now

the house that was a home is broken now,
as four became but three and three but two,
how quickly houses fall, how quickly, how?

the Lord gives, takes away, we're forced to bow,
what first began as two, turned four, it grew,
the house that was a home is broken now,

the Lord makes dust of every sacred cow,
a house of four reduced again to two,
how quickly houses fall, how quickly, how?

the endpoint is the start point in the Tao,
what ends ends back to start, this much is true,
the house that was a home is broken now,

the one and one that formed the four they now
are one and one again, and they'll end too,
how quickly houses fall, how quickly, how?

and I the third can't fix, it's not allowed,
the broken home of one and one's soon through,
the house that was a home is broken now,
how quickly houses fall, how quickly, how?

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

like times we sat in silence and we stared

like times we sat in silence and we stared,
i come once more to share with you the sky,
we face each other, both our souls full bared,

i sit upon a stool and bravely dare
to do what's sorely missed, and with deep sigh,
like times we sat in silence and we stared,

i watch you 'neath your covering, so scared,
unable to speak out, though hard I try,
we face each other, both our souls full bared,

you watching me past covering, unbared,
we both look past each other, in mind's eye,
like times we sat in silence and we stared,

the words not spoken when we better fared,
are spoken now upon the growls of cries,
we face each other, both our souls full bared,

how precious, little time of moments shared,
is realized only when it's bid good bye,
like times we sat in silence and we stared,
we face each other, both our souls full bared.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

the storm cloud's rained itself into the sea

the storm cloud's rained itself into the sea
its essence now among the many waves
i'm dried and shriveled, drying silently

so long ago you stopped and ceased to be
the tempest roared the sailors to their graves
the storm cloud's rained itself into the sea

behold the life force seeping out of me
no tears are left, I no longer behave
i'm dried and shriveled, drying silently

my shrieking wails have weakened to a plea,
the tear ducts, crusted over, overgave
the storm cloud's rained itself into the sea

now silence fills the air where you should be
and fills my lungs as well, shall I be saved?
i'm dried and shriveled, drying silently

i sit beside the hole where you would be
all words been said, all breath's been spent in rave
the storm cloud's rained itself into the sea
i'm dried and shriveled, drying silently

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The only thing I trust is not to trust the girls at all

The only thing I trust is not to trust the girls at all,
for once I knew to trust them when their solemn oaths they swore.
The only thing I know is that I know nothing at all.

There once was lovely Katina, in whom in love I'd fall,
who swore to me she'd never leave, yet walked right out the door.
The only thing I trust is not to trust the girls at all.

And Sandy once admonished me, for she was so appalled,
when I declared her love declared was rather either or.
The only thing I know is that I know nothing at all.

I know Katina left because a life abroad had called,
but Sandy almost dumped me when my trust in her had torn.
The only thing I trust is not to trust the girls at all,

for when so sheepishly I said I'm sorry for the gall
to doubt her love with little trust, it's then my heart she gored.
The only thing I know is that I know nothing at all,

for when I trust I know their trust, I trust that I will fall,
as female words in swearing oaths are sounds to be abhorred.
The only thing I trust is not to trust the girls at all.
The only thing I know is that I know nothing at all.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

you've been so missed, brother, you've missed so much

you've been so missed, brother, you've missed so much
a lot has happened here since you've been gone
and life goes on without your special touch

you've missed new shows, new episodes and such
and sharing laughter till the crack of dawn
you've been so missed, brother, you've missed so much

so many questions raised, and in my rush
I turn to ask you, realize you are gone
and life goes on without your special touch

oh, what I wouldn't give to fill your hush
with that sweet voice your laughter rides upon
you've been so missed, brother, you've missed so much

my heart's like jello, I've been turned to mush
my bones have bled out of my flesh, they're gone
and life goes on without your special touch

just flick me once again, or I'll stay crushed
upon the floor forever till I'm done
you've been so missed, brother, you've missed so much
and life goes on without your special touch

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

his likes, dislikes, his ways, by far unique

his likes, dislikes, his ways, by far unique,
a snowflake melted back into the sea,
so long, far gone, this special one I seek,

a voice, no other has, no more could speak,
though strained, I hear but none, and none I see,
his likes, dislikes, his ways, by far unique,

I whisper it, and call his name, and shriek,
so long my echoes reach, so far from me,
so long, far gone, this special one I seek,

into the souls of all I meet, I peek,
yet find not even similarity,
his likes, dislikes, his ways, by far unique

his flesh, my flesh, now gone, my bones do creak
his name, his fame, no more though it should be,
so long far gone, this special one I seek,

his void sucks life from me as from his cheek,
as does his irreplaceability,
his likes, dislikes, his ways, by far unique,
so long far gone, this special one I seek.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

they almost picked up stones, i've been accused of PC sin

they almost picked up stones, i've been accused of PC sin,
i'm racist and i'm sexist, so they say, that is my crime,
for voting for an old white man and hoping he would win

i would not vote for Hillary, no woman's ever been
a President, i'm sexist, don't I think that it's her time?
they almost picked up stones, ive been accused of PC sin,

i would not vote for Obama, no black man's ever been
a President, i'm racist, don't I think that it's his time?
I voted for an old white man and hoped that he would win

if voting for a color or for genital's a sin,
then isn't choosing blackness or vagina then a crime?
they almost picked up stones, ive been accused of PC sin,

yet old McCain won't get my vote, and still I'm not within
the PC bullies' good graces, for I shunned theirs for mine
by voting for an old white man and hoping he would win

the Doctor's got my vote, I know where his good record's been
for liberty, small government of Founding Father's time
they almost picked up stones, i've been accused of PC sin,
for voting for an old white man and hoping he would win

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Oh, dear elected representatives

Oh, dear elected representatives,
whom we elect to represent our needs,
your own agenda's most imperative,

though to our nation, most pejorative.
If words were noumisma, yours would be beads,
oh, dear elected representatives!

The Founder's writings were indicative
of paradigms for those who wish to lead.
Your own agenda's most imperative.

Your own beliefs are not comparative
with those of Jefferson, whom you won't heed,
oh, dear elected representatives.

Our Constitution's most declarative,
yet you ignore it, and the People bleed!
Your own agenda's most imperative.

Our need, why will you not take care of it?
You swore upon your oaths that you agreed!
Oh, dear elected representatives,
your own agenda's most imperative!

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

if i was told i had to choose between

if i was told i had to choose between
mccain, obama, none would get my vote
two evils, they would find my vote unseen

it's un-American and most obscene
when constantly harangued to "rock the vote"
and told i had to choose only between

a fascist or a socialist, i mean
c'mon, am i as stupid as a goat?
two evils, they would find my vote unseen

i'd rather eat then vomit up my spleen
and swim with alligators in a moat
if i was told i had to choose between

two know-nothings with brains drunk on caffeine
all energy, no substance worth to note
two evils, they would find my vote unseen

when the Establishment sets up the scene
and narrows choices, it strangles my throat
if i was told i had to choose between
two evils, they would find my vote unseen

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

what is the left, what is the right?

what is the left, what is the right
two cheeks, the same old farting ass
are these actors who claim they fight

are not their puppet strings in sight
is what they spew familiar gas?
what is the left, what is the right

a head, a tail, so close and tight
two sides, one coin, one made from brass
are these actors who claim they fight

they know the magic words, alright
here "change", there "change", and "middle class"
what is the left, what is the right

how could they both pretend this fight
their words resound the same through glass
are these actors who claim they fight

more of the same, no change in sight
for no one dares to wipe this ass
what is the left, what is the right
are these actors who claim they fight

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

a special person was snuffed out

so long so loud i scream i shout
how could this be, how could this be?
a special person was snuffed out

there is no end to this here bout
i'm draining, dying, i can't flee
so long so loud i scream i shout

only one thing this is about
it's irreplaceability
a special person was snuffed out

our lives are torn up in a rout
he was what no one else will be
so long so loud i scream i shout

my blood has dried into a drought
i saw him but now cannot see
a special person was snuffed out

he left no part of him to sprout
how could this be, how could this be?
so long so loud i scream i shout
a special person was snuffed out

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Until the day I open up the heart

Until the day I open up the heart
to let in warmth of blessed Holy Light,
in peril will the flesh and spirit part.

For now's the time to pull the lifelong cart,
the effort must be made with earnest fight
until the day I open up the heart.

While closed, from Light I'll always be apart,
the darkness of my life would end in night,
in peril will the flesh and spirit part,

the day the final drumbeat of the heart
in silence ushers in the unseen sight.
Until the day I open up the heart,

I must request the help of those whose part
in history was meant to show what's right.
In peril will the flesh and spirit part

unless I end the games of night and start
to pray until the dawn of morning light.
Until the day I open up the heart,
in peril will the flesh and spirit part.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

the movie of my life is not yet done

the movie of my life is not yet done
my lines are mostly silent, acts are wrong
I best rewrite it while there still is sun

this manuscript of mine, it weighs a ton
an autobiographical, so long,
the movie of my life is not yet done

there is a golden standard under Sun
yet this old tired script is far from strong
I best rewrite it while there still is sun

the act of writing life is never fun
it ends one day with a celestial gong
the movie of my life is not yet done

when darkness falls as curtains I'll be done
can no more check how it's coming along
I best rewrite it while there still is sun

when acts of mine are righted, I'll have won
my lines must have so earnestly been sung
the movie of my life is not yet done
I best rewrite it while there still is sun

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

there's a thumbtack on the floor

there's a thumbtack on the floor
you'll get pricked and start to cry
watch your steps right out the door

nothing's easy, we want more
easiness, yet it's a lie
there's a thumbtack on the floor

this is life, it's what's in store
just in dreams your safety lies
watch your steps right out the door

avoid the thumbtack or you'll roar
ouch, it hurts, I think I'll die
there's a thumbtack on the floor

we would rather jump and soar
leave the ground and reach the sky
watch your steps right out the door

we're earthbound forever more
till the very day we die
there's a thumbtack on the floor
watch your steps right out the door

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

the baby's crawling now, hooray

the baby's crawling now, hooray
he's crawled right out the door
we feared we'd never see the day

much time has passed, he's been delayed
we knew not what had laid in store
the baby's crawling now, hooray

with all his faults we couldn't say
if he'd stop lying on the floor
we feared we'd never see the day

and prayed that he would find the way
now mommy has a brand new chore
the baby's crawling now, hooray

she'll have to chase the kid away
from things that cut and bump and more
we feared we'd never see the day

but now we know he'll be okay
he'll crawl and walk and run and more
the baby's crawling now, hooray
we feared we'd never see the day

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The farmer bought a brand new roomy house

The farmer bought a brand new roomy house,
but found a problem he could not relieve;
he went to great lengths to remove a mouse.

He bought a cat to chase after the mouse,
and when it did, the cat would just not leave.
The farmer bought a brand new roomy house,

with that old cat and that old dirty mouse,
he bought a dog to make that old cat leave.
He went to great lengths to remove a mouse.

And when the dog chased kitty from the house,
the dog remained around and would not leave.
The farmer bought a brand new roomy house,

with dog and cat and stubborn dirty mouse,
he bought a lion, chased the dog to leave.
He went to great lengths to remove a mouse.

The elephant chased lion from the house,
but farmer brought the mouse to make it leave.
The farmer bought a brand new roomy house,
he went to great lengths to remove a mouse.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

*inspired by a very funny old Looney Tunes cartoon.

you've sworn to fight my battle, win my war

you've sworn to fight my battle, win my war
that is your job, it's what you're known to do
yet I'll raise up my sword and forge to fore

you've heard my cries for help, and by your lore
you've sworn to meet the challenge through and through
you've sworn to fight my battle, win my war

yet there's a doubt within me, what you swore
has yet to come about, though I implore
yet I'll raise up my sword and forge to fore

first battle, almost won, it needed more
and now I seek you out, what shall you do?
you've sworn to fight my battle, win my war

and now that I request you give me more
oh, wherefore art thou, I am vexxed so sore
now I'll raise up my sword and forge to fore

you've failed and fallen hard upon the floor
you're lax, disloyal, I won't fight as you
you've sworn to fight my battle, win my war
yet I'll raise up my sword and forge to fore

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

in those old black and white films

in those old black and white films always they
young greeks in modest dress and old attire
all sang and danced with passion hearts full splayed

late 50's early 60's romance played
defining culture with old songs on fire
in those old black and white films always they

danced back and forth in conversations say,
of simple subjects, unrequitted love required,
all sang and danced with passion hearts full splayed

oh simple songs, not found around today,
how different old Greece is from new, inspired,
in those old black and white films always they

brought life to screen, not screen to life as they
all do today and think it's heaven's pyre,
all sang and danced with passion hearts full splayed

where have those simple times gone, where?  today
they're hidden in old celluloid so tired,
in those old black and white films always they
all sang and danced with passion hearts full splayed

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

so quietly i sit and strain to hear

so quietly i sit and strain to hear
before his door, where always there was sound
no sound comes from that room, no one is here

all nightmares end, the waking ends the fear
in hopes it was a dream, he's still around
so quietly i sit and strain to hear

yet this worst nightmare's permanent I fear
his absent voice does haunt me all around
no sound comes from that room, no one is here

most harsh denial, darting eyes now leer
to catch a glimpse of him, a sighing sound
so quietly i sit and strain to hear

the things we covet pale before the mere
vibrations--sound and life, now nowhere found
no sound comes from that room, no one is here

the present sounds are sobbings, burning tears
the former sounds are hushed, deep underground
so quietly i sit and strain to hear
no sound comes from that room, no one is here

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

there is a lengthy space surrounding me

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

so much to say, the audience away

so much to say, the audience away,
i'm left with open mouth, no words come out
no one to hear, from me he's torn away

left speechless, open mouthed but every day
caught in the throat, my trouble's all about
so much to say, the audience away

he cannot hear from where he lay
and though i come so close and shout
no one to hear, from me he's torn away

transmission's stopped, reception's frayed
our circuit's broken, our live wire's torn out
so much to say, the audience away,

my frantic search around it shows no way
to reconnect, for this is not allowed
no one to hear, from me he's torn away

my agony's displayed in skies so gray
unfinished words will never more come out,
so much to say, the audience away,
no one to hear, from me he's torn away

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

I'm stuffed up and I can't breathe any more

I'm stuffed up and I can't breathe any more.
The doctor can't prescribe a single cure.
No medicine can heal this aching sore.

My ailing throat's the center, near the core,
a thrush of alphabetic phlegm, for sure.
I'm stuffed up and I can't breathe any more,

not like I used to breath, that time's no more,
when my chest's passageway was clear and pure.
No medicine can heal this aching sore,

this bottleneck jammed up against the door-
way of my throat, where words are lured.
I'm stuffed up and I can't breathe any more.

The root cause is the heart, this is the core,
where heartburn's sulfur singe, far from demure,
that medicine can't heal this aching sore.

I need to speak to him, yet he no more
can hear, and I no longer can endure.
I'm stuffed up and I can't breathe any more.
No medicine can heal this aching sore.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The vapor trails across the starry sky

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 pot 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 pot 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

We think the other side's behind a veil

We think the other side's behind a veil,
if only we could pull it back we'd see.
We look for curtains, all to no avail.

If it were but a place, we'd send them mail,
those who once were yet could no longer be.
We think the other side's behind a veil,

and seek the port from where their boat has sailed,
a thinly woven sheen of tapestry,
and look for curtains, all to no avail.

The veil pulls back only when life derails,
yet even then the naked eye can't see.
We think the other side's behind a veil,

with thread-woven bars of the carnal jail,
where once released, we'd pass over the sea.
We look for curtains, all to no avail,

for it is not a place, and so we fail.
The other side's a different state of being.
We think the other side's behind a veil.
We look for curtains, all to no avail.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

His mouth, it sings a very nasty song

His mouth, it sings a very nasty song,
it tells of an opinion, not a fact,
it poisons minds, whose lyrics are all wrong.

He said to keep it secret, tell the throng
nothing, and to be mindful, strict with tact.
His mouth, it sings a very nasty song,

now that I've kept the distance stretched and long,
he's gone against me, broke the silent pact.
It poisons minds, whose lyrics are all wrong,

whose singer kept me silent, so his song
would be the only music shown as fact.
His mouth, it sings a very nasty song,

the secret he has shouted with a gong,
to hammer in his view, his wild attack,
it poisons minds, whose lyrics are all wrong.

Yet I have yet to show him I am strong,
expose his puppet show, his phony act.
His mouth, it sings a very nasty song,
it poisons minds, whose lyrics are all wrong.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Let's brace ourselves for when the dollar falls

Let's brace ourselves for when the dollar falls,
the crash, so loud, will deafen every ear,
except for gold collectors, not at all.

The State's great intervention will just stall
inevitable ruin, causing fear:
Let's brace ourselves for when the dollar falls:

the fiat currency ain't worth a ball
of rubber bands; we'll all be sheared,
except for gold collectors, not at all.

The government is printing with a thrall,
devaluing the paper; doom is near:
Let's brace ourselves for when the dollar falls:

as dollar shortens, gold gets very tall,
still buys the same per ounce in every year.
Except for gold collectors, not at all

will dollar holders heed the call
of Austrian's most wise and correct seers.
Let's brace ourselves for when the dollar falls,
except for gold collectors, not at all.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The baby's guardian is Saint Ephraim

The baby's guardian is Saint Ephraim,
whose arms do glow with Holy Spirit, strong.
His name he's given, who belongs to Him.

Despite the odds, where overcoming them
are low, odds for a normal life are long,
the baby's guardian is Saint Ephraim,

and odds have raised up high because of Him,
where things are righted which had started wrong.
His name he's given, who belongs to Him.

The baby wakes at night and coos a hymn,
while staring into space and laughing strong.
The baby's guardian is Saint Ephraim.

Who else might baby gurgle at but Him,
and angels all around him with their song?
His name he's given, who belongs to Him.

His needed treatments, those refused to him,
he's gotten, will get more before too long.
The baby's guardian is Saint Ephraim.
His name he's given, who belongs to Him.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

I wanted once upon a time to be

I wanted once upon a time to be
a special person, loved, someone to you
important, now I'm important to me.

It was a craving deep inside of me,
I thought myself a no one, just like you
I wanted once upon a time to be.

This need was all I felt, all I could see,
within the eyes of others through and through
important, now I'm important to me.

The change was radical, and for a fee
I then exchanged myself for someone new.
I wanted once upon a time to be

a someone else, yet not these folks you see.
I am me, worriless, now I eschew
importance, now I'm important to me.

No longer do I care for what you see.
I care for me, not for your point of view.
I wanted once upon a time to be
important, now I'm important to me.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The men compete for ladies' hearts

The men compete for ladies' hearts, the chasing's done by men,
for alpha men are hunters, to the victors go the spoils.
The ladies aren't used to having men rejecting them.

It's rare when women turn around, to chase and hunt down men.
It's rare, an oddity, for "fairer sex" to take this toil.
The men compete for ladies' hearts, the chasing's done by men.

And when, upon this rarity, she hunts, approaches him,
and, as again a rarity, the man rejects, she's foiled,
the ladies aren't used to having men rejecting them.

The female ego, spoiled by admiration, cracks and then
she whips around to him, attacks his manhood as she roils,
"The men compete for ladies' hearts, the chasing's done by men!"

"You're not a real manly man, you're not among the men!"
He cowers if it's true, or if it's false he'll just recoil,
"The ladies aren't used to having men rejecting them.

"Get used to it. The rooster doesn't always want the hen!
As women, you're accustomed to our cravings and you're spoiled!"
The men compete for ladies' hearts, the chasing's done by men.
The ladies aren't used to having men rejecting them.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

They do know better, so they tell such lies

The State says markets must be stabilized,
without the government the world would end.
They do know better, so they tell such lies.

The markets fluctuate, they realize,
the ups and downs are proof--unstable trends,
the State says, markets must be stabilized.

The Marxists and Keynesians obliged
to state against the laws that truth defends.
They do know better, so they tell such lies.

Could they be all mistaken, men of size
and stature whose great minds all comprehend?
The State says markets must be stabilized,

and State economists do all realize
without State power, what for them portends?
They do know better, so they tell such lies.

They're willing to perpetuate the lies,
though markets do work best without their friends.
The State says markets must be stabilized.
They do know better, so they tell such lies.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

until the world has liberty no more

The future will be filled with endless war,
with battles in the name of liberty,
until the world has liberty no more.

The empire is a drunken power whore,
who'll feed on nations till they're all empty.
The future will be filled with endless war,

and even though from war the world is sore,
the world expects more of the Whore to see,
until the world has liberty no more.

Into the hearts of nations she will gore,
not one she'll spare, not one from her could flee.
The future will be filled with endless war,

each one supposed to end another war,
not one remaining nation will be free,
until the world has liberty no more.

She'll force her liberty (who is it for?),
dictating to the world how to be free.
The future will be filled with endless war,
until the world has liberty no more.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

If I were worth what others think I am

If I were worth what others think I am,
if it were left up to their silly whim,
I'd be a crumpled paper in a can,

crushed to a little ball inside the hand
of one or of another lady prim.
If I were worth what others think I am,

I'd never truly know where I do stand,
inside, outside or balanced on the rim,
I'd be a crumpled paper in a can.

Today I'm worth parades and marching bands,
tomorrow my life would be torn from limb,
if I were worth what others think I am.

Yet there's a pattern flowing through that grand
and all-majestic viewpoint on the whim--
I'd be a crumpled paper in a can,

though I might first appear a promised land,
I'll always be a desert next to "him".
If I were worth what others think I am,
I'd be a crumpled paper in a can.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

promises like air

promises like air lift up my soul as I inflate
to meet high expectations of the promises they make
promises like air depress me down when I deflate

acknowledging as myth that I could insofar debate
as I have always dreamed that I could pull up all my stakes
promises like air lift up my soul as I inflate

yet when I yank them from the ground I find that it's too late
I'm snagged and all the ropes that hold me will refuse to break
promises like air depress me down when I deflate

the hopes that floated me are inspirations I create
upon those broken promises resulting in my ache
promises like air lift up my soul as I inflate

yet distances do change and all the things I calculate
change with them, leaving me insane, a bird inside a crate
promises like air depress me down when I deflate

they limit me when I decide to full accelerate
and when I choose a speed to fly I'm always forced to brake
promises like air lift up my soul as I inflate
promises like air depress me down when I deflate

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Oh, where has all the time gone, where?

Oh, where has all the time gone, where?
It's flown away, I'm left behind.
Remembering them all, I stare,

I watch the different styles of hair,
the clothes, the friends, some cruel, some kind.
Oh, where has all the time gone, where?

The times, like voices, are not there,
not anymore, they're hard to find.
Remembering them all, I stare

so stupefied into the air,
as if I could reach out and bind.
Oh, where has all the time gone, where?

The places, physically are there,
their spirit's gone, their eyes as blind.
Remembering them all, I stare,

I see but I can't touch, like air,
can't grasp, my teeth I grind.
Oh, where has all the time gone, where?
Remembering them all, I stare.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

winter always changes into spring

in winter most will long for long-gone spring,
as snow white beards and sickness drain on life,
yet winter always changes into spring

when budding, from which scents of freshness spring,
bursts forth in colored lushness, breathing life
in winter most will long for long-gone spring,

in longing for that loving, long-lost thing
we mourn as gone, a passed up part of life,
yet winter always changes into spring

we may not be around to view such thing
our winter may be cut down with a Knife,
in winter most will long for long-gone spring,

yet whether we endure and close the ring
or lose it all as one departs a wife
yet winter always changes into spring

it all snaps back, as an elastic string
continuing the waves of ease and strife
in winter most will long for long-gone spring,
yet winter always changes into spring

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

I die every night

I die, I die every night,
ground down until thinly worn,
in his battle's losing fight.

His face always in my sight,
before the breath from flesh was shorn,
I die, I die every night.

Wrought with valor, fought with might,
clung he did till he was torn,
in his battle's losing fight.

Recalling days of summer's light,
remembering when he was born,
I die, I die every night,

heart crushed down it bleeds contrite,
time was spent, we needed more.
In his battle's losing fight,

prayed we, teared we, scratched we. Bite
my throat, distract this burning sore!
I die, i die every night,
in his battle's losing fight.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

do not lie down and die before your time

do not lie down and die before your time
as long as you're above ground be around
for dying while still living is a crime

no matter what its state life is sublime
if only 'cause it's not beneath a mound
do not lie down and die before your time

for life itself is neither yours nor mine
but borrowed from the ones to whom we're bound
and dying while still living is a crime

one day death will complete your life's own rhyme
though searched for it is hard pressed to be found
do not lie down and die before your time

for death shuts down the workings of the spine
you'll neither make nor listen to a sound
and dying while still living is a crime

and life itself is given as a sign
that we've been loved, and we should stick around
do not lie down and die before your time
for dying while still living is a crime

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Correct me if I'm wrong

Correct me if I'm wrong,
I'd be a humming sound
if life was but a song.

Of course it isn't wrong
to be a humming sound.
Correct me if I'm wrong,

my life's just not that strong.
While operas abound,
if life were but a song,

mine wouldn't be too long,
with difficulty found,
correct me if I'm wrong.

To few I have belonged.
I'd sing of love not found,
if life were but a song.

I've never had a throng
of fans that stick around.
Correct me if I'm wrong,
if life were but a song.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Before I sleep away

Before I sleep away
the night, let's stay awake,
I'd really like to play.

So many things to say,
I'd like to say I spake,
before I sleep away.

So is it yay or nay?
Before the hot-bed lake,
I'd really like to play,

awhile longer to stay,
make life more real, less fake,
before I sleep away.

Not meaning I should stray,
just have a little cake.
I'd really like to play,

before I go away,
live here, for heaven's sake.
Before I sleep away,
I'd really like to play.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The girl was cursed with swarms of flies

The girl was cursed with swarms of flies,
that hovered around the breath of her mouth,
whenever her lips spoke words of lies.

It happened suddenly, to her surprise,
on a family trip through the South.
The girl was cursed with swarms of flies,

that zig-zagged around before her eyes,
and accrued when her darkened breath came out,
whenever her lips spoke words of lies.

She'd promised an honest way to her guys,
with fingers crossed and lips that pout.
The girl was cursed with swarms of flies,

now none of her lies she could disguise.
They hovered around like dogs to a spout,
whenever her lips spoke words of lies.

Not sure which one, but one of her guys,
got tired of eating her words as if grout.
The girl was cursed with swarms of flies,
whenever her lips spoke words of lies.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

I'd always wanted to fly

I'd always wanted to fly,
since I was born, it filled me with glee,
but now I fear that I may certainly die.

I used to sit there and sigh,
as I looked up past tops of trees,
I'd always wanted to fly.

One day I fell from up high,
and broke my joy a certain degree,
and now I fear that I may certainly die,

if finding myself in the sky,
we drop like rocks, and broken we'll be.
I'd always wanted to fly,

with wings (no struggle to try),
go places all over the world and see,
but now I fear that I may certainly die.

And now those tears in my eyes,
like I from planes, from dreaming they flee.
I'd always wanted to fly,
but now I fear that I may certainly die.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

I am a hurricane, although inverse

I am a hurricane, although inverse,
an outer calm, yet violent inner eye,
a tempest in a woman's tiny purse.

I'm not like he who lies within the hearse,
as crowds wail 'round his lifeless, sewn-shut eye.
I am a hurricane, although inverse,

from reigned-in thin-lined lips so pursed,
pure chaos cloaked somehow in windless sky,
a tempest in a woman's tiny purse.

Oh, now and then, a word slips out so terse,
a flaming meteor screams through the sky,
for I'm a hurricane, although inverse.

I've long lived on despite this wretched curse,
had someone else owned it, they'd crave to die.
A tempest in a woman's tiny purse,

somehow has managed not to burst
out through and scorch humanity to die.
I am a hurricane, although inverse,
a tempest in a woman's tiny purse.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

A tree grew up in a Brooklyn neighborhood

A tree grew up in a Brooklyn neighborhood,
in Alphabet City the streets were lined for dinners,
it fed the young and old in every good.

New life sprung out of cement where it once stood.
As losers turned one-eighties and became winners,
a tree grew up in a Brooklyn neighborhood.

Those who didn't suddenly did what they should,
profoundly fatties spread the seeds to thinners,
and fed the young and old in every good.

As time went on the fleshy became dead wood,
as outers came roughly around to be inners.
A tree grew up in a Brooklyn neighborhood,

and showed the potential that humans could
progress to past the stage of beginners,
it fed the young and old in every good.

But time crept slowly in, and all they would
become is half of what they could as sinners.
A tree grew up in a Brooklyn neighborhood,
it fed the young and old in every good.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

I lay beneath the feet like so much dirt

I lay beneath the feet like so much dirt.
Be careful where you step, you may get dirty.
I'm buried 'neath a lifetime full of hurt.

While juxtaposed with others I'm a squirt
among their oceans. At the age of thirty,
I lay beneath the feet like so much dirt,

while they, accomplished by their growing spurts
and living life--a golf game full of birdies,
I'm buried 'neath a lifetime full of hurt,

with filthy pants, an outgrown torn up shirt,
as ladies look away, who would be flirty,
for I'm beneath their feet like so much dirt.

I've never grown as they, nor am I curt,
and as an outcast writing I am wordy,
and buried 'neath a lifetime full of hurt,

all manner of things surely I may blurt,
offending all of them as someone nerdy.
I lay beneath the feet like so much dirt.
I'm buried 'neath a lifetime full of hurt.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Instead of crying over my loss

Instead of crying over my loss,
this job where I was quickly fired,
I'll learn a trade, be my own boss.

Over the job page I won't gloss,
I'll study my course, become inspired,
instead of crying over my loss.

I'll say a prayer, and do my cross,
and I'll be the first one that I hire.
I'll learn a trade, be my own boss,

my overhead will be low cost,
for I will keep the books for hire,
instead of crying over my loss.

Thoughts of my old job I will toss
into the bin and set it on fire.
I'll learn a trade, be my own boss,

I'll soon remove this albatross
around my neck, I'm now inspired!
Instead of crying over my loss,
I'll learn a trade, be my own boss.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

He said, she said, he was filled with dread

He said, she said, he was filled with dread,
and knowing they wouldn't believe him,
when she spoke, he was as if dead.

He could have lied, but told truth instead,
but truth would not even relieve him.
He said, she said, he was filled with dread,

and thought of his home's empty bed,
for his wife so surely would leave him
when she'd speak.  He'd be as if dead.

But the truth won out instead,
in a way, for his wife did believe him.
He said, she said, he was filled with dread,

but relief did win out in his head,
though the court did deceive him.
When she spoke, he was as if dead.

"Justice is Blind," the court's sign read.
From the start its dirty looks did pierce him,
He said, she said, he was filled with dread,
when she spoke, he was as if dead.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The system has long ago failed

The system has long ago failed.
Before I could state my case,
the courtroom had sent me to jail.

It wasn't always this frail.
Through years of feminist disgrace,
the system has long ago failed.

I'm hated. Because I'm a male,
and a female's teary-eyed face,
the courtroom had sent me to jail.

Harrassment was her favorite sale,
"he touched me within the workplace!"
The system had long ago failed,

when it stated a woman could rail,
and on the mere word of her case,
the courtroom could send me to jail.

I patted her arm when I hailed
her performance, well done at her place!
The system has long ago failed,
and the courtroom had sent me to jail.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Remembering the warmth of early dawn

Remembering the warmth of early dawn,
I basked in play and laughter of day's light,
and shiver in the cold of dusk's sun gone.

The days of youth in days of old live on,
I smile in recollections of the night,
remembering the warmth of early dawn.

Between my toes the feeling of the lawn,
of fresh cut grass, the greenness in my sight,
I shiver in the cold of dusk's sun gone,

and wonder where the light of day has gone,
which shone so bright and warm and all seemed right.
Remembering the warmth of early dawn,

I sing aloud my favorite childhood song,
yet hear a voice too old and full of fright,
and shiver in the cold of dusk's sun gone.

To what I used to be I am still drawn,
yet know that child has vanished from my sight.
Remembering the warmth of early dawn,
I shiver in the cold of dusk's sun gone.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

When little girls tell big fat lies

When little girls tell big fat lies,
their little tears cause quite a mess.
The world is moved by girlie cries,

it's just a board before her eyes,
she quickly learns this game of chess.
When little girls tell big fat lies,

with little tears, men's hackles rise,
they war like nations under stress,
a world so moved by girlie cries.

See Greece and Troy, their common prize,
fair Helen's eyes and wholesome breast,
when little girls tell big fat lies,

all guilty found, till otherwise
so proven 'gainst the girl's distress.
The world is moved by girlie cries,

the truth must shout with many tries,
'gainst pouty lips and small pink dress,
when little girls tell big fat lies,
the world is moved by girlie cries.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

A teardrop from a woman's eye

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

She broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart.

She broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart.
He was a man who loved with all he was.
She ripped a very loving man apart.

He gave her money, pushed her shopping cart,
he bought her heart's desires, and without pause,
she broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart.

His crime was having loved her from the start,
and far beyond her limits without cause.
She ripped a very loving man apart,

and though she was a very sour tart,
he loved her still with everything he was.
She broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart,

hock-spat at him, and in his face did fart,
to agitate that love wrapped tight in gauze.
She ripped a very loving man apart,

and stomped him in his sleep, stiletto darts
pierced flesh and pocked him, loving as he was.
She broke his arms, his ribs, his legs, his heart.
She ripped a very loving man apart.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The Villanellist vigilantly sings

The Villanellist vigilantly sings
in tones both sharp and flat, all night, all day,
of all the things life vigilantly brings.

On soft imagination's feathered wings
these songs of life, which flitter far away,
the Villanellist vigilantly sings.

Of Death bell's knells and wedding rings,
of celebrations, fights spilled from the fray,
of all the things life vigilantly brings,

the Villanellist often soothes or stings,
with very many rhyming words to say,
the Villanellist vigilantly sings.

Like threaded pearls hung lightly on soft strings,
the Villanellist's rosary will pray
of all the things life vigilantly brings.

With strictly structured meter that he brings,
retold refrains of rhyming things to say,
the Villanellist vigilantly sings
of all the things life vigilantly brings.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

What do you do when blackened grief abounds?

What do you do when blackened grief abounds,
and permeates all things in every way,
as eyes search none but what's beneath the ground?

When molten anguish tastes like pepper grounds,
my tongue a marble-black ashtray,
what do you do when blackened grief abounds?

My days, spent listening for missing sounds,
grow grey, in search for voice that's gone away,
as eyes seek none but what's beneath the ground.

My nights, spent wide awake, are often bound
to one fallen asleep a different way.
What do you do when blackened grief abounds,

yet he, whom my heart seeks cannot be found,
while words of love, pent up, I cannot say,
as eyes seek none but what's beneath the ground?

I hope the universe we share is round,
that paths will cross, again he'll come my way.
What do you do when blackened grief abounds,
as eyes search none but what's beneath the ground?

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

With pink dust sand, Greek beaches gleam

With pink dust sand, Greek beaches gleam,
for all who walk upon their path,
in sunlight brighter than a stream,

as if they're walking through a dream,
their eyes half-blind with sunlight's wrath.
With pink dust sand, Greek beaches gleam,

with cloud puffs floating, butter cream,
across a blue sky ocean bath.
In sunlight brighter than a stream,

their path, a colored sunlight beam,
that cuts across a scarlet swath,
with pink dust sand, Greek beaches gleam.

An endless sea, horizon seems
the keeper of forever's path,
in sunlight brighter than a stream.

The tourist walks, his mind careens,
no logic here, no structured math,
with pink dust sand, Greek beaches gleam,
in sunlight brighter than a stream

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

This ride has stopped its turning

This ride has stopped its turning,
I've pushed it until it was spent.
There's no more gas for burning,

though my dear mind's still churning,
I'm not even making a dent.
This ride has stopped its turning,

and though my hand's still yearning
to write, my old brain it is rent,
there's no more gas for burning.

This writer has hardly been earning
his wages, the muse it has lent,
this ride has stopped its turning.

I've wisdom yet I am still learning,
my will to the muse must be bent.
There's no more gas for burning,

yet intellect must be discerning,
not writing by mere accident.
This ride has stopped its turning,
there's no more gas for burning.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

They're just no good for him

They're just no good for him,
these drugs the doctors prescribe.
He needs to get rid of them.

Pills to pee they all gave him,
though water he just won't imbibe,
they're just no good for him.

These pills designed to save him,
won't give him a chance to survive,
he needs to get rid of them.

These doctors all who diagnosed him,
all experts whose words are all jive,
they're just no good for him.

The doctors he trusts all betray him,
if he passes could they all revive?
He needs to get rid of them.

Bad doctors' decisions will slay him,
wrong drugs will devour him alive.
They're just no good for him,
he needs to get rid of them.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

I won't give you the answers that you seek

I won't give you the answers that you seek,
on finding that one special Mr. Right,
but I will steer you there with words I speak.

He need not be an oil man or a Sheik,
to brighten up the day and warm the night.
I won't give you the answers that you seek,

though I will surely offer you a peek.
To find such man will be your private fight,
but I will steer you there with words I speak.

With questions let your interest be piqued--
are patience, listening and speaking, right?
I won't give you the answers that you seek.

A good heart, caring, humble, strong yet meek--
all good? Assuredly, not all, though quite,
but I will steer you there with words I speak.

Would you not seek a man who'd plainly speak
and act in ways that make you feel alright?
I won't give you the answers that you seek
but I will steer you there with words I speak.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

I have a lovely story to tell

I have a lovely story to tell
about a broken heart.
I'll tell it through a Villanelle.

It's not a plot that's worth a sell,
we've all heard of the tart.
I have a lovely story to tell

about this tart, her wicked spell,
and how she tore my soul apart.
I'll tell it through a Villanelle:

my soul she sucked out from its shell,
though things were different at the start--
it was a a lovely story to tell,

she loved me and my breast did swell,
the way she loved me was an art,
a poem like a Villanelle,

but then, as if she'd rung a bell,
the love came crumbling off, apart,
and left me with a story to tell,
one told through a Villanelle.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

The Hay-Widower's Villanelle

Jenny Wren has flown away.
Can't you hear her distant tweet?
I'm afraid she's gone to Hay.

Romance leads bored wives astray:
She's free-range - but oh, my sweet
Jenny Wren has flown away.

"Loved your latest," Jen will say,
Eyeing up some parakeet.
"Want a quick one in The Hay?"

Agents fawn and authors bray;
All I do is press Repeat -
Jenny Wren has flown away.

She'll have found a place to stay,
With a novelist en suite,
I'm afraid. She's gone to Hay!

Let it piss down every day!
Let the sheep in chorus bleat!
Jenny Wren has flown away.
I'm afraid she's gone to Hay.

---Carol Rumens

After my tears, I cried anew

After my tears, I cried anew,
when I read someone else's grief,
in a friend's memorial to you.

My own dark pain was shown right through
another heart's memorial wreath.
After my tears, I cried anew,

and then, right there, I surely knew
my own heart's blood was on Death's teeth.
In a friend's memorial to you,

my pain was freshened from his view,
and new grief surfaced from beneath.
After my tears, I cried anew,

when I read of his love for you.
So, too, his own tree lost its leaf.
After my tears, I cried anew,
in a friend's memorial to you.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Instead of praying

Instead of praying
I'm dilly-dallying and
salvation's delaying.

With poems I'm playing,
some poor and some grand,
instead of praying.

All that I'm saying,
I'm wasting my time and
salvation's delaying.

A short time we're staying
on Earth, my time's wasted
instead of praying.

With fasting and praying
I'll come close to God, but
salvation's delaying.

I'm sure to be paying
for time and life wasted
instead of praying,
salvation's delaying.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Red Man, White Man

1. Red Man

You've stolen land
away from us
you must return.

Your dirty hand
has robbed from us.
You've stolen land.

The life is bland
you've handed us,
you must return

that sacred land
right back to us.
You've stolen land,

the crime is grande,
we've turned to dust.
You must return

the dirt, the sand.
The spirits cry for us.
You've stolen land
you must return.


2. White Man

Your precious land, to us you sold,
worth less than a handful of beads,
and now this land is ours, we hold.

The land you had, we robbed, you've told
a million times, and planted those seeds.
But precious land, to us you sold,

it was a trade most fair, though bold,
and though for this, you pine and bleed,
now this old land is ours, we hold.

Your arguments have gotten old.
If land were worth more than those beads,
your precious land, would you have sold?

Yet now a portion we have doled--
a nation--separate and freed,
from all this land that we now hold.

More sympathy you have cajoled
from bleeding hearts that run like steeds,
though precious land to us you sold
and now this land is ours, we hold.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

He left his home and moved away

He left his home and moved away.
We never see him anymore.
He had to go, he couldn't stay.

Since birth he lived, and here he stayed.
Who knew he'd walk right out the door?
He left his home and moved away.

He had no choice, the doctors say,
"Prepare his pathway, clear the floor.
He has to go, he cannot stay."

It all developed in this way,
the Grim one wrote upon his door:
"You'll never see them any more."

He left too soon, too far away.
We will not see him any more.
He had to go, he couldn't stay.

Now while he's gone, the roaches stay,
the creepers crawl up from the floor.
He left his home and moved away.
He had to go, he couldn't stay.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

A Few Wet Bars (to El Niño)

When showers pound and do not vacillate,
if invitational, there's friendly glee.
Resolve is different in liquid state.

Moods flow to peace or grow to rapid gait,
men rush or contemplate; cows find a tree
when showers pound and do not vacillate.

Plans made in dryness must or must not wait.
Tired windshield wipers blink, but cannot see
Resolve is different in liquid state.

Housepainters pace while farmers' fears abate.
Big rain comes tailored to one's frequency
when showers pound and do not vacillate.

Computer's down; deliveries are late
and it's not clear who won the lottery.
Resolve is different in liquid state.

Those not born ducks seek to procrastinate
all pleadings from responsibility
when showers pound and do not vacillate.
Resolve is different in liquid state.

---Mary Gribble, San Marino, CA

A POET'S WISH

A poet's wish is not to be thought right,
nor is it to condemn or prove a wrong,
but to provide a constant, burning light.

When millions starve to death without a fight
while governments grow fatter, waxing strong.
A poet's wish to not to be thought right,

and coming to the aid of wisdom's sight,
his end is not to write iambic song,
but to provide a constant, haunting light.

When misery, a homeless child's birthright,
makes days seem endless and nights overlong,
a poet's wish is not to be thought right

nor is his wish to overcome by might
or to incite the teaming, homeless throng,
but to provide a constant, haunting light.

When children wander streets alone at night
in desperation, begging to belong,
a poet's wish is not to be thought right,
but to provide a constant, burning light.

---Harvey E. Stanbrough, Pittsboro, IN

THEY SAID THEY WANTED IT BACK

May 2, 1803 - 203rd Anniversary -- May 2, 2006
A Villanelle to the Louisiana Purchase
Our prayers and deepest concern go to the residents of New Orleans and to those in neighboring states for their trauma and loss from the devastation of Katrina and Rita in September, 2005

For fifteen million bucks, not beads,
(Manhattan went for less this fee),
a fire sale flared beyond our needs.

Spain, England, France first sowed the seeds,
by treaties that no one could see
for fifteen million bucks, not beads.

Though not empowered for such deeds,
two statesmen mused, "a deal must be-
in our lifetime, beyond our needs!"*

Along with crocodiles and reeds,
Louisiana held the key
for fifteen million bucks, not beads.

The U.S. doubled land and weeds,
Napoleon was up a tree,
offered it all, beyond our needs.

Some days when lust and ego feeds,
the spoils of war make gold debris.
This fifteen million bucks, not beads,
bought thirteen states, beyond our needs.

---Mary Gribble, San Marino, CA

*President Jefferson sent the American statesman James Monroe to Paris to aid the American minister to France, Robert R. Livingston, in negotiating modest options. Napoleon told them, "All or nothing!"

CHAOS

Too many people in my dream last night
I lost all track of what they came to view
I welcome eagerly the morning's light.

No one apparently had any right
To make decisions based on feeble clues
Too many people in my dream last night.

Now that I have them gathered in my sight,
Perhaps, I'll give a penetrating cue
I welcome eagerly the morning's light.

At least among themselves they do not fight
Except for just a discontented few
Too many people in my dream last night.

I watch suspensefully in fear and fright
Searching the dark for things that I could do
I welcome eagerly the morning's light.

New dawn arrives and brings to me insight
There's no need now for me to follow through.
Too many people in my dream last night.
I welcome eagerly the morning's light.

---Janet Parker, Leesburg, FL

DEBITS AND CREDITS

The hour has come, all things must end;
Shut commerce down by master plan;
Our memory, your dividend.

Archangel tympanums portend
A reckoning upon the clan;
The hour has come, all things must end.

Compute the sums you had to lend,
Balance the ledger while you can;
Our memory, your dividend.

Think hard as nails and comprehend;
The glass was full but fast it ran;
The hour has come; all things must end.

Toward closing time all timers tend;
Paid up the trades you once began;
Our memory, your dividend.

You suffered rather than offend;
Took less, gave more to every man;
The hour has come, all things must end;
Our memory, your dividend.

---Troxey Kemper, Los Angeles, CA

MOON OVER ARLINGTON

As silv'ry rays intrude on silent lanes
at Arlington, the stones define the cold
and endless rows of those who died in vain.

Here lie the bold -- in death with nothing gained,
a shrouded consequence of all we dold --
as silv'ry rays intrude on silent lanes.

Here lie the gentle ones -- those whom the strain
of war so quickly turned from young to old --
and endless rows of those who died in vain.

Here lie the ones who fled -- their souls in twain,
their nerves in knots, afraid and uncontrolled --
as silv'ry rays intrude on silent lanes.

Here lie the strong -- the ones who fought the pain
in silence, family values to uphold --
and endless rows of those who died in vain.

Eternally together lie the slain --
our sons and daughters, colorless and cold --
as silv'ry rays intrude on silent lanes
and endless rows of those who died in vain.

---Harvey Stanbrough, Pittsboro, IN

I'LL GREET THE DAWN

I'LL GREET THE DAWN

When I am laid away and all is done --
my journal closed, and all my last words said --
I'll greet the dawn, and not the setting sun.

Don't grieve for me, for in the longer run,
(Though friends may softly murmur, "He is dead."
When I am laid away and all is done),

I'll find a new adventure just begun
when soul and spirit will be fin'lly wed.
I'll greet the dawn, and not the setting sun.

I can't believe I'll face oblivion
As heart beat stops, and consciousness has fled,
when I am laid away and all is done.

I'll enter the bright land of Halcyon
where all my troubles will be quieted.
I'll greet the dawn, and not the setting sun.

It is not death that robs life of its fun,
But rather darkness of the soul instead.
When I am laid away and all is done,
I'll greet the dawn, and not the setting sun.

---William J. Middleton, Ph.D.

Loving Others

Let’s grab a crystal cup and fill it full,
and drink a toast to all the friends we greet.
For loving others is the golden rule

that we all learned when we were back in school.
So let us at this table find a seat
and grab a crystal cup and fill it full

and use this celebration as a tool,
recalling that, and this I will repeat,
our loving others is the golden rule.

Now some might think that I have lost my cool,
or fallen victim of the summer heat,
but grab a crystal cup and fill it full,

I am not ready for the dunce’s stool.
From lessons learned we must not this delete,
that loving others is the golden rule.

To love is like the beauty of a pool,
in which we sit and bathe our neighbor’s feet.
Let’s grab a crystal cup and fill it full,
for loving others is the golden rule.

---Robert W. Birch

Villanelle of a retired overseas Filipino worker

Nobody is left for me to astound.
Where did all my compatriots go?
The ship of my heart has run aground.

In the spring of my life with my friends around,
we toiled on the rice fields with scythes in tow
but now nobody is left for me to astound.

Land to till and rice husks to pound
with the sky above and the sea below.
Did the ship of my heart just run aground?

The wind among the bamboos make a keening sound
as one by one, away my colleagues flow
until nobody is left for me to astound.

Left with memories haphazardly found,
I struggle to remember: friend or foe?
The ship of my heart has run aground.

In the twilight of my life the lonely waves resound
as corners warp, reflexes slow.
Nobody is left for me to astound.
The ship of my heart has run aground.

by Blesilda I. R. Carmona (copyright 2006)
First Place, 2006 International Society of Poets Competition, Las Vegas, NV
Poet of the Year

The Caged Thrush Freed and Home Again

"Men know but little more than we,
Who count us least of things terrene,
How happy days are made to be!

"Of such strange tidings what think ye,
O birds in brown that peck and preen?
Men know but little more than we!

"When I was borne from yonder tree
In bonds to them, I hoped to glean
How happy days are made to be,

"And want and wailing turned to glee;
Alas, despite their mighty mien
Men know but little more than we!

"They cannot change the Frost's decree,
They cannot keep the skies serene;
How happy days are made to be

"Eludes great Man's sagacity
No less than ours, O tribes in treen!
Men know but little more than we
How happy days are made to be."

---by Thomas Hardy

We caught him on film and there he will stay

We caught him on film and there he will stay,
frozen in time with a smile on his face,
forever and ever and that plus a day.

This brother of mine--whom Death took away,
and hid him far off in a shadowy place--
we caught him on film and there he will stay.

When Death takes his mark, it's forever, always,
replacing a mass with the void of a space,
forever and ever and that plus a day.

Though normally Death is precise in his way,
with scythe and with time leaving none of a trace,
we caught him on film and there he will stay.

I'd rather Death took all our pictures away
and left my dear brother right here in his place,
forever and ever and that plus a day.

Yet brother's now gone, he's been taken away,
and though with these pictures he can't be replaced,
we caught him on film and there he will stay,
forever and ever and that plus a day.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Musical and sweet, the villanelle

Musical and sweet, the villanelle,
like light reflected in a gentle rhyme,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell,

its form creating soft and tender spells.
Like the singing of distant silver chimes,
musical and sweet, the villanelle

flows through the heart, and builds a magic spell
from sunlight and from shadows, and, sublime,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

It never arcs into the sharp loud yell
of vast pipe organs. Soft its climb.
Musical and sweet, the villanelle,

like a tiny and translucent shell
catching sunlight in the summer time,
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

Soft and gentle, tender and so frail,
like light pouring through petals of the lime,
musical and sweet, the villanelle
moves to the ringing of a silver bell.

---Sondra Ball

Delorie

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Cat and Girl Villanelle

One slice of freshly toasted whole wheat rye,
a quarter pound of ham with honey glaze.
Beneath that two crisp leaves of lettuce lie.

Gold breaded trout made at our own fish fry,
scallpos still wet from Massachusetts' Bays.
One slice of freshly toasted whole wheat rye.

The thinnest spread of Libby's Pumpkin Pie
filling, a lone tomato by there stays,
Beneath that two crisp leaves of lettuce lie.

Thick avocado slices pile high.
The chopped red onion chili sets ablaze
one slice of freshly toasted whole wheat rye.

Above this tower one judgemental eye
of pitted olive holds us in its gaze.
Beneath that two crisp leaves of lettuce lie.

There's four great kinds of pickles, sweet to dry,
mustard, optional ketchup, mayonnaise,
one slice of freshly toasted whole wheat rye,
beneath that two crisp leaves of lettuce lie.

---Dorothy Grambell

I sat upon a Villanelle

I sat upon a Villanelle,
by choice quite naturally,
and I began to sing:

that "love's blue bonnets seem to swell
out from my heart, when you I see."
I sat upon a Villanelle,

to harness words which I could tell
'bout love so eloquently,
and I began to sing:

"The day I met you I could tell
you were the one for me."
I sat upon a Villanelle,

to speak words my heart couldn't spell,
to set my heart's song free,
and I began to sing:

"Into your eyes I quickly fell,
this aching love must be decreed
by this one way that I could tell:
I sat upon a Villanelle,
and I began to sing."

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth

She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget,”
Dove-white on her car’s window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret

it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget,”

and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,

bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in wet linen: “NEVER FORGET,”

and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret

when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET”
because her heart is tender with regret.

by Michael R. Burch

Villanelle (minimalist): One Drunken Night

Villanelle (minimalist): One Drunken Night

I think
she'll pour
my drink.

I wink
at more,
I think,

than minx
who pours
my drink.

I sink
to floor,
and think

she stinks!
I roar,
"My drink,

you fink!"
I snore,
and think
I drink.

---Peter Schaeffer

A Wife's Revenge

She looked at him softly and waited
an hour before she got off him,
till breath and his spirit abated.

She spent the whole hour elated,
imagining him in his coffin.
She looked at him softly and waited,

remembering women he dated,
though married, he dated them often,
till breath and his spirit abated.

Her stance he'd not anticipated
upon his throat, watching him coughing,
she looked at him softly and waited.

Her heel on his apple gyrated
and crushed it until it had softened,
till breath and his spirit abated.

He gurgled a protest unstated,
unfazed, she continued the offing.
She looked at him softly and waited
till breath and his spirit abated.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

You're just a figment in my mind

You're just a figment in my mind,
and if I close my mind, my eyes,
then I could leave you far behind.

There's no reality to bind
my heart to yours, why think it, why?
You're just a figment in my mind.

I won't feel guilty that I signed
my love to you, by oath, to tie,
'cause I could leave you far behind.

I could respect your love in kind,
but why remain with just one guy?
You're just a figment in my mind.

You don't exist, I've re-aligned
my heart to many other guys,
'cause I could leave you far behind,

and so I did, and now I find
that should you live or should you die,
you're just a figment in my mind,
and I am leaving you behind.

(C)2008, Christos Rigakos

Greek Fire (As I Burn with Desire)

As I burn with desire
My brain’s aflame with wantin’
For you are my Greek fire.

Your dream-form I try to capture.
Pillows breathe, sheets become skin,
As I burn with desire.

The road to a place of sulphur
I pave with thoughts forbidden,
For you are my Greek fire

A blaze that will not smother
Consumes my straw-soul with sin
As I burn with desire.

‘Lord, spare me from this danger! ’
I fall on hands and knees, prayin’,
For you are my Greek fire.

You belong to another!
Yet, Lust in the night is callin’,
As I burn with desire
For you. You: My Greek fire.

©® All rights reserved
08/27/2006


Note: from Wikipedia: 'Greek fire was a burning-liquid weapon used by the Byzantine Empire, typically in naval battles to great effect as it could continue burning even on water. '



Ronberge (anno secundo)
(Born October 26th / Montreal, Quebec, Canada)

Finally!

This villanelle is hard to write.
My rhyming skills are very weak.
I fear I’ll be at this all night.

Did other poets find delight
In repetitious double – speak?
This villanelle is hard to write.

Did Eliot find this form too trite
To frame his lines, so stern, so bleak?
I fear I’ll be at this all night.

Or Billy Collins’ pen take flight
And use three lines to show some cheek?
This villanelle is hard to write.

Dante’s terza rima might
Lend itself without a tweak –
I fear I’ll be at this all night.

This form looks simple, black and white,
And I’ve been struggling for a week.
This villanelle is hard to write.
I fear I’ll be at this all night.

---Ed Bennett

Famished

Why must I never taste you in my breath?
So miss the joy of true love’s lips to kiss.
Without you I am hungry unto death.

My heart will beat although ‘tis Eros’ death.
It’s mad to save myself without my self.
Why must I never taste you in my breath?

The world’s a dearth of nurture in its breadth,
For empty stomach match not empty arms.
Without you I am hungry unto death.

As Banquo failed the feast of King MacBeth,
I’ll never dine on love’s most true repast.
Why must I never taste you in my breath?

Lips part, our bodies gap a mere footsbreadth,
A chasm yawning we can never breach.
Without you I am hungry unto death.

A banquet laid for us, love a surfeit;
Hands tied, our cravings never to be sate.
Why must I never taste you in my breath?
Without you I am hungry unto death.

---Cynthia Huddleston

A Blue Wake For New Orleans

~ dirge villanelle in september
(~ for Gatemouth Brown)



There was a rhyming city on a blue bayoo
'Til a wicked wind laid waste —
A nothing sound in a city's soul, and a nothing you can do.

There was a windy will and a blue horn — you,
A single name that was left in haste.
There was a rhyming city on a blue bayoo.

There is a wailing city, a water high, and you,
Left amid the residues up to your waist —
A nothing sound in a city's soul, and a nothing you can do.

There was a loving city in a blue hoodoo
Through a hard-knocks school, a river's waste.
There was a rhyming city on a blue bayoo.

A full moon hue, a relation to dew
Jeweling on a spider's bed — so chaste,
A nothing sound in a city's soul, and a nothing you can do.

There is a silent city, a blue shirt crew,
The yellow vest of savior, waits.
There was a rhyming city on a blue bayoo:
A nothing sound in a city's soul: and a nothing you can do.



Lorna Dee Cervantes
9/12/05

Villanelle

(translation by Amanda French)

I have lost my turtledove:
Isn't that her gentle coo?
I will go and find my love.

Here you mourn your mated love;
Oh, God—I am mourning too:
I have lost my turtledove.

If you trust your faithful dove,
Trust my faith is just as true;
I will go and find my love.

Plaintively you speak your love;
All my speech is turned into
"I have lost my turtledove."

Such a beauty was my dove,
Other beauties will not do;
I will go and find my love.

Death, again entreated of,
Take one who is offered you:
I have lost my turtledove;
I will go and find my love.

Jean Passerat (1534-1602)

Villanelle of Spring Bells

Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.


People emerge from winter to hear them ring,
children glitter with mischief and the blind man hears
bells in the town alight with spring.


Even he on his eyes feels the caressing
finger of Persephone, and her voice escaped from tears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.


Bird feels the enchantment of his wing
and in ten fine notes dispels twenty cares.
Bells in the town alight with spring


warble the praise of Time, for he can bring
this season: chimes the merry heaven bears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.


All evil men intent on evil thing
falter, for in their cold unready ears
bells in the town alight with spring
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.

1940

Keith Douglas

Body of the Body of Christ

Body of the Body of Christ
voices overlap at the altar
Bread of the Body of Heaven

knees press together tight
sink into soft red leather
Body of the Body of Christ

hands spread and curve
round the wooden pew, fingers
Bread of the Body of Heaven

rub red the grain. Eyeing
bread and wine, I wonder
Body of the Body of Christ

will I have the nerve
to take, eat, and alter
Bread of the Body of Heave.

my life with a single swallow and sigh
and a vow to remember
Body of the Body of Christ
Bread of the Body of Heaven.

---Dawn Holt Lauber

COPYRIGHT 2003 The Christian Century Foundation
COPYRIGHT 2008 Gale, Cengage Learning

villanelle for a lost love

I remember your arms about me still
The way I felt as you held me tight
The memories haunt me, and always will

I remember the touch of the winter's chill
How you sheltered me from the cold wind's bite
I remember your arms about me still

I remember the moss bed on the hill
Where we lay together, while the sun shone bright
The memories haunt me, and always will

I remember how your touch could thrill
And your kiss transport me with delight
I remember your arms about me still

I remember how thoughts of you would fill
All my fantasies on a starless night
The memories haunt me, and always will

I dwell on these sweeter thoughts until
I forget the pain of our final fight
I remember your arms about me still
The memories haunt me, and always will

---Demeter

Villanelle of the Onion

The onion's just the way I've always been:
Cracked crumpled armadillo-flesh outside
the countless husks of bottle-glass green skin,

outside a hidden heart I can't begin
to sculpt a better metaphor to hide;
The onion's just. The way I've always been,

my keeping reeking layers deep within
revealed the rest. Who wouldn't weep with pride?
The countless husks of bottle-glass green skin

are bent with pent-up pungent tears again,
from days of smiling dryly while I lied.
The onion's just that way. I've always been

ashamed of that, inside--and always in-
sincere about it to myself. I tried
to count the husks of bottle-glass green skin,

and failed. I never let my friends get in,
for fear they'd flee and finally decide:
"The onion's in the way." I've always been
these countless husks of bottle-glass green skin.


--Jurph

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim
Tell no more of enchanted days.

Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim,
Tell no more of enchanted days.

And still you hold our longing gaze
With langorous look and lavish limb!
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

---James Joyce

A dainty thing's the Villanelle

A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme,
It serves its purpose passing well.

A double-clappered silver bell
That must be made to clink in chime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And if you wish to flute a spell,
Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime,
It serves its purpose passing well.

You must not ask of it the swell
Of organs grandiose and sublime -
A dainty thing's the Villanelle;

And, filled with sweetness, as a shell
Is filled with sound, and launched in time,
It serves its purpose passing well.

Still fair to see and good to smell
As in the quaintness of its prime,
A dainty thing's the Villanelle,
It serves its purpose passing well.

William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

Aston Villanelle

The boys with claret chests and sleeves of blue
Have found their form, and now they're riding high.
For every goal you score, they will get two.

Results this season prove what Brummies knew.
They won't get beat, however hard you try,
The boys with claret chests and sleeves of blue.

Come Liverpool and Leeds, Chelsea, Man U!
At Villa Park your title dreams will die -
For every goal you score, they will get two.

Some silverware up here is overdue.
This season we can praise them to the sky,
The boys with claret chests and sleeves of blue.

And even if Stan Collymore gets flu,
There's Joachim and Merson (what a buy!) -
For every goal you score, they will get two.

The table tells you what I say is true,
A fact that you'd be foolish to deny:
The boys with claret chests and sleeves of blue,
For every goal you score, they will get two.

---Bob Newman

Remains

Don’t try to find somebody to blame,
pick up the pieces of yesterdays, though
only smoldering rubble will remain.

You have no one to admire. What a shame
you haven’t forgiven those you know.
Don’t try to find somebody to blame.

Attempt to use a forklift or a crane
to haul the baggage, which you cannot show:
Only smoldering rubble will remain.

Stop trying to impress her without a name
of your own. Take care, and leave slow:
Don’t try to find somebody to blame.

Hurry! Move through the town with no restrain,
you are never going to learn to let go:
Only smoldering rubble will remain.

Disregard everything that you could claim
as your own, and look in the mirror, so
don’t try to find somebody to blame,
only smoldering rubble will remain.

---Megan Wyatt

You were for us not only love, but bread

You were for us not only love, but bread,
Our source of sustenance as well as joy.
Now not grief but hunger mourns the dead.

We must content ourselves with what we beg,
The bitter gifts no kindness can alloy.
You were for us not only love, but bread.

We miss you, but our hearts have turned to lead.
We cannot one sweet pang of pain enjoy.
Now not grief but hunger mourns the dead.

Nor have we any tears that we might shed
For you, nor thoughts that might grief buoy.
You were for us not only love, but bread,

And so there are no dreams of you in bed,
Nor memories with which my mind might toy.
Now not grief but hunger mourns the dead.

No room, no room, but emptiness instead,
A need that does all other need destroy.
You were for us not only love, but bread.
Now not grief but hunger mourns the dead.

---Nicholas Gordon

You killed yourself and didn't think of me

You killed yourself and didn't think of me.
I can't blame you for that, and yet I do,
For now your pain becomes my legacy.

What agony impelled you not to be?
I loved you-wasn't that enough for you?
You killed yourself and didn't think of me,

Nor saw through my eyes what you made me see,
Nor cared about my life when yours was through.
And now your pain becomes my legacy,

And I must fight to keep my sanity,
For what you did defines what must be true:
You killed yourself and didn't think of me.

I cannot think you did it selfishly;
So great a sacrifice leaves nothing due.
But now your pain becomes my legacy,

And I must sail across that bitter sea
That leaves no trace of joy or residue.
You killed yourself and didn't think of me,
So now your pain becomes my legacy.

---Nicholas Gordon

Words can tell what hearts divine

Words can tell what hearts divine
This most romantic time of year:
So will you be my Valentine?

I'll be yours if you'll be mine
Till golden moon meets midnight drear.
For words can tell what hearts divine

When air's perfume and water's wine,
And cupids hover at one's ear:
So will you be my Valentine?

And do we feelings dare define
In phrases adamant and clear?
For words can tell what hearts divine,

And souls can step across a line
On days when angels wait to cheer:
So will you be my Valentine?

Ah, love! Let love this one day shine
On fancies lush and passions sheer!
For words can tell what hearts divine:
So will you be my Valentine?

---Nicholas Gordon

When one has reached the age of eighty-five

When one has reached the age of eighty-five,
And years, like mountains crossed, are soft with haze,
It is a triumph simply to survive.

One is where few have managed to arrive,
Where consciousness alone is cause for praise,
When one has reached the age of eighty-five.

And when one can do more than be alive,
Can cope, can comprehend, can turn a phrase,
It's still a triumph simply to survive,

To breathe, to be satiate, to desire, to derive
Solace from the lingering ends of days.
When one has reached the age of eighty-five,

And memories of infancy revive,
And faces long forgotten meet one's gaze,
It is a triumph simply to survive,

To hold together this one world, to strive
To keep what life inevitably betrays.
When one has reached the age of eighty-five,
It is a triumph simply to survive.

---Nicholas Gordon

What a puzzle Nick's poems are!

What a puzzle Nick's poems are!
I cannot grasp what he is after.
Marx is easier by far!

Why write, if one is out to bar
All comprehension? Does he hafta?
Marx is easier by far.

If only some new thought would jar
Bourgeois perception, as in Kafka!
But Nick's poems empty puzzles are.

I think I would put him on par
With Cage or Pollack: Which is dafter?
Marx is easier by far.

Under what sectarian star
Was he begat? What gnomic laughter
Twists those poems which puzzles are?

Ah me! I'll never know. A for-
Eign joke, a filial disaster!
God! Such puzzles Nick's poems are!
Marx is easier--by far!

---Nicholas Gordon

Weep, weep within me, darling

Weep, weep within me, darling. There's release
In tears, in sorrow, in love that brings such pain.
You live inside of me, so rest in peace.

I know that like a sea you cannot cease
To crash against my heart, again, again.
Weep, weep within me, darling. There's release

From all the cruelty of your short lease,
The unimagined hell of the self-slain.
You live inside of me, so rest in peace.

I was cut off from you and could not piece
Together bows that lay beyond your rain.
Weep, weep within me, darling. There's release

In knowing that your love, like magic fleece,
Will warm me through the winters that remain.
You live inside of me, so rest in peace.

My love for you, dear mother, will increase
As more and more your will I will unchain.
Weep, weep within me, darling: there's release.
You live inside of me, so rest in peace.

---Nicholas Gordon

Wedding Vows

1. Because I love and cherish you,
And want to fill your heart with grace,
These things I promise I will do:

I vow to tell you what is true
That you might touch whom you embrace
Because I love and cherish you.

I vow to put aside my view
And paint my portrait from your place:
These things I promise I will do.

And when you must your dreams renew,
I vow to give you ample space
Because I love and cherish you.

I vow to make our battles few
And love the child behind the face:
These things I promise I will do.

And that we might make one of two,
Too deep to know, too vast to trace,
Because I love and cherish you,
These things I promise I will do.

2. These things I promise I will do
That life may grant you ample grace
Because I love and cherish you:

I vow to treasure what is true
That I might touch whom I embrace:
These things I promise I will do.

I'll build a garden in your view
That with sweet fruit will stone replace
Because I love and cherish you.

I vow to love each day anew,
For love must dance through time and space:
These things I promise I will do.

I vow to make your terrors few
And then with you those demons face
Because I love and cherish you.

And now, as we make one of two,
A passage we cannot retrace,
These things I promise I will do
Because I love and cherish you.

---Nicholas Gordon

Though I chose death instead of pointless pain

Though I chose death instead of pointless pain,
Please forgive the manner of my leaving.
My love and need for all of you remain.

I could not long such suffering sustain,
Nor would it long have held you from your grieving.
Though I chose death instead of pointless pain,

I hope that choice will not my memory stain,
Nor lead you to be wroth at my deceiving.
My love and need for all of you remain.

For only in you do I live again,
Woven like a wind into your weaving.
Though I chose death instead of pointless pain,

I put to you the plea of the self-slain:
To comprehend an anguish past conceiving.
My love and need for all of you remain

That all that I have been not be in vain,
But blend into the earth of your believing.
Though I chose death instead of pointless pain,
My love and need for all of you remain.

---Nicholas Gordon

Those last few years of helpless pain

Those last few years of helpless pain,
Depression, sickness, sadness, blight:
Ah! Would I have them back again!

I could not such demand sustain
On my poor stock of love and light
Those last few years of helpless pain,

When what I had to do was plain,
And I lacked strength to do it right.
Ah! Would I have them back again

To love you better, though in vain,
And be with you with all my might!
Those last few years of helpless pain

Are now for me what must remain:
I did not your long love requite.
Ah! Would I have them back again,

I would that single chance regain
To bring you well to your good night.
Those last few years of helpless pain:
Ah! Would I have them back again!

---Nicholas Gordon

This truth is like a sea that has no shore

This truth is like a sea that has no shore,
Chaos infinite in heart and mind:
That you should once have been, and are no more.

To me you are as lovely as before:
Your voice still sings of life, your eyes still shine.
This truth is like a sea that has no shore,

An agony no reason can endure,
A knot of pain no passion can unbind:
That you should once have been, and are no more.

You died because some drunken bastard bore
Across the barrier of one thin line.
This truth is like a sea that has no shore:

That I cannot your battered face restore;
That all my love for you cannot turn time;
That you should once have been, and are no more.

We are all on a death march, numb and raw,
Driven on as loved ones fall behind.
This truth is like a sea that has no shore:
That you should once have been, and are no more.

---Nicholas Gordon

This Mother's Day without you strains belief

This Mother's Day without you strains belief
In life and love and what it means to be,
But there is beauty in my lonely grief.

Your death is like a wound without relief,
Pain on pain as far as I can see,
And so this day without you strains belief.

What's the point of living when a thief
Can break into your heart so easily?
But there is beauty in my lonely grief.

You fell away from me, a withered leaf
Twisting down to darkness, leaving me
This day without you, chilling my belief.

And yet there's beauty in this burning brief
Bright burst of light that ends in agony,
Beauty in the cause of lonely grief,

The love I have for you, a jewel-like reef
In silent prayer beneath my empty sea.
This Mother's Day without you strains belief,
But there is beauty in my lonely grief.

---Nicholas Gordon