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