Four New Poems From My Current Collection “Holly & Hemlock”


See through death –
– oh, there you go:
New bones prancing upon the old.
A foreign wangling of joy
The skeleton tried to recall
(Celestial trumpets peal
Like silk in elapsed ears)
“We can take care of our own here” –
The capillaries and rivulets
With Source-aerie sparkling still.

The sun on the leaves today
Could make a barn-burner cry
Or street man sing or do magic
or swim all the streams
as Heaven slowly unlocks her fire.

But high on those wood-roads
The duchess of leaves is dying
The dryads of ease are hiding,
Enshrouded by Maeve’s hair & bones.

In the stern beds of the past
Cold queens did scoff and gasp,
And lift lanterns to indoor skies
Of future-guessing eyes.
Silent fire dropping down
Still descends on amnesiac lands –
Children swimming the confused waters:
Angry sons and cloying daughters,
Wondering where to shine their light.


Fire Island

I am the King of Siam.
I am Johnny Appleseed,
making fertile the tired land.
I am all the great and forgotten poets
And I am a fire in which you cannot believe
Nor quantify; that is so.

Yet here on my island does my flame
Disappear nightly into the sea’s claim.
Twined in shadows, I may restore
Because I am ready for the moon.
I contain the world in my
Submerged heart, and in my
Laughing wilds, twinned, parlayed
On such difficult shores.

Where my sip of eternity
Was as bitter as it was alive;
Where I thank all your arms
Showing me the way
Through busy twilight
Toward the high strength
Of towering mornings.



Probed bounty had a sun
Sidled in pods of leaf –
The needed stain then splashed where
Life crawled expanses of green.
So massed was root of take, as I
Held it to my breast, life total;
And was cat-groove to what
Young table brought us through:
A sheaf of epoques where music
also swam & smiled heroic
A priori to what now defines,
But could the crimson cap truly see?
Where I walked in padded age
The archetypes spreading clichés
And romantic epiphany becoming passé?

Where a man in his currents blows
Howing a world dark in its shows
Identity of how he goes a-where
To come to this or that shore or share;
Could an electric beast sing in its times
Of things unknown he says must be?
Wilds of good could you, stepped along
In the courage of colors meant to spend us long?
The guest o’ little time
Has finally been let through…


Intifada du Jour

Stay in country – see
How wicks of wonder light up for thee!
Observe how freely the air bides
In darkening time where you need no license
Or name or rhyme. Mountebanks have fled!
Scoped in murmur riding their asses & jackals
to where warm hammers glow.
Bright regions rise and collapse
In the time it takes to breed an asp
(in the unshorn grove there is an answer)
But how do fallen seasons grow?

The stately stream is steered
by wolf-habitude (true)
In the seedy ranks we devalue.
The trustless fob, curling his lying trap
Squirms as the human fog burns off.
No Marys of “The Way”
Need virginal to be;
What’s left is churchless sanctity
& now coffins for songs like black hearts,
Gold-buckled, lay like dead soldiers
In powder-blue sarcophagi
And unfettered calm.

Somewhere sick and empty feels
A girl or planet or camel or eel
Where beheadings feed the trauma’d ground
And old shadows twine and reel.
The sour door now craves an entrant
And echoes such a child, my child –
In coming rooms like I just yelled
Across a golden canyon, and does
Grandmother-sight give bells to this wisdom?
Her private vicissitudes have branches, too.
(My naïve years having broken the ruse)
Where crescent moons stabbed thunderous sides
And calamity aches in closets denied.

A burst of woody care
wears before us the Atman that dared!
Laden with death-church flare,
My pink-fingered joy deepens the room.
Where the laughing brook washed me to center,
A home, youthful zeal trimming the
Wings of awe, amongst novel treasures.
Today, the escapes were internal measures.

Flushed down the mother-delta
Into a florid garden gone to pot
Where vision scorns power-abuse
In the battle to proffer the altar abstruse,
I opened my windows to October’s
Banners, the colors of a dying world
Just beginning: annihilate the poison
Spew on lake-cirque trek, oak-hewn
as cask arrives to ferment our libation
Of truth. Hale and home-grown are the wares
Of our eternal health, and strong are the bowers
That grow our germens’ stealth.

Love is a many-creatured thing
Solaced in a tarn of Spring;
My soft engine beats
In a relish of vigor
Where this darkness remakes me
In Quixotic rigor.

Is this the very structure of joy?
As again the axe of evil hits me
And I swing the wand ‘round
And exculpate them from the realm.
Once more, can you sense their collective
Perishing, that their shadows can stand no more,
And that only the bubbling love-light pours?
This, the place where infant gladness restores?

What good, then, if your:

Books are balanced
Insurance’s paid up
Mortgage is paid up
Vacations booked
Yard is trimmed
Taxes are paid up
Church-tithes given
Cupboards are filled
Charities are gifted
Friends gathered ‘round the punchbowl
Cubicles & homes are nice & tidy…
…if your freedom, dreams and children are lost?


chris robideaux, new poems, poetry

Dan Winter – Must Watch Video for How to Attain Immortality!

Dan Winter’s lectures are all MUST WATCH videos, in my opinion, for any human being interested in learning the true physics of optimum health, longevity, and immortality. But also, so much more, such as our true genetic history, and really how to make your body, mind, and spirit “phase conjugate” or fractal.



Song of an August Sea-Gale


Ancient intrigues spill their jars into the staggering sea;
My foaming blood bubbles up from earthen spring.
As fishermen drink away their troubles at the Sea Hag;
The crashing sea at our window serenades our wanderlust.

Tigers prowl for escape among the jetties and the capes
Donning their misty crowns, forgetting petty apes
Their vulgar homage;
A man in a darkened doorway chastises his dog
As I roll the nautical highway wearing night’s corsage.
The gull’s stark morning greeting is delicate custom,
As Ondine’s moons resound off the storm-riven cliffs
That beckoningly rumble.

You stood there, looking serious-faced at the sea,
Just like the nautical wanderers who’ve gone before thee.
But the sea hag, jealous of your beauty, turned your love
Into a watery leviathan, and now my days are spent
Wandering the whale-spouting vistas listening for your


All night the howling gale did pound and thrum
Like Thor’s hammer upon nail or human drum.
The stolid ground, though a-tremble,
cradled still the coastal vales; as all day, still
it kept on, the tempest, and sandblasted
were our faces at Neskowim, the falling branches
on the highway showing the peril, where we
put our whims at risk, though feral; and rode
the nautical ranges – the breakers spraying
fifty feet high over the precipices above…

We cut short our after-lunch drive when the
Sea-witch, angered, swept us from beach and roadway,
Now to rest back upon Arch Rock,
Arrested in our wandering ways.

All night the raging gale did our dreams assail –
Only now calming in late afternoon to assay
The land-lubbing sea-gazers who on the
Roiling whitecaps do stare, to see if the
Salty spume’s blowsy signature’s from the deep’s
Leviathans fair.

Now streaked, our window on the briny churn
With saline tears that cloud the ephemeral turn;
Now have guests of the sea-witch wandered;
Now found they rest upon the pounding surf
Unhindered. Where portly dowagers and their doggies,
Asian families and angry-looking men vie for a table,
A room, a lane in summer’s bosom to gaze from;
In these nautical nests the chaotic tides
Never given their rest or absolution.

The vestal virgins of the sea, green-blooded and free,
Scare away any threatening fang or poisoner’s glee,
That may etiolate this Neptunian estate,
Leaving stark eyes to contend with this
Thrashing torrent, wave and rock to battle it out
With the late question: which kingdom doth
Move the globe when man’s hands have
Muddied the elements up to Jove?

I go out once again to listen for your song…

Excerpt From My New Short Story, “Marianne, Not Aphrodite”

You soared around the world in your dream – that dream, the dream of the world entire. Your spirit, caught by a concatenation of sparkling towers and bridges bunched on a nearly invisible island, wavers in a thronged spur of excitement, surges through the concrete-and-steel canyons of crushing commerce and cashed-in-on dreams of solidity in an ethereal meme, and merges with a wild burn of ambitious and dazzling aspiration, though free of its game.

Your spirit’s eye slips into one of the towers’ loftier transparencies, spinning down the affluent staircase where Macbeth hath murdered sleep and Jezebel still awaits her marching orders. You float through a door and see a man. Is he fretting? Is his conscience bothering him? Is he waiting for a friend to call? Does he live alone? He pours a glass of some dark ferment and sips without joy, watches light flicker on a squarish plane a while, dozes off, then rouses himself, or is roused by his own startling dream, shades of light still flickering upon his sleep-drunken face.

He rises up from a wide couch and paces the apartment some more, then begins to notice something strange. Has he lost something? Misplaced a prized item – or items? He throws books and papers around – he is in a rage, but you cannot look way. You come closer – you can read his thoughts: Where are they? A thousand-year old Chinese bowl. My Persian silk robe? And…what the hell? Where is my Matisse? What’s happening here? Is reality slowly just blinking out? The man is losing his mind, his spirit not far behind. It has happened before. The opulence of his urban palace suggests a prominence – in the community, in occupation, or as a form of elevated deviation. Hard to be sure. He’s long since given up the healthier tricks for escaping or perfecting reality like yoga and meditation for whiskey, beer, and the occasional pill-form panoramas.

His emotions grind and stir in a red-shift cauldron. He seems so utterly alone, though surrounded by the faces in paintings, by masks, statues, books. He lives in a joyless place, filled with things that, ostensibly, could provide some measure of joy to the right mind, ego, or personality. You realize that that place is him – as each one is the heart of place they make, the space sacred or profane. You watch, spellbound, as he makes a whirlwind of his own possessions, treasures, emotion, and solidity itself, no longer “looking” for objects per se, but swinging his own daimonic or wrathful wrecking ball around his own domain. At last, he relents, exhausted. He sits in a reclining chair a while cursing himself, past lovers, old friends, those who rule with hate, those who steal with love, then at last, dozes off in the late, wee hours in the “city that never sleeps” enfolded in the heavy thoughts that compound like some sadistic math formula and never stop.

His eyes flutter open a few hours later, his head pounding with a headache that feels like an aneurysm, and his first thought is I’ve been robbed. Burglarized. Ripped off! But who could it have been? Some cat burglar, while I was sleeping? He goes to stand and the existential pain is too much to bear. He cries out. He falls to the floor, rolls around, crawls to the bathroom where he manages to stand, pry the top off of a container of something or other, down three or four of whatever it is, cry out to whatever petty little god is there to hear this, as he puts it, then prays, curses, roils, makes his way to the kitchen, feeds himself, makes some phone calls to, apparently, colleagues, associates, perhaps, friends, then sits at the kitchen table and broods, frozen, like the statue of some robust, wild animal, thickened by self-abuse instead of the heroic labors of Hercules.

Then, he sits in wait – at attention, no more booze or pills! – for the next three nights, standing watch, on patrol of this little kingdom of his, this museum away from the museums of the world he had sanctified and poured all that effort into. And so, he waited, watching, no hard stuff to numb his consciousness and leave him, evidently, open to such cat burglary and violations of trust.

That’s it! he thinks. Someone who knew me or my ex-wife at the MOMA, who knows my ways, tendencies, vulnerabilities. Ah, I will get you! I know you will be back, because you know of my self-pity and negation…you don’t think I deserve such anthropological delicacies and masterful strokes! Well, ha ha ha, I’ve got you now! I will wait, and while I wait at night when you cat burglar creeps crawl out of your crypts, I will look for my pilfered items on the street or black market, and I will make you wish you’d never been born into this sorry world!

And so he hits the streets of Manhattan – second hand art shops, galleries, pawn shops, art dealers, friends, acquaintances, former colleagues…

“Sorry, we don’t know anything. Can’t help you. Good luck” seems to be the consensus. He is hapless. He wanders down Fifth Avenue and into the Park and watches a group of pre-teens playing games. He envies their endless energy.

You followed him all day through the busy, dizzy streets and his muted flurry of activity and quest of recovery. He arrives back home, grabs a cold beer of some esoteric label or other, and as the plucky, hoppy concoction ameliorates the dry throb of thirst deep in his bones, blood, and being, he thinks, Maybe it was Martha. Would she? She very well could hire someone out, maybe. Cat burglar for hire? Married five years, and all that trust, respect, and adoration down the proverbial tubes?

He couldn’t resist drinking the rest of the lager-style beer down in one misery-extinguishing quaff. A buzz wafted quickly to his head as he ambled through the wreckage of the night before strewn about his quarters. He rifles through another shelf, pulls a black disc out of a large envelope of some kind and impales it on a metal needle, drops an arm upon it and turns the sound way up. It is some kind of jazz – frantic, throbbing, jaunty.

The next night comes, and there is nothing. Then, night number three. His senses are sharp: he is ready. He can almost feel the burglar preparing to come for him now. Some blues albums. A couple of “art films” on IFC. Some sketches of the demons he sometimes sees in his bedroom doorway upon waking. He hasn’t slept much in days. He is preternaturally exhausted, but he keeps watching the window he is sure the crafty burglar will return through.

He is nodding out a bit, now. He catches himself. He has his pistol in his hand, has turned all the lights off, feigning a sleeping household, but remaining awake, on a small couch across from the window that sits ten stories up on a fire escape.

And then, there the awaited bandit is: a sleek, black figure, stealthier than the midnight wind, quietly lifting the window and entering the room. He watches in rapt surveillance for a few more seconds, letting the tiptoeing, hated figure get further in and away from their escape route, then – he leaps up and hits the lights.

“Aha!” he exclaims. “I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch!”

He jumps on the thief, grabbing him forcibly around the neck, wrestling him to the ground, and getting little to no resistance, as he is a large man and the thief is rather wiry thin and small of stature.

“You bastard! You stole valuable things from me, and I will make you pay!” he shouts at the thief with unabashed hostility, pushing the gun to his temple and pulling off the thief’s mask. To his great surprise, it is not some scrawny little worm as he’d thought “him,” but instead a stunningly beautiful young woman with long, silky brown hair who is revealed to him. She gives him a shy, sheepish look, like “You got me”. The man is stunned on many levels, and simply gazes dumbfounded at the girl for a tense moment, wondering what on Earth could motivate such a gorgeous creature to violate him so.

“Why have you done this to me?” he asks her. She is unresponsive, caught.


This is 1,400 words of what will likely be a 10,000+ word story, or even a short novella. Feedback appreciated, and thanks for reading.

My Novel, “Thespia’s Abandon,” a Romantic Thriller, Available Now On Amazon!

Released in April 2014, and available only on Kindle and Nook until now – my romantic thriller and slice of Hollywood satire is now available in paperback format through Amazon. Concerning a group of people who converge in Los Angeles and Hollywood, Thespia’s Abandon tells the story of an A-list actress and screenwriter who come to realize they are controlled by forces of darkness operating through one of the biggest movie studios in Tinsel Town – Zion – but, with the help of friends in the right places (a poet-revolutionary, new age author and his clairvoyant wife, and a “star-child” from outer space), overcome the odds stacked against them, managing to topple the evil “Emperor of Hollywood” and his political controllers in an apocalyptic climax you’ll have to read to believe.

Thanks for reading!Thespia's Cover1

My “Experimental Epic” Thanatopaeia, For Sale Now on Amazon

Finished in 2005, and having floated somewhere in near total obscurity (but for one or two supporters who even read parts of it at poetry readings), my experimental epic and “verse documentary” Thanatopaeia, which was conceived in the wake of 9/11 and the rush to making war on Iraq and Afghanistan, has been published in paperback form, and is available on Amazon for you epic poetry aficionados. Proceeds go towards the writing of more epic and experimental verse.

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My New Novel, “Dead to Love,” For Sale Now On Amazon!

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Hello WordPress readers! I would humbly encourage you to consider buying/reading my new novel, “Dead to Love,” a “supernatural thriller,” though so much more than that (I hope). With elements of sci-fi/fantasy, romance, horror and suspense, my story weaves an essay on family, children, community, and justice against a backdrop of demonic conspiracy, quantum spirituality (spiritual science), and a world on the brink of apocalyptic transformation. This is to be the first book in a saga one might compare to a Lord of the Rings for our times (again, I hope). Vampiric cops, ghoulish priests, malicious doctors, fairy underworlds, flying unicorns, legions of celestial warriors, and a woman at the center of it all who realizes the otherworldly powers of an avenging angel – these things and more comprise Book One of a series which encompasses far-flung fantasy as well as everyday reality, with mind-opening results.

Thanks in advance for your patronage of my work, everyone, and may you find a thrill on every page!