Come Forth Gentlest of Tides

Come forth gentlest of tides ...

Lean into the light shined

aneath billion year old stars

Wintertide shadows

bathed in brimful glow ,

cauterized by starlight

Visceral notions permeate

the head and the heart ,

come forth immense depth

over expansive distance

Hence , given the gentlest

of tides is still a tide

which courses rivers' flow ;

natural ambient levels

rise and fall rhythm

Vast deep waters imbibe

the confluence unity ;

osmose wellspring tributaries drift ,

water issued from a bedrock hole

rooted on mountain high

Springs uprose from terrestrial majestic

debouched into rivers wide ,

suffused in ocean's earthen salt ,

depths deeper than cosmic estuaries vastitude

There is an equilibrium

in the tides roll to and fro

A fulcrum that returns outflow

forever beginning symmetry

where the tide meets the river's current

Gravity’s turning point ,

pendulum’s continuum swing

sage assent arising like smoke tendrils wisp

soul's prevailing tides' ebb and flow

December 28th, 2013 © ...Harlon Rivers

The Last Winter Rose...

A poem by Harlon Rivers

...from the December 2012 chapters 

The Diary of the Falling Dominoes

Coyote howled to another frostbitten dawn
The cold Winter Moon is a bitter sweet mistress
Luna’s final full phase marking another passing year
Hope can grow faint so subtly,
like winter's waning daylight , barely noticeable ,
until its former presence fades away without a trace …

Falling from love’s spinning wheel ,
feels as if gravity has drawn out the Ocean’s final tide
Visions of grandeur adorn new beginnings ;
their smoke and mirrors embellish illusions ,
while leaving a pathway of footprints ,
leading to a conclusion of stymied dreams

The victim of my own imagination watches
as the imagined remaining natural elements become obscure
The more things change the more they remain the same
It is daunting how the chicanery of the mind
plays tricks on the lonely heart of it’s flesh
Loss of balance leads to mere mortal ambiguity

Being pricked by the barbed stem
of a beautiful thorny rose ,
is like a dart to the heart ;
you feel the sting at the moment of penetration ,
however the drip of blood cannot be heard
over an audible emotional sigh ,
benumb the abandon of the silence .

Life slowly trickles out drowning the spirit of the soul …
Silently, without notice from the outside world ,
a broken heart bleeding out one drip at a time is painless ,
except for to look in the mirror and watch it happen
Knowing all the while the end is near ,
watching as sheer agony unfolds ...

The only way to stop the bleeding ,
as a broken heart suffers
through the ache of unrequited love ,
is to stay away from thorny roses
while moonstruck under the lonesome silver light
of the fully illuminated Cold Winter Moon …

Harlon Rivers…December 27th, 2012

A refugee of winter’s deep sea of darkness …

A refugee of winter’s deep sea of darkness …



Intensely hued frieze borne across the winter dawn
Each fleeting sunlit daybreak moment ,
passes like borrowed time ,
knowing the sun radiates its lent glowing gifts
bequeathed of another season come to pass

30 days and 30 beloved alchemistic sunsets
Each a recurring chromatic kaleidoscopic firmament ,
a moments ardent enhaloed sanctity ; heart racing yet torn , uncontrollably sinking like the setting sun
left gasping for breath

A season’s full circle fruition , merging in a docile silence . Merciful surrender to the moment’s fading luminescence ; waning light seeps out with seasons’ receding ebb , monotone grey skies darken stalling the dimmed light of day

Fog rolls in like the long forgotten high tide’s ebbing flood,
quietly beclouding the traces left behind in the heavy mist
The pace slows as the immuring world enshrouds
the nebulous line between
whence the befogged allusion lies

Wintertide’s evanescent sunlight has no mercy
Its suffused absence envelops humble mortal prisoners
mired by hovering hazy inversions
Trees lean southward , dreams bathed in latter day’s illume,  begging for the last dappled rays warmth atop this ridge top winterness

It’s as if the final winter solstice cast sundown’s befallen spell ;   the last solar waves steal away the final fading spirit dropping it uncaringly into the entomb depths , a refugee of winter’s deep sea of darkness …

Harlon Rivers ... ©December 14th, 2013

...In the hands of the maker

These feet trodden benumbed
enslaved by the weight of the load
loamy earth no longer soft , supple ,
forgiving of cold tender feet

the pang of crystalline frost heaves beneath winter moss
as if walking barefoot on frigid rocky ground

each step taken in effort to draw nearer ,
apportion the distance between a place once so close ,
                                and yet ,
                                now the distance appears so wide

the gravity of the metaphysical makes me weak in the knees
                               I drop down and kiss the wintry ground
                               knowing all my cares lie frozen far below 

the scent of burning sage
                                and
                                sweetgrass permeates the chill ,
                                smoke rising like mist into the mystic

a healing smudge carefully brushed with reverence ,
an abounding LOVE cleansing in this earth ,
                                the atmosphere stirs ,

                                I feel the muted words'                                                             silence emanating in the air

... knowing I’m not a stranger in the hands of the maker

© Harlon Rivers ...December 9th, 2013

becoming silence

becoming silence


The quieter I became ... the more I could hear
only a single candle's flame moved the stillness ,
gripping the void between lucency and obscure darkness

my eyes slipped slowly closed as the flicker faded ,
inner quietude dimming all light
the darker it got ... the more vividly I could see

a nearly silent exhaled sigh let the memories flood
the bereft of where there once was light ...I became the timeless silence without form

yearning to understand some of the greater things in life unseen , experiencing the unknown without fear ,
for to clinch and feel that which seems indefinable

for here , in this formless manifest dimension ,
all layers of essence are peeled back
to an aurora of spirit in soul ;

at the core of inner stillness nothing is impossible ...


© November ... 2013   Harlon Rivers

Dark Side of Daylight ...

Dewdrop pearls placidly descend ,
slip sliding down the windowpanes ,
surrendering traces to the fogged gravity
of the shadowy morn ...

Eyes slowly drawn open
upon vague sounds of dripping droplets ,
leaking as if tree tops perforated
the bulbous indistinct grey sky ...

Silence flows hesitantly down
from the corner of my eye
cheeks dampened ,
spilled droplets linger , formed
as if some hidden heart springs arose ...

Alchemistic emotional restlessness
flood the thread barren dull glow ,
fragile broken dreams ebb ,
purge these whispered tears' sighs ...

Hints of light lapse ,
memories taking flight ,
silenced in the night
by some dreamt vestiges
of this blurred tomorrowland ...

How loathed befallen burdens emerge ,
descry the spell of melancholy madness'
downward spiraling dross ,
replacing daybreak’s dawning light ...

© 11/14/2013 ... Harlon Rivers

The dark side of Déjà vu

Down to the Earth

                                    Down to the Earth

The Maple tree's winged seeds
twirl and float , frolic
down to the earth ...
alighting atop dandylion float seed's
shallow grave
beneath waning scarlet orange traces ,
moss enslaved mushrooms
earth's winter blanket

Crispy oak leaves
glide ... waft ... liltingly
towards other distant horizons ;
adrift like silver dollar
sized snow flakes ,
dusting branches
skiff of golden sorrow ,
down to the earth ...

Laying where spring
buttercups bloomed ,
coyote eyes yellow ,
Spring's blue moon once graced ;
looking up and beyond ,
feeling as a strewn seed engendered ,
veiled by Autumn's
organic spawning redds

I'm down to the earth ... 

© Harlon Rivers ...2013

Season’s great puzzle

The spirit of the ancient tree

pondered the great puzzle

A simple twist of fate

moves the bedrock

these tap roots grasp

These deep roots claw

when trunk sways instinct

Branches reach out

beyond their golden arm’s length

Wind whips wildly astir

in ether eddy’s high places

Grey clouds veil allusions

of misunderstood alchemy

Caught out in the rain

once again a lucid aberration 

The tree cannot become

igneous basaltic lava it clutches

Nor can it run from fire

for it fears not the flaming glow 
of the Autumn woods

The trunk rises above embedded roots

like metamorphic rock

Quietly cogitating release ,

its fickle lucent gypsy leaves

chasing the blustery wind ;

contemplating the great

puzzle unfolding before its being

Changing season’s shelter

prevailing wind undresses ,

naked to the world again

left as found 
yet another wooden ring ...

Did another unbroken circle mean anything ?

©  Harlon Rivers ...  October 10th , 2013

Authors notes:

We cannot run from who we are ...
All I was searching for was  me ...

Deep Prevailing Currents

Deep Prevailing Currents

Writing is a journey into the unknown ,
perhaps too much was already said …
Fighting gravity feels like resisting indifference ,
knowing you will tire from the weight of the load

Adaptation is proof and process

almost like running away,

ebb unto flow only to dissipate,

blending away into the vast distant horizon

Vestige carried out into a sea of abstraction

by gravity’s tidal pull,

as if intentionally slipping out

of some moment's threshold untold

Blue rivers keep right on rollin' ,

evanesce the pulsing cadence adrift , all at sea ,
where all Rivers suffuse with vast oceans ,

eternally free ;

swept away,

drifting unanchored ,
with prevailing seasonal currents

gravitational flow

Wash me in the cleansing balm all at sea ,
drifting back to where it started ..
For all one knows there is not that much that changes ,
perhaps we just repeat …

© 2013 … Harlon Rivers

This Moment in Time

The grandfather clock stands stately
With his back against the wall
An outside glance of stature
Graces his space floor to tall

The dark burl oak wood's beauty
Mellowed by time's aesthetic charms
Quarter sawn by mortal hands
As it ticks away time gone

The rhythm of time echoes loudly
Breaks the silence of the ambient room
Bright polished brass pendulum swinging
My soul's heartbeats in pulse's womb

Hammers note quarter hour carillon
Counted bell toll fleeting time has gone
Hammers strike the melody
Westminster chimes the loss of time

A hand crank winds the triple cables
Each Sunday comes seven days
Tick tock tick tock the rhythmic pendulum pulse
Hypnotic sounds the heartbeat of a home

Lunar time marks blue moon rising
Roman numerals the face of time
Lonely hours tick by gradually
A sorrow laments past moons gone

The vesper gongs inside of soothing darkness
Sounds an ominous tocsin to the soul
A reminder the circle courses continuum
Still a lucidity embraces the spirit in heart of soul

This clock devours all silence
All darkness consumes a soul
Inscription plate reads "In loving memory
of a beloved giver of time bestowed."

The grandfather clock stands solemn
Time ticks away the wasted tears and what they tell
Someday I’ll be gone like your poignant memories ,
Time waits for no one, when another winds your waning song ...


© 2013 ... Harlon Rivers

September 29th ...
2:10 AM ...eternally tolls in my heart ...

"Crossing Over"... The Final Voyage over the Columbia River Bar ... to points beyond the Pacific Ocean

"Crossing Over"... The Final Voyage over the Columbia River Bar ... to points beyond the Pacific Ocean

Red sky at morning ... sailors take warning !!!

First dawn's light steals away over the towering Cascade Head.
A heavy autumn dew dripped from the Whaler's bow rails
as sun rays flashed like beacons from rain-forest headlands on high;
where Pacific Northwest rivers September equinox dawning ebb,
pushed us mercifully unto the chilling stiff autumn sea breeze.

Dappled sun reigning through the pinkish purple morning sky,
patchy fog adorning the awakening inshore headlands atop the bay,
shining from the pearly gate’s mission bells higher ground
beckoning another fisherman lost and found at sea come home...

Heaven’s lighthouse alerts the celestial sky
of the pending eminent soul journey,
highlighting the distant horizon’s breaking swells
capped of white meringue sea foam.
Sea gulls escort precious cargo's final voyage,
gliding gracefully in the shadows of the firmament,
our lungs filled, revitalized with the salty air's poignant elixir
Pelican vanguard's white light reflection guiding our vessel seaward,
alone in a perfect storm...

Northwest gales standing up the ebbing tide’s uprising crescents,
waves pounding in rhythmic flow;
calling all angels, my ruminating mantra
the Clatsop Spit’s dangerous song sounds the stark reminder,
life's raucous changing seasons, prevailing winds siren’s call,
that now is nearly here...

The countenance of flowing salty tears liberating release,
vast ocean's raw sheets of saltwater spray would not hide.
He just sat and stared at the seaward horizon
while the telltale tears flowed ,
perhaps a dream of a merciful final surrender with eyes wide open,
love steering our vessel west where sun shines to set

Now far beyond the visible ache,
for mine own eyes blur trepidation teardrops
rained as sheets of sea,
the wordless conversation known ,
the compass full circle drawn
like the sacred salmon's cycle ends
to nourish back ancient sage unto its own;
forever beginning life, eternally drawn through river estuaries
stirred by ebbing infinite tidal pull...

 There is an oppressive weight found
within paternal understanding,
and yet, as certain as the dawn promises the inevitable setting sun;
all things must pass as sure as all things begin,
someone you love most, longest in life
has come forth to break bread at sea as the torch is passed,
sharing life for the last time comes too soon with little warning.

There was an emotional unidentifiable hollow pang,
as if letting go gradually, yet potentially instantly,
drains every last drop of a breaking heart ache;
strength swallows sighs lumps in throats, words better left unsaid
only cleansing tears flow, knowing when they start to purge
they might not want to stop again

.
This moment's final autumn’s changing season’s waning ebb
That final riptide will forevermore change all other rivers’ flow,
where oceans set mother earth's rivers free until the end of time...

My father ... a man's man who seemed to find a peaceful Zen;
an unfinished life was reborn that day to see it through
as my hands grasped the wheel, compass held steady,
the son to carry on the weight of love ,
compassionate understanding taught
love inspired the fortitude to carry on knowing we can never go back.

As a life flashed before my eyes on that final raging Pacific sea,
instincts mused by ancient Tyees’ souls
stirred new sun's radiant rays of perception;
accepting this life on earth would never be the same
yet would just simply be,
knowing this light's shine will never glow quite the same again,
yet radiate a more vivid luminosity...

We melded into that first day of Autumn,
falling silent, heads held high
There was nothing left to be done but pray with eyes wide open
“spirits of all oceans of mother earth …
show the sacred salmon the way to peaceful waters back home”

Few words were spoken as everything was silently said.
"To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose,
under Heaven"

The Outrage, knuckles white the wheel,
climbed mountainous long ocean swells
breaking over the giant boulder jetty;
there rolls the mighty Columbia jaws,
where all Rivers suffuse with vast oceans, eternally free...

 .... Harlon Rivers .... September 25th . 2013

Written with the fondest loving memories of my father's life and times shared~


So much of this day's memory is deeply repressed and each year I try to free a little bit more but each year passed has been privately circle filed, yet I try again to be set free.. 

Purging emotions so intense that they are nearly blacked out...I have never tried to publish any memory of this day until now although I do find hints that come to me much later after publishing some creative writing, I did not realize the basis of depth until later private moments... 

It was in fact the day of the Autumn Equinox a few years ago, a final birthday celebration of sorts combined with bringing the Boston Whaler Outrage, home. Dad passed 1 week later after this trip from Pancreatic cancer ...we spend the final 72 hours alone together at Hospice after his September 25th birthday..."Crossing Over"   R.I.P. Dad

Stormy Seas
I believe this poem linked below is one of my favorites I have written to be an earlier creative account of this emotional day.

http://harlonrivers.blogspot.com/2012/06/stormy-seas.html

She runs away in dreams

She scars saw me coming
and then, she called me
by my name
and ran from the whimsy

Wild apple mint bouquet
sniffing perfumed whiff
hide & seek drifting traces
sweet-pea blossoms in her hair

Pluckin’ huckleberry kisses
steal away the bluebirds high
laments shall come to pass
dreamin’ on a summer’s day

Wild mountain mulberry heather
a breeze softly waft the scent of she elixir
hazel wood secret hiding places
rockabye me baby …

The song she was hummin’
shush away honeybees fly
hushabye purple heather’s pillow
cool apple mint sensual touches satisfy

naked misbehaving in dreams,
sighs sublime...

harlon rivers

Written:   August . 2013 ...New Moon 28 day(s) old ...
.something light for the new moon light

This lil 'real & rustic' folksy ditty was spawned
in a spontaneous feel good moment
a couple a sips a white lightning & a few days ago,
tryin' to meld and recast a one trick pony
(that be me [aka hella too serious}) take a breath less serious,
pokin' at this daydreamer and hoping for the winds of change.

The one in this mirror goin' on believin' in pipe-dreams
come true & nothin' is inevitable
and wishin' on tossed coins a hundred for a dollar...
The fool on a hill was too uptight to set he whimsy fly free
and now, once and for all, hence forth free to be...
silly 'ol word whisperer ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
an so...
she was running from me in a dream
and,
we touched souls

If we've climbed and never reached the top
If we've looked for and never found…
it does not mean it does not exists

There was a change in the atmosphere this dawn...
marine air drifted in from the coast
and cleansed the dust from the air...
leaving a refreshing taste in each new breath
all nature sighs with ann invigorating relief
from this cleansing, too deep for words (!)

sometimes raw happens & Jimmie crack corn
no wonder she always runs away in dreams...

restless rivers flow

Come Hither the Vintage Librarian

Come Hither the Vintage Librarian…

live @ the public library

Theses red bricks came long before digital plastic boxes                      
 books of all we are now… beclouded         
               with the dust in the wind from roots we once came.    
well-seasoned keyboards shine                   
                      aneath the wooden book shelves
         "Splendour in the Grass "

Sound clouds hover over sleeping dog eared pages lie in stillness wait
like an unenlightened haze,                      
    most see through the alluring nostalgic aroma
         newspapers old news...unfold breaking silence;   
              yet I hear this pulsing heartbeat drip the yearning ink
     and feel the corner of eyes upon this presence

The vintage librarian grimaces as sounds meander adrift,                  

remembering the silent days of yore,        
                                 of this handmade scribbled ink, transcribed from outside the box  
                                she’s curious of this one who writes in cursive firstly and not type

        "nearly a lost art (!)" she coquettishly whispers...

                  was she just flirting (?)              ... I dream t                
                           the fragrant scent of a woman's poetic mien swirls,                
                              manifesting awkward moments of thirsting reality,                      

yet still remaining outside the allure          
           of the digital box...                                              

         ...  now stepping back over the threshold                      
          with a keyboard click beyond the edge                
             within it, I find a get out of jail free card,                
   a digital library registration card,                  
   my hand tightly sworn atop a poetry book      
                        and now access to Al Gore's coveted claim of invention        
typed in Shawshank Redemption                  

and hit enter another world        

          Andy Dufresne crawled away from obtuse into the fresh air's light via the library 
With a rock hammer shielded by the Bible,                                             
adorning behemoth singularity... he was freed                                          
                                        
   I just came to the library to be with poetic words, if only for a moment,       
   yet liberating breaths...

Harlon Rivers

7.24.2013

Postscript:   Andy Dufresne was the main character in the classic movie, 

Shawshank Redemption.

His clandestine efforts brought a controversial library into Shawshank correctional facility...  

This thought was just written in a public library and meant to be nothing more than thinking out loud reminding myself of needed groundedness, humility…. by picking up 

nearly extinct books to touch the paper pages and feel the words touch

before hard bound books and libraries disappear like an unprotected endangered species…

Look what I found (!)

536. Ode ...INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
by William Wordsworth …1770-1850

…from stanza           X.                        
                    
Though nothing can bring back the hour
          Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
              We will grieve not, rather find
                  Strength in what remains behind;

Vacancy…room rent free as a bird

violet green swallows rent

these calloused hand's

love laden nest boxes ,

metamorphose love and affection ,

nature’s spirit of osmosis

love is not always as it seems

so thrives the call of the wild

the dawn giveth and away

flourishing on natures bountiful essence

and you know that it's right

four walls are a prison

spring and summer visitors fly free ,

promises made ... promises kept

that moment of faith beyond fear,

hearts the size of mustard seeds fly free

hallelujah (!) thundering pulse on high

there comes a bitter sweet now

to all those left behind ,

when all big boys do cry ;

do sigh at the passing of love ,

the passing of love ,

thankful for touching

eternal love’s amazing grace ...

harlon rivers

7.15.2013 ... First Quarter Moon 7 day(s) old

Postscript: ...love don't leave me alone

likely sounds silly , a big ol' grizzly looking man so

I have never been good at good byes ...

seem to get something in my eyes ~

I asked over and over each year past

to go with each piece

of infinite heart they take ,

but know there are more nest boxes to build

for to fly away tomorrow

with paper wings  (!)

Seaside Ballet...a sensual day a the beach

Seaside Ballet...a sensual day at the beach

The fragile we are, whimsically followed the route
of the breezes' delicate perfumes.
Golden sorrows’ fair colored seaside flowers,
adorn the allure of the sand’s enchanting margins

Lust was once veiled in the shade of the driftwood shadows,
the west wind was seen erasing the sand’s secrets
aneath the indigo azure ;
where the breakers throw their cresting agua shadows
onto warm soothing sands

Crescent waves climax, unfolding their swellen pinnacles
in the restless sea breeze; the aquatic sprays stimulating
the surf’s rhythmus surges, were not enough
to sate wanton imprisoned desires rousing;
well hidden wishes flourishing of imagination’s
buds swelling for to blossom forth verve

Tongues craving to taste the unsung song’s tone,
Lips longing to stir wanting estuaries,
where waning stardust’s fleeting kisses once clasped lips;
the colour of flesh blushes, 

clutching where white hot passion flushes
a delicate halo illumine quiver’s warm euphoric shivers .

Braille goose bumps ripple tenderly
as a feather brushed against tickle,
kindling dulled light; sublime cinnamon tones flicker,
traced freckles arouse asymmetry
at the puffy apogee of heart

Evanescent the distance between
reveries & distant driftwood shoreline Swizzles
Dreams scrolled by sensual caress…
hearts drawn, fingered into flood tide moistened island sands,
passion’s exhaled breath released in her siren’s song ♪♫♫♪

Acoustic moans sung blissfully unto the awe of the sea breeze,
releasing the ballerina’s twirl; 

rhythmic crescendos trace rising wave shoals,
as the mermaid lilts with the rhythm and the sea
Came high tide for to sweep away loving traces in the sand 

gifted by the waning seaside ballet …



© 2013 ... Harlon Rivers ... all rights reserved

" Traces of You " ... A Father's Tribute

Memories of My Father's Traces...

The mighty water falls...landscapes this rivers great divide

                        Cascading walls of water soar and plunge...From a silhouettes high and wide 

A tribute to my father ...  His influence  made me a better man today...

A poem by Harlon Rivers

"Traces of You"

There are traces of you in the rainbow

Wisps of your watercolor palette, paint the mystical sky

The Song Sparrows’ song reminds me 
of your melodic whistle in the summer breeze

The resolute silence your grounded soulful solitude implied.

There are traces of you in the rivers, where water falls from high

Where the ocean’s waves reach some distant shore

I hear the sound of your voice roar in the passing thunderstorm 

Your love light shines like a moonlit troubadour.

There are traces of you in the garden

Many beautiful roses exposed your fragile side

Among the abundant blossoms, it’s effortless to imagine you here

Your peaceful spirit adorns this lovely space where love resides.

There are traces of you in the moonlight night

Glimpses of your shining heart are found in the infinite stars

Your aura is like the harvest moon’s angelic halo

A beacon of compassion for the indifference in other world’s apart.

There are traces of you in the early morning’s dew drops

In the amazing grace of the setting sun

Your thoughtful pondering evolved from life’s vast journey  

An air of ardent calmness, quieting fear and emotion.

There are traces of you in an old song

You fought for the light of truth with love,

With the fidelity of an iron fist in a velvet glove

The kind of muse that left me proud to be your son.

There are traces of your heart and soul 
as your treasured memories grow distant  

There are traces of your loving spirit in my smile

An ancient spiritual essence lives in every breath I take

Your devotion always walked with me the extra mile.

The merciful surrender of an unfinished journey,

Left traces of your verve in the depths of my soul

Those traces of love’s grasp make this life worth living

Infinitely, eternally, spiritually whole.

There are traces of you in this mirror

I see your vivid reflection in my eyes

Your every breath will always be cherished

Your life’s traces remain in the teardrops in my eyes... 

© 2012 Harlon Rivers

"purging”...snippet 8.0

"purging”

a river of tears may flood 

from love's ache... 

even a million raindrops

drawn by gravity’s,

yin and yang 

suffuse vast rivers wide 

always reaching 

oceans’s distant shores…

~ 

only tears can cleanse,

the dust and ashes 

that which verve of heart 

flung into the sea to purge...

echoes of the water’s healing balm 

calm the raging waves...

~   ~   ~

...snippets from thinking out loud

to be continued

© Harlon Rivers 2013…. All Rights Reserved.

"It's Only Water"...snippet 7.0

...snippets from thinking out loud

snap shots from the infinite emotive tones 

in between black and white...

snippet 7.0...
"it's only water"...

celestial bliss enshrouds
the quiet torn of the soul
terrestrial calm waters
seeking and finding its own level
~ essence ~
craving purpose to quench
an insatiable thirst,
whether the glass
is half empty or half full…
~
an evanescent wave
pounds the shoreline
before lapping
the rocky shoals
eroding the sands of time
evolving paragon
echoing being....

balancing tumultuous
ebb and flow

"it's only water"
"I want it washing over me"

"wash over me"...



note: an evanescent wave * tending to vanish*
inspired by a song written by a friend and musician,
Gary Ogan

...snippets from thinking out loud
to be continued

a musing rivers' ...snippets 1.0 ~ 6.0

assembler by Kosmur

a musing rivers' ... snippets 1.0... "memories"

Raindrops and memories

turned stormy Monday blue;

rainy day music drones

disappointment masked

the full moon’s reprise.

raindrops drip

from heavens cloak

masking solitude’s tears..

gravity is the weight

dimensionless time bears…

~

√...snippet 2.0... "color of ache"

not all wounds are visible

tears color an ache,

traces wish to be spoken..

the scar spills ,

sighs too deep for words

are muted by

all that wished they

had been loved…

~

√...snippet 3.0... "pulse"

The Moon’s pulse

beats intimately

outside the bounds

…behind the veiled night

there’s much more stardust

when you’re near…

~

√...snippet 4.0... "understanding"

Any day now

I felt the spirit

of an angel hovering

walking a country mile

in these well-seasoned shoes...

you held my hand tightly

knowing wind beneath wings

would set me free…

~

√...snippet 5.0..."love"

Love must come naturally 

if we've looked for it 

and never found it… 

it does not mean 

it does not exist

~

look after love; 

be vigilant about its care…

Sometimes change happens 

so quickly you don’t even notice...

~

what will become of love 

if we keep it hidden (?)

what then... 

would bring hope to where there once was none (!)

~ 

√...snippet 6.0... "breathing"

one day you wake up alone
no matter which way the wind blows;

but breathing has taught you,
there is never a breathe
you can afford to waste...

~

...just barely more than a breath...

but less than a breathless whisper ~

...snippets from thinking out loud
to be continued...

© Copyright 2013…Harlon Rivers  

Beyond the Majestic Bounds

"From every wound there is a scar, and every scar tells a story. 

A story says, I survived." - Fr. Craig Scott

... a prologue to " Beyond the Telegraph Road "

 tribute to a fallen brother

Beyond the Majestic Bounds

crampon cleats tickle her snow packed bedrock
far below the frosty powder dusting;
released from where her majestic peak
parted yester night’s obstinate clouds.

the alpine atmosphere
first chilled and then plummeted
as the starlight glistened;
illuminated ice crystals sparkled
like diamonds in the rough.

I am overwhelmed
by the peaceful aura
surrounding me.

watching how
"these"
footprints
mark the snow
...arousing
a lucid,
stirring awareness
of my existence;

...inciting
a conscious moment,
extraordinarily deepening
the realization of being...

Authors notes:   aka…a bit of back story...

At 20, tragedy stuck my life when my best friend I had grown up with from just down the block, perished in a head on crash. We lived together in college at the time and we were all headed to the beach for the Memorial Day weekend.    Another friend had a 2 seat sports car and at the last minute I could not go because 3 did not fit. (6’4” 200 at the time) I was disappointed and felt abandoned by my best friend as I watched them drive away, down the gravel road for the last time.  Then came the knock at the door by the state police at 1am inquiring about next of kin,  a moment that changed my life forever.

When we snow skied as teens, we always talked about climbing the mountain we were on. It took years and the weight of a promise,  some practice, physical training and a 6 month mountaineering class to discover so much more than closure…