Coyote Was Going There

Coyote’s mournful howl echoed
in the new moon’s faint sultry ether

He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation
      within a pervasive spirit light
      an oft misunderstood
      common thread shared
      this hallowed land’s night

An uncommon Zen stirring from within, 

stifling dormancy ..,

. . . of rumble deep beneath
      a volcano reawakening ;
      what lies undiscovered just before
      the ruptured moment ..,

      dust and ashes taking flight

Through open window insomnia churns
      fifty shades of blue ..,
      cast in shadowed hues of broken silence

Coyote stirred the stillness
      with hauntingly familiar cry
      reading the ridge-top echoes
      like the book of my mind

" YIP YIP A W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea

For it is in these final hours chosen chore
      the recurring torn
      these chains and things

Coyote was going there - -
      to stand these crossroads
      this hour of need

Accepting brother has always been lonely
      sometimes anything
      means something - -

and so it goes ..,

Coyote communes in pulse
      from ancient realms
      this sacred blood ..,

      wounded healers ,
. . . one mutual spirit
      runs marrow deep
      where dogs run free

The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn
. . . always known these days
      too soon do come and gone

What once was a life well lived ,
      s l o w l y     e v a n e s c i n g
      like the summer river’s flow

some say ..." you never miss the water
'til the well runs dry "
. . . regrets a waste of time - -

Rumination , a loathsome silent reverie
      a taunting unsolved koan

      an unplanned oxymoron ,
. . . dust sleeps with indifference
      veiling a beautiful handmade
      unstrung guitar
      muted - - abandoned,
      tone poems, unsung

and so "re-begins" the task ...
      come what may rise up
      into the dark star's light ...

Coyote was going there - -
      a dawning metamorphosis
      under another nebulous sky
. . . refreshed by a new moon's
                                 spel­lbinding sight ...

harlon rivers ...5. 21. 2015

sub-entry:

all roads lead to all roads.., 

poetic pathways do cross
seeds of heart and soul sown ... nurtured
birth tendrils of a thousand flowers
nascent buds to blossoming fruition
do come to wilt like the black rose

full circle in seasons changing light…

just because the blossom did not last forever
does not pale the impassioned light

be remembered by your life's poetry ..,
believe a poem can make a difference - - -