On half-moon lake ☽

On half-moon lake ☽

He stared down through
the unbroken silence
lapping the shoreline
Water skippers dart around
the rocks and windfall driftwood
settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds
and emerging broadleaf sprouts

A petrified heartwood timber
lie fallow waiting bare barked,
hushed like a pining lover’s
     timeworn love seat,
     rubbed smooth as
     the crystalline waters
     of  half-moon lake

Lingering for a while  ―
like a hidden voyeur,
he perched on it and waited
for the full moon’s
swooning spell to saturate
the thickening dusk quietude;
     arousing the urgent
     call of the wild
exhaled from the held breath
of the wilderness tableau
    on half-moon lake

The stillness was scattered
with the soft downy hairs
of the sleeping cattails,  and
the newly shed catkins
a spring gust bestrewed
from a tall resin birch tree
nigh the Sitka willows

     He  sat  quietly ...
     time out of mind ―

tossing his eyes up into the sky;
taking the time to read the stars ―
catching  them  each  again
as they fell into his gentle hands,
to show him who he was

Seeing their sparkly tracers
trail-out above the cattails,
     from a distance
they resembled falling stars
unable to perceive their own renaissance ―
plashing lightly upon the still-water
     on half-moon lake

A lone shadow glides stealthily
near mid-tarn,.. swimming
enchantingly with the grace
     of a blackswan
Appearing to glance shoreward
at the glowing low stars
rise and fall, as his eyes
twinkled skyward over
     the moonlit lagoon ―
heavenward of its moonlit ballet;
the lone sleek dark shadow
     slipping through
     a faint circular ripple
stirring the smooth as glass waters ―
disappearing like a fleeting moment
     waning deep aneath
     a subtle silent wake.

When all the clear lines blurred,
he knew it had been so long ...

     but hearken !
… an interceding
     long drawn out wail
     echoed  a feral ache
     across the stillness,
     breaking the silence ―

as the shadow reappeared;
his tears surrendered
to the undulating call of the wild;
he felt the spirit of the sole Loon,
as black and white
as the moonlit night,
stir deeply in his heart ―
lay bare the silence
in lengthy yodeled psalms
to the god of the moon

Diving down deep yet again,
keeping the light he’d been given,
vanishing into the lifespring
sanctuary of half-moon lake


© harlon rivers ... May 2018
travelogue: 4 of some more

One Man's Wilderness

One Man's Wilderness

words drift away unfettered
from whence they came,
passing like undreamed clouds
– pragmatic eyes to the sky
   in a searching stare –
unsought thoughts disappearing
like a fog bow fading into sunlight

there are days when
   it comes out in my silence
there are days when
   it falls down in my tears:

muse – muted in poet's pause,
heart and soul whispers
   laid bare unwritten
   behind parsing eyes
disregarded words let loose,
        ungarnered
the way low hanging fruit
falls benign — unharvested —

   shortsighted insight
   from a bird's eye view
silently fermenting traces
and unfiltered memories
come and go unheeded words,
discarded like the passing
   time of our lives

at times it's ludicrous
   to follow down
   lingering footprints
   left behind callous,
   if the shoe won't fit;
slogging across the eroding
time-worn stepping stones
scattered on this twisted line
these feet have been walking down,
trying to make a getaway
       from myself

walking away from the memories
like so many indelible footprints to escape
– while dreaming stardust into stars
   in nameless constellations –
reaching out from the inside,
       site unseen,
   trying to experience
   the empirical shape
   of stifling silence
in a theatre made by chance

distilling the gifts and burdens
trying to live a worthy life
       only I'll see...


© harlon rivers ... September 27, 2018

Note:

pondering reticence, my recent hesitation makes me wonder — do you ever just not write down the poetry that is right in front of the eyes of your soul? This is the last piece i've written and feels as if it could be... but any poet knows — you can't steer a river

"One Man's Wilderness" by Richard Proenneke, is the title of a book I read twice this summer "Alone in the Wilderness"

Towards the waning midnight sunset

Towards the waning midnight sunset

I saw the sun steep 

into the seascape ―

lonely as a drowning 

    wave 

         on still-waters

the dimming of the day 

rescinding evanescent daylight                                                                  .

fading with the slack tide 

         lost at sea ―

a gloaming moment 

         let fall from 

the remains of the day,

like some other passing

sea bird's molted feather

drifts away untamed

I sit silent as the driftwood

lingering at the watermark,

watching a random gust 

    erase the footprints 

of another recurring day, 

bearing abandoned memories

    and vacant heartbeats, 

atrophied in the drifting sands

    and I see you walking 

    towards the abating  

    midnight sunset ― 

         but I know 

    you're just a mirage;     

like the dimming afterglow 

of so many waning moons

            elapsed

         

ever-changing tides grow low  

and promises made lightly   

         do ebb away

          

Scanning the distant horizon ―    

    a blindfold heart    

    mooning all at sea;

parsing a deserted shoreline, 

    wondering if love

          is too late ,..

    to stem the tide ―

        harlon rivers  ©

      30   May   2018

Note:

apologies for the inconsistent posts and replies. Internet access comes and goes out here off the grid. Thank you for taking a look through the words― 

h.a. rivers

Chronological TRAVELOGUE collection:
9 of some more

a fistful of sand

a fistful of sand

The waves spilled the rising tide 

back into the scattered footprints in the sand

deeply entrenched in life’s mystery,

receding into every breaking wave

A stiff sea breeze put back every grain of sand,

elements of a larger object gathers,

gravity firmed, into the silent shoreline chasms—

the beheld essence washed out to sea 

by the fugitive tides and retreating sea-foam

Soon all trodden traces visibly vanish;

unmarked mileposts on a metaphysical pathway 

slip away back to a windswept shoreline 

and elapsing summer tide

Seabirds glide in slow-motion, 

held sway into the shapeless gusts — 

as if feathered puppets hovering,

hanging from the rafters 

of the burgeoning orange sky

There's an uncommon peace in the renaissance; 

effervescent crisp ocean air filling in 

the indefinable emptiness

marooned within each heartbeat’s echo

Each new breath inhaled, disappearing within

the unhealed hollow of every thing once believed; 

fully aware this life is unholdable as time,

yet feeling many things deeply retained

in each passing moment— 

slipping away like a handful of sand

sifting through all these hands once held

Presence becoming wreathed in a miasma of stillness,

space that levitates like an unpredictable fog 

that seeps into the gnawing voids 

of an unsated hunger

harlon rivers ... August 1st, 2018  ©

Note: ' a fistful of sand '

The title comes from thinking about how we sometimes try and mold/shape/influence that which is unholdable... ' a fistful of dry sand ' is forever shapeless as the wind...

Getting away from my ordinary life maze seems to be changing perspective; moments still unfold as they are intended but there is less peripheral distraction, more focus on the simple things that enrich life in the moment.

The longest year ... A deeper understanding

A deeper understanding ...

In a midwinter night’s dream i lost myself,   

  or was it even this year ?

It may even go back farther out of reach, 

  older than the ancient pyramid stones

Before the rebirth of past life deposits,

  unborn orphaned motherless sediment,

flotsam of the ages adrift,

  unknown for more than a thousand years

 ... i've been waiting for so long to see

High atop a slippery edge-cliff

                   i clung  ―           

Searching for a deeper understanding

  of who i am;

Roosting like a starving bird of prey,

  holding on ... born alone

With a fear in his eyes

  that i could comprehend

      Staring way down deep       

into an internal pitch black abyss,

      just begging to see beyond ―

Mindful it's so hard looking

  into the eye of a storm

Intimately parsing the recurrent source

  of reigning pain

Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;

an inversion,     preventing dispersion

  of the  cold  and  dark nimbus

In the darkness, there bides a suffocating

emptiness, 

  A swelling silence what loudly knells,

  leeching through a perennial ache

An abating voice within hollers unheard,

  invisible as a bitter cold wind howling

  relentlessly through the hollow pang;

Echoing the subsiding say

(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul

  deep beneath the light

Awakening to realize  ―  once i was alive

  and

i could feel me holding on to you

  

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Written by:   © harlon rivers ... 12/30/2017

Thinking Out Loud ............. A Creative's Opinion : The importance of a readers personal experience with poetry and prose ...

The relevance of a readers own experience with poetry and prose is just as important as the authors. Creativity flows through a writer like an echo passing through a conduit from end to end; a soul's vehicle from point A to point B, thoughts burgeoning from the wellspring of the soul striving to capture the passion of a moment as it unfolds. 

As both warp and weft of the fabric of a greater tapestry, we must allow ourselves to consider and perceive at an intimately personal level. Only as sentient unique humans can poetry manifest thoughtful personal connectedness at an emotional level. That is why, from a writer perspective, I rarely speak publicly about meaning from pen in hand or as a writer-reader which evolves over time, manifesting in other layers of meaning within our own offerings…to allow readers to consider their own life story evoked.

A reader---peruser of literary art, bears the encounter as it is in the beholder's moment; your own human experience curating one’s own intimate experience with art…

How’s that for sky blue sky ideals and creative visions of grandeur (?)! Seriously though, Thank you for reading and hopefully unveiling what a piece of creative writing means, personally to you ...

                                                      harlon rivers

Silence rivers through it ...

Silence rivers through it ...

A moment recurring

does wash away

like a river rock

The smooth surface

of an eroded stone

is just as hard

as the abraded silence

that rivers

through loneliness

Sometimes terrified

of this foolish

blue moon heart;

of its constant

hunger

for whatever

it is it wants;

the way it stops

and starts ,..

like a revenant whisper

fanning

smoldering embers

of fallen stars

buried deeply

in the catacombs

of an unrequited heart

out of reach,

just a step away,

but close enough

to touch the crumbs

of some other's love

bestrewn sanguinely ―

marking the footprints

calling down

an unshorn pathway

never  found

At a deserted crossroads,

many a moon

tiptoe past

inconspicuously;

unnoticed fallen stars 

stagnate lightless

in a flash of darkness,

moving back in time

just standing still

© harlon rivers ... 31st  March  2018

ripple

ripple

~ ~ ~

There's a ripple

that trickles and surges

uprising from

inner wellspring's

writhing springtide

The ebb and flow

of the deep blue

undulates within,

overspilling

the walls

of its cracked

and leaking chalice

hidden from sight

A sneaker wave

rising upon

unbounded

inward seas;

crashing upon

a deserted shoreline

only the fomenting

silence sees

Flooding the moated exile

with the rising tide

Restless rivulets

river throughout

the memories

of a volatile heart
always on the cusp
of promise and futility

harlon rivers ... March 31, 2018

Only one hears a silenced voice ...

"To the ones who feel everything"

Only one hears a silenced voice ...

                                                                      written by: harlon rivers ©


An indifferent ache swirls in the silence

throbbing like a dancing candle flame

No one understands the heart of silence

moving the darkness with its ancient dance


Its voice is only felt but never heard

the way it whispers the reality it bears

Disrobing the nakedness of a fragile heart

exposing inherent truth deep in disguise ;

retouching the chaos passing of love laid bare


Unspoken emotions that nobody hears

float around a muted tongue numb with fear

Searching for a labyrinth to understanding say

trying to feel the unfelt warmth of love in an endless cold ;

waiting on a frozen emptiness that never thaws 


No one understands the haunting fear,

... surly it couldn't happen again --- and surly it will,

a heart stifled silent --- silence doth peal loudly

                        poignant dreaded words: 

                           "It's not you it's me ,.......

              "I love you but I'm not in love with you"


and like winter dreaming for the sun to reappear

to come back again and dry the memory of fallen tears

A hushed heart falls off the earth lost in ether shadows,

mooning in the lonely silence without a moonlit shine


When you pull love too close --- it will push you away

some silence heals --- a dissonant silence cuts to the bone

                  Only the lonely feel a silent voice sigh

                   Only one hears a silenced heart die

Such a Simple Thing - Ray LaMontagne

author's note: 

3/19/2018 ... 7 am without edit---tho as reluctant as a waking sigh breathed ~ swallowed too many times before, what's lost is gone forever,.. what's found is yours to keep