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
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"
