Dog-eared Poetry

A narrative prose poem about life’s written portfolio...

He took the leather bound lose leaf book of poetry

down from the large quarter sawn antique book shelf.

The collection’s ordinary space was left vacant  

beside the thick unpublished manuscript,

the autobiography of a traumatic life lived.

~Tipped Over Toy Box and Broken Dreams~

He often thought of burning it with the evening’s fire

when awkwardly troubled in moments of lonely despair.

Wiping away the dust, the well-read memories

are marked by dog eared pages that trigger an ache.

He became overwhelmed by emotions~

Fading into a daydream, while the well seasoned hands

felt the familiar comfort where the well-thumbed pages

were often opened to places known by heart.

It was as if it were the only mirror pond

where he recognized the reflection.

Somewhere hidden amongst the countless hours of longing,

was the intimate sincerity confessed

in the miles of written silent reverie left behind ... hidden.

Many poems had been shared over time,

trying to reveal the infinite love he felt.

Only those few that passed close enough

to sense something hauntingly different,

reached out compassionately from at arms length.

Doing so seemed to leave him pondering an eerie empty feeling

Like a black sheep left behind, without a fold

He had tried relentlessly to be understood

but never really felt, with any known certainty,

he was able to solve his own undisclosed mystery.

Some thoughts were penned in hopeless hours of darkness.

Those could never be shared and yet in this moment,

they seemed like only word stained,

tattered and frayed, watermark sheets.

Poignant sentiment filled pages with flowing blue ink cursive

Quilled thoughts scribed across pages that represented

the indescribable written emotion of a lifetime.

Waking from a dream,

he placed the leather bound lose leaf book of poetry

back onto the large quarter sawn antique book shelf.

The leather bound cover refilling its vacant space

adjacent to the unpublished manuscript.

He looked down speaking softly but distinctively out loud …

The calico cat was stretching from her abruptly ended nap,

rubbing and purring for attention against his bare feet;

 “You know this book of poems is about a life well lived?”

 he rhetorically questioned his cat. 

As if answering his own question he said quietly,

"The essence of one man’s heart and soul"…

Harlon Rivers…December 13th, 2012

Authors Notes;   There are days in life when we have to do things we do not want to do because we need to... This was written on such a day while pondering the circle of life …It is a first draft because there was no time to edit and it was time to go for medical testing…it is as raw of honest emotion as there is from this so called writer. I have published and unpublished much over the last 9 months and there is as much cathartic writing from this time period published here in these 4 poetry blogs as there is that was published and now is not currently published…Life is perception and the tides ebb and flow creating constant change.  I just write about it because it helps me cope with emotional transition.   Just maybe someone who needs this kind of understanding and support may find some comfort because they may relate to the many trials and tribulations we face in life.

The Third Day of Autumn

Happy birthday Dad...Do you remember this place?

Life as a child was not always difficult; after all I was a child. I’m thankful that through self-discovery, I am now able to search and find pleasant memories of good times past, to find a balance from my half empty half full childhood. Here is a snippet of my “Olden Days.”

I always wanted to be a farmer. Dad’s oldest sister had 80 acres in a small town along the Molalla River by Union Mills. He was a fireman for my first 15 years. With 24hr on and 48hr off shifts, he would work the land for the family. I would ride around on the fender of that old Ford tractor and keep him company. My boarder collie, Solo would run along with us and catch field mice, gophers and moles. It was a wonderful memory. When the crops were in during the summer we went fishing and camping all the time. Here is a great example of me and my dad. We were very poor and dad sacrificed and rarely bought a thing for himself, but I remember this one time he bought a new fly rod before a fishing trip. He sat it by the big chair in the front room and admired its beauty when ever he got the chance. After a few days we left for our first trout fishing trip of the season.

We are 50 miles down the road going like hell to get there for the evening bite. He pulls off in some gravel and says, "Oh Shit!” We turned around and drove back home. I'm thinking what's up with that. He goes into that little house and comes back out the door with that fly rod. I did not laugh out loud until I knew it was safe because Dad never swore around me... Then I giggled like a little girl every time I thought about it for the next 300 miles.

We got there and put up an old canvas tent and launched our old wooden boat with a 5 horse motor and oars as the backup. The next morning when I got up at O dark thirty there was a foot of snow on the ground. The fly rod was with other fishing rods leaning on the snowy picnic table. I got a new hatchet and hunting knife for my fifth birthday that winter and was itching to cut down a tree or slay a grizzly bear or something manly. I was hacking at a piece of firewood my dad cut up the night before when somehow that fly rod slide off the table and in the path of my hacking with the hatchet. I cut about 2 feet right off the tip. The former mentioned giggles of joy turned into giant tear drops running down a five year olds face. My dad took out his big red handkerchief and wiped my face off without saying a word about what just happened. What a man!

The farm had about a two acre garden, dairy cows, chickens, and rabbits and assorted other creatures. All my Dad's 9 brothers, sisters and family's and Grandma and Grandpa would have giant Sunday feasts there. My uncle Harlan was the tenth child but was killed in a railroad accident while coupling rail cars. I never new him, only why I shared his name, yet spelled differently than he. The aunts would bake pies and cakes and cookies while aromas from heaven filled the giant kitchen. They would make fresh egg noodles to go with the freshly slaughtered chickens for Sunday supper. I knew what love was in those precious days.

I always used to say I wanted to buy a farm in Scotland and grow potatoes. It was the dream of leaving it all behind...Don't ever think that new dreams can not grow when new seeds of hope are planted in the remaining dust of forgotten dreams...Even if it takes a few tear drops to water them.

Peace on the Planet...

Tommy Emmanuel...Amazing Grace

instrumental acoustic guitar

http://youtu.be/vc9Oy06IHXc

Authors note:

If there is any interest in why this poem was written just follow the link to the side bar called

Diary of the Falling Dominoes

Thank you for visiting The Word Whisperer…

http://harlonrivers.blogspot.com/p/oct-1st-oct-6thdiary-of-falling.html

Dear Faceless Friend...

An unsent letter to a faceless friend I met on a public forum, but I'm not likely the only one to experience this modern times phenomena...

,

My Dearest Faceless Friend,

I’m writing this letter in the hopes you will understand why I needed to leave the public forum…I could take it or leave it,  either way you matter to me...it took along time to get here.  I feel guilty I couldn't tell you but would not lie to you…I just couldn't tell you everything, you just wouldn't want to know.  I feel like big brother compelled to protect your feelings.  We do that with people we love.

   

Did you go looking for me when I was conspicuous by my absence?   I didn’t disappear I was absent for your own good.    Like it or not that’s going to happen in modern life, people just disappear that we learned to love and only the traces of their soul are left behind in words on some abandoned forum avatar... the final lasting impression as memories fade into the dust on some screen .   Faceless souls become a piece of your life even though they may seem like a stranger in the cab.  They get in they get out often without saying a word in the moment...I’m sorry what you found there.   Traces of you.    I’m trying to take your hand and lead you away from past darkness to be able to move on with life.    It feels like I did the very opposite.

“How can I warn you when my tongue turns to dust?
Like we've discussed
It doesn't mean that I don't care
It means I'm partially there
You're gonna need to be patient with me”

(lyrics from a Wilco song..."please be patient with me")

Believe me when I tell you that I know you need a friend.   So do I… That’s why we return to this special place of ours.   We were not born to be alone and when we are it eats away from the inside out leaving only hollow remains, a shell of who we once were when we were loved.   I don’t trust public forums either.   I feel a ball and chain to the words from hell that I tried to leave behind.  I have to see it through though, but wish I never started it.  I didn’t know what to do, just go away or avoid telling you..  I felt called out by a response.   I hope I was not confrontational in what I wrote in reply.   Sometimes I just get started and can’t stop as you can clearly see.

I have searched for my life's meaning since its beginning.   Something makes me write what I've written for reasons I do not yet understand.   Interact with people I do not even know.   I didn't want to respond again to that topic I started, I just zoned out and there was no other way to get it off my mind.   The things I've done this past month have been a leap of faith that I'm hopeful they will lead me to a better place.   I am what I am and I accepted that fact along time ago.  The thing is, I am stubbornly strong, physically and mentally.   My heart and soul just work differently than most people. Highly sensitive beings are like that.   We are what we eat.   Please don't feel sad for me.  You need your energy for you and your family.   Thanks for all your thoughts and compassion.   I am listening to a song at this moment that feels like it was written about me…

What am I going to do with you?  You’re so much more than you know.   I’m thankful for your final letter.   I feel the same way...I'll never grow older either, at least in my mind.   You feel you can’t write anymore and I feel your feeling rusty is all.   I feel clumsy as well.   “This letter is very self involved”   I don’t want it any other way because there's no other way you'll understand.    I treasure the writing you have shared.   I treasure every word you wrote to me.    Take a deep breath.   I’m going to attach something you that I hope in time you’ll be able to give a listen.   I don’t want to overwhelm you.  I won’t forget. .maybe you'll write again one day and we’ll talk about it later. It’s okay to let me see a frown.   Let’s work on turning it back to a smile together, then you can leave me where you found me...   Just know that if we never speak again that I believe in this simple truism...Love is not a protective cage, but the gifts of wings that allow another to fly free…

All said with love,

Your faceless memory