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…

Beyond the Telegraph Road

“Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.” - Albert Camus

a poem about a commitment to a fallen friend , 

- honored -

Beyond the Telegraph Road

The telegraph road circled through the foothills,

arising towards the majestic mountain high

It’s been a long and twisting passage soon forgotten,

with the pavement abruptly dead ending,  
just below the timberline

The dawning blue sky’s heavens look so much closer now

Just a step away from standing within reach                                  

The birds uplifted on the telegraph wire rest atop me;

perched overhead on the final material traces

disregarded by an indifferent world

My awakening soul is ascending 

beyond the distant alpine horizon  

At the threshold of a trackless pathway, 

climbing up above the clouds

It’s exhilarating to look back and know

there is no turning back around

I’ve never been higher

and can never get back down

What unknown frontier lies in wait before me now?

Just on the other side of the impossible dream?

The last step forward to find the next step beyond the bounds

There is not that much that changes,

when we just repeat the same old song

The atmosphere’s thin air leaves me gasping for wings

Like dust and ashes free to soar with the tempest breeze

 If only time would sever these loathsome ties that bind

The ones that enchain the weight of this load unto me

While understanding the pace to a long journey’s rhythm

The only barometer you have to trust is in your heart

Adaptation is at the core of freedom's survival

But it feels almost like running away   

I have felt the fear of falling with nothing left to lose

I’ve climbed as far as flesh and bones can reach

I've come this far always feeling subtly afraid

It has been a great distance back from the beginning;

knowing I must take these last steps alone.

Understanding it was love that brought me here

Naturally tugs at the spirit in my soul encouraging me on
I'll keep searching for the shining light of guidance
Listening for a voice that softly beckons me home...

Standing in Majestic’s shadow ©  2012~2013 … Harlon Rivers  …All Rights Reserved

© 2013…Harlon Rivers 

Calling All Angels...

" Mother's Sons "

… some mother’s sons have a warm and nurturing relationship from the beginning, appearing surreal to others who  experience a more perplexing paradigm. 

… this is a chapter from “Watching the Thinkers Journey” by Harlon Rivers © 2013

Fritz-Zuber-Buhler

Mother’s Sons

born and raised

rooted in bedrock

to carry that weight 

upward over 

the untrodden mountain

spirit's fervor 

once hatched 

on a flat rock;

birthed from primordial 

native earth

genesis dawns essential inception

mother womb 

bearing the fruit of the vine

flourishing the spirit

of quintessential love

newly awakened 

dawn emerges  

finding a thriving hope

arose from the dust and ashes

where it was once forgotten

the arisen seed bears

the strong stem of its ripened essence;

sons are like nurtured blossoms ,

returning as one whole 

flowering heart of soul...

"It’s hard to go back to the beginning when you feel like you are walking on thin ice… sometimes we must go back to go forward"

Spring Cadence...Coyote Moon

... a chapter from "The Minstrel of the Blue Moon"  written about  vanguards of spring , in the Cascade Mountain foothills , illuminated by a full moon...

Spring Cadence

The coyotes’ wail shall
never again paint
a yellow moon so full
or tint its deep
pearlescent sheen so blue

Natural ambient elements
serenade the moon and stars
A plethora of all heightened senses
savor every sparkle
in midnight’s near and far

There may never be
another magical moment
sung exactly like the untamed timbre
bemoaned through these trees

Celestial incandescence reflects
the sky’s mystical mosaic’s afterglow;
transcendent resonance ricochets
from the angelic lily white petals

The native dogwood’s flowers
draw down the night sky’s radiant montage
Scattering a natural luminescent palette
as they sparkle with the twinkle of the stars

The coyote’s medley of mournful laments
echoes the moment’s budding essence
adorning the blossoming dogwood's bouquet ;
it’s natural enchanting ambiance
graces the awakening spring ,
within in the moonlit woods…

© 2013 ... Harlon Rivers