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Brown stains on the porcelain
make the cup

look like bad teeth and bad
decisions

the short window of cleanliness
and innocence

before sugar daddies
and Milky Ways folded

into themselves
a galaxy leaking over the rim
Waning  dappled  moonlight mantles
the margin at the wild-wood edge
Stiff tufts of summer dried grass spears
sporadically sway — raking against
the  scarlet  poison  oak  leaves
gently sweeping away the moonlit silence
airing the sounds of velvet antlers rubbing
barkless mountain willow trunks bare

Subtle nuances constantly animate
twilights rhythm;  heaven flickers
upon a dark umbrage of forest pillars
softly as a candlelight’s  fluttering  glow
evanescing  half way  across  the  sky;
the  sparse  illumined  clouds  stream through
the lambent halo around the rutting moon
fleeting in the blink  of  sleepless eyes

and like the silent touch of a talisman,
transfixed eyes are entranced by all
the  restless  night  disrobes,
captured and cocooned by the seeker’s
awakened senses

An erratic,  familiar feral bark peals haughtily;
a pack of maturing spring pups yip, bellow and shriek
in youthful pursuit;  the howling report back,
ignited by the scent of a rabbit's paling squeal,
aroused by the pulse of brother wolf
rippling deeply through their blood

The dried grass game-trail crackles towards the ridge top:
an aging full moon is not enough skylight
to see beyond a seeker’s stirring silent reverie
the coyote choir’s sudden reveling echoes rekindling
an extraordinary sheltering intimacy within;

bending slithers of moonlight into a dull moonlight mantle
but I can feel its weight breaking me ,... forlorn I can't physically
reach out to touch them in an absolving moment  —
understanding love was always the purpose of being ,...

futilely repining — I  can't  face  myself  alone  again


            harlon rivers ... October  2019                                                  

.
Notes: a coyote moon

3am — eyes wide open — embraced by a presence that robes the night
gazing at the ecstasy of feeling nature's deep roots in my soul

Thanks for reading ... rivers
The trees stand, clustered behind the clouds, their trunks and branches forming streets and towers, like a city on a hill.

They part just far enough apart to reveal a hidden story—
Is that Summerland?
Is that reality or is that just a dream?

I keep looking into the distance, hoping to see You coming,
Down from the clouds,
Into the city of trees—
 Sep 1 Anais Vionet
Maria
Leave me alone. I want it really much.
No explanations or hard feelings
I won’t answer anything. I’ll just keep quiet.
And please, forgive my broken bearing.

I am so tired of other problems,
And silly fuss and needless dramas.
I just want silence! You hear me? Silence!
And not in whisper, but stone-dead! Yes!

I don’t want dramas with you any more.
I’m sick of arguments at nights at all.
And that’s enough of all these ******, base-league fool quips.
No words are needed. Please, be quiet in whole.

Please, just forget me for a day.
And if forever, I will never sorrow.
I am not here. I’m emptiness for all.
I’m tired and done. I won’t be back tomorrow.
Thank you for reading this poem! 💕
Infidelity (noun) \ ˌin-fə-ˈdel-ət-ē \
Betrayal of a vow. Or whispered otherwise, the first time Coyote tasted the salt of my wrist, when lightning seemed to have waited to arrive. Grandmother would call it shadow-marriage, the reminder that paper rings and courthouse oaths cannot bind the spirit. It flowers soft and fragrant, sweet as mesquite after rain.

Myth (noun) \ ˈmith \
A traditional story, especially one natural or social phenomena. Or in another tongue, to be called Inanna while pulling my hair back, as if the goddess herself had crawled from shadow to breathe on his neck. I laugh because I’m no goddess- just a woman with cracked nails and unpaid bills. Still, myth enters flesh like fever, and we burn until the walls drip with story.

Body (noun) \ ˈbä-dē \
The physical vessel. Or in broken voice, the altar on which every promise is tested. My body knows what paper cannot: the way desire bruises, the way grief leaves its thumbprint. Flesh remembers long after the mind has lied itself clean.

Eros (noun) \ ˈer-ˌäs \
Passionate love. Or named differently, a hunger that follows, like a stray through desert parking lots, its tongue bright with need. Eros offers scraps, sometimes nothing, and still I remain, hollow with wanting, certain one day I will eat from his palm. He is no child, he comes like a jackal-god- wild, luminous, not easily bound.

Pulchritude (noun) \ ˈpəl-krə-ˌtüd \
Beauty. Or carried on another breath, the ache. I see him sketching a body not mine, tracing hips that could belong to any girl at the bus stop. I know beauty is a weapon sharpened against me. Still, in his eyes I find fragments- cheekbones my father gave me, hair dark as my mother’s shame- briefly holy, before the mirror cuts again.

Unravel (verb) \ ˌən-ˈra-vəl \
To come undone. Or in another telling, the way every thread between us shivers like a web in prairie wind- fragile, trembling, already near to breaking. Spider Grandmother whispers that love weaves and unweaves in the same breath. The art lies in knowing when to let the strands snap, and when to hold fast, even as your hands begin to bleed.
I wanna hurt
I wanna bleed,like they always do
Lay me down where the trees bend
low
Lay me down where the greenery stings
So I can feel
So I can remember
That to love me
Is to suffer me
 Aug 31 Anais Vionet
Maddy
When you don't seek and look
You find and get found
September 14 is when my future husband walked into my life quite unexpectedly.
Graduate school started
I was twenty-one
That is when my life changed
When you don't look, you find and get found
How lucky can you get?
My Prince Charming and first Master's degree
 Aug 30 Anais Vionet
Maddy
It is not necessarily the way you might want it to be
It is what it is, and others must be considered,
Beloveds too
Narcissists are not welcome, and their insults are ignored
Sometimes a permanent Goodbye is necessary
Sometimes you can't shake it off
Going back may not work.
It is the way it is
It is the way it is
Very necessary to accept the status quo
Despite your opinion
The Way it is
Not for others to understand, but they must accept it
Through nebulae the rower glides,
His boat a cradle where hope hides.
The stars lean in, the silence hums,
A journey stretched on astral drums.
the british way, not mentioning
yarn, too much, repeating words,
where no longer necessary. wool
in abundance here, piled on wool
lorries, neatly balanced with

premium  acrylic.

it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,
only just a theory, yet used
independantly, alongside
honest work
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