It is an interesting thing, the paper the string.

There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly
over the perceived salience of his musings
  
It was as if there were a veiled mystique
that left hopeful understanding ,
                   ambiguously obscured ...

His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale ,
like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,
                   drowning acumen ;

albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions ,
scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye

                    Illusive accord ,
                    beclouded by seeming stigmas
                    borne of the flesh ;
                    delicately sensitive nuances ,
                    misunderstood imperfections ,
                    bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ...

In the hush of pensive repose ,
flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ;
bequeathed as if darkness
was magnetically drawn towards light ,
purging muted understanding ...

                    Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,
                    accepting , that all answers sought
                    are not meant to be understood

A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ;
the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved ,
befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat ,
understanding a circle is vulnerable ,
only makes it stronger ―

                    hence ,..
                    it had been written
                    in countless misunderstood ways ...

Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently
for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ ,
tattooed on introspective walls
far removed from the afterglow of light ,
where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;

                    heart speak hushed , deft words avowed
                    in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper

                    soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow
                    from unseen depths , permeating
                    deeply within inner realms

The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :

               "Spell words that bind together passing strangers  
                 Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone
                 Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual
                 hearts and minds with words of love and light.  
                 Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,
                 a faith in unabated love"

and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words

…words grasped from emerging thoughts
                   drawn in to the light
                   searching for other adept words
                   to recite yet another way ,
                   sketch another word-scape ,
                   written with the relentless inexhaustibleness
                   of an unstoppable awakening ...  

Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light

                   he will write it again and again ,

                                          ... finding another way to be set free ...



                                                          ­       Harlon Rivers

With crying seagulls, salt tears of spraying seas
this rugged coast of obelisk ancient stones
black blowing reign of squall and fury
the swallowing of sand and shore
tonight a ghost, a murmur of moon
the pitch grows ever darker
fretful wrath of wild ocean
awaits the calm to come,
the bright startle of
tomorrow.

Scrupulously second by second
A timekeeper sits at his desk
Near the tallest mountain
Riding a cloud one would guess
Tabulating only plusses and minuses reams of paper accumulating
Behind him
Keeping scores almost blind
Deaf and dumb
To secular or pagan
Reasonings and mores
No more
And no lesser
Just calculating
Everyman
For everything

Almost I want to help him
Throw in my impressions
But ignore
Me us


He does
Balances

The ledger

I wander through the evergreens
past stones no longer bearing names
the posy scent of faded blooms
now mingle with the falling rain.
My only company a crow
with beady eye and mourning clothes
aloud he cries into the squall,
this keeper of a thousand souls.
He leads me on to where you lay
in silent slumber all alone
in comfort now I pray you'll be
each stormy night and frosted morn.
The wind now moans its sweet lament
to bow the trees, their heads in shame
as tattered posies turn to dust
among these stones that bear no name.

I've stood in the lobbies,
Drinking crap coffees,
In churches, schools and theaters.
There's mingling talk of the topic
Involving a paradigm shift,
A segue too smooth to resist.
A new diagnostic, a new way that's better,
Although the old one's not gathered dust yet.
A new guideline, a revised playbook,
An updated prayer book,
An all new look, an all newer look;
And the newest look's coming out next.
Closer to platonic perfection.

          I should feel slighted.
          Babies shouldn't rock sideways.
          Bacon tastes good, is good.
          The surgery is booked.
          The schools are over-cooked.

The dais is lit. The crowd shuffles to sit,
The auditorium dims, we're all in,
And everyone knows the speaker by name.