get on with it. all the living you can do.
i suggest you move the moon
three inches to the right.
wake when all the living in you is dying in you.
overcome the despair of your Irony.
boldly go where you’re leaving
so as to return unrepentant
in your Living
be all about your journey.
forgive yourself when necessary.
harbor your lost compass -
in your blindspot.
and get where you’re going
On a Lark.
what is the future talking about? i can’t understand.
it’s like reading lips in a blindfold made of all
the wishes a genie would laugh at.
it’s like singing into a deaf noise
that only hears you when you
eat your feelings without siracha
and call upon a thousand urges
what is the future talking about? i can’t tell.
i’m too busy marketing my ****** self to my **** Self.
i sleep with my eyes closed
but I open my petunias
with days upon days
of Love You.
Love is in the shape of a law that allows for pain and perpetual twitterpation.
In the torus of a whipsmart affinity. Love unfurls like a petulant fog
beneath a clear sky of Nightfall’s empathy.
hoarding stars in fathomless boys without girls-
all the while, Filling a Void.
you can’t complain when The Universe
holds your tongue.
And You haven’t Rehearsed.
the wide-open sky festooned with fluffy pearls
and one relentless sun
with all the blue in the world.
butterflies at play
lilting to gibberish fiddles
in scarlet yellows
beating the softest breeze
into a pulp
the underworld sings. over the din of our perpetual stammering.
we live where the Hope is sparse but hearty.
gluing our heels to our shadows
like misfit toys from a Loot Chest.
while eating all the orange
out of Fire.
in my corner of smoke the world is a thing on stilts
mesmerized by medallions of lost faith
at every pavillion’s edge, where the ‘morrow is ever waning
like a plum in an orchard of leaving things.
a swarm of beautiful agonies, sown into the crease
of our everlasting desires.
in my corner of smoke, all things are visible
but mondays drag tar across your tongue
like a molten snail.
we sing where it burns, nevertheless.
we have so many stars
high ankled inlaws
and awkward Templars
on a sea of inconstant
for all of my bazookas, i can never find the sky.
i sleep on a bed of acronyms. Because. Everyone. Does.
so many afternoons spill into thimbles of love.
and i have all of my eyes
sweet are the thorns of my sugar
and only god knows
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter
invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near
the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence
from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart
now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed
an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within, lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes
a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul
there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years
invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet
for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...
befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...
a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
it is an enigma how poetry evolves in meaning over time
― like a self-fulfilled prophecy, some become transformational, some become new beginnings or some become a finality of a metamorphosis of peaceful endings or deleted attempts at understanding the misunderstood...
... all to be determined and allowed to let be
― THE END ―
The old man sat on a boulder,
overlooking the river of words.
The great stream that flows
into the lake of lyrics and
on to the ocean of verse.
Looking out beyond the river
he could see his beloved garden.
The garden that had given him
inspiration to create the pictures
he painted with the river's words.
As he looked out he saw
the bees among the flowers.
He watched the birds eat fruit
that grew abundantly on the trees
and gave shade to all the animals.
His gaze came back to the river.
He saw a girl child knitting melodies
from the words of the river.
Though many see the river of words
it is she to whom he gave the secret
of the source of the river.
For it is she who has the power
to weave the words into magic.
It is she who will pass the secret
to her children through the ages.
The old man smiles down upon her,
she is the child of the Ancient Poet.
sleep is a ******. it recoils when the moon and the night conspire.
it shuns slumber like a timebomb on a porch.
sleep ticks like a phantom with Tourettes...
we are not familiar.
in the wee hours, I am disconnected
from trivia. attached to the hull of a great force
surging through the aqueous chasms
of my insomnia.
like a butterfly the size of a classical harp
clapping in the dark
but when I do, I win.
I give up and go
I take the risk -
out for a
I linger where