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 Nov 2018
harlon rivers
Remains of the summer
sunlight drip out,
entomb'd in raindrops
from the prevailing
gray beclouded skies
Memories of joy
bathed in sunlight
unravel like a wind
frayed kite dancing
above a day at the beach

Soaring seagulls ponder
all thousand feet of kite string
tied to a hidden bliss below —
hurtling through
the shapeless heavens
tethered to refreshed
dreams still lingering
within an untamed
child of the wind

Morning falls
from  the  trees
in whispers
of golden sorrow
The damp chilled air
smells fresh as the traces
of heaven's cleansing rain —
befallen drop  by  drop,
each plash counted
from an angel weeping,
splattering the broken silence
all  through the night.

An inflamed montage
of leaves surrender
all this unholdable lifeline
we  ever  know;
blanketing the fields
of  autumn's tawny  grass —
Sowing a mosaic colored
reclamation  reposed
atop a nascent green,
soon enrobed by impending
winter’s pallid slumbering hues

The darkening hush
imbues a shadowing
fugitive peacefulness
bathed in wind river eddies
of autumn’s blessing rains

harlon rivers
November 3, 2018

"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
 Oct 2018
Rohan P
crushed underfoot:
ever buried our

leaves (once red

with dawn
in the style of wcw
 Jul 2018
the wind is drunk on its liquor

a subtle slurring

lilies stir on the lilt of its voice

as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite

as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat

mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes

I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold

where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos

I am withering
but the wind blows on

whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms

I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder

a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again
it seems so easy for trouble to find me
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