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 Dec 2018
v V v
In those first years
we spent a lot of time
in red corduroy chairs,
the ones that came with
the house on Turner Terrace.

I would sit and watch you
when you didn’t know
I was watching, constantly
looking for a crack in
your armor,
for a little snippet of the
***** you might become,

but I never found it
and it never happened.

Your little girl wonder
had me convinced that
the world in your hands
would be safe,

no death blows,
no mean streaks,
love's foundation set deep
never to be undone by
head games or hidden agendas,

and now all these years later
I am still transfixed by
your clarity,
your complete “sheerness”.

You are my priceless
dividend of peace finally paid
from a lifetime investment
in Faith,

you came to me
when Hope had gone
and Grace was silent,

and you love me
when you don’t even know it.
The distant hollow of the high mountain pass
swallows the setting sun as it steals away southbound
behind the coastal mountain's tangerine sunset hued silhouettes
Mulberry plashed shadows pointing northward
across the evergreens outstretched dimming,
beneath the waning fade of each fleeting eventide

Sundown ebbing asunder the wafting daylight,
each gloaming of the day, helplessly a moment sooner past,
transfixed further south beyond yesterday's passing azure
The lazy days of summer escape unbounded,
nomadic as the sea I've seen sail away before;
evanescent as the beauty of the bloom summer days beheld
and the memory of the fragrance they exhale

The nebulous weight of the gravity is consciously denied
by the truths a human heart beholds
A moment’s epiphany afflicts like a rogue wave in a calm sea;
the only thing my heart ever wanted remains out of reach

Everything my heart needs consciously surrendering
to the poignant passing moment's beauty,
the falling sun at distance sets more suddenly now
Lost in the undeniable certainty
life's imminent season's change

Eyes drawn stubbornly from presence to a sky so far away,
knowing there'll be no restitution for the welling sense of loss...
A bitter sweet song mummers in the silence of the absorbing spell,
summer's sun stained pages of watermarked soul scribbles,
time tattooed reparation for the indelible ache
of a harsh grey winter loneliness

Perhaps too familiar, this whelming Déjà vu
that tears my soul;     that tugs at these roots
but cannot sever their sacred grasp
But for now, eyes fixed to the sun's
inevitable tightening tether hence —
to wear weary each fraying thread's  impending break

Each sunset leans a deeper angle southward
as it slips down through the firwood shadows;
illuminating other faraway latitudes
far beyond the distant horizon skies

The preordained continuum unfolding what will be ...


someone you used to know ... September 11, 2017 ... 7:30 PM
 Dec 2018
Travis Green
My son is now 18 and I can see the change
in his shifting stance, the boldness and
complexity in his presence, deep dark
diction beneath smoky stained clothes,
scattered cigarettes piled up in *****
ashtrays, ghostly fumes filling the
cold air, as he dashes up the stairs to
his bedroom.  And as I stand in the
kitchen over the stove steaming a
fresh *** of boiled chicken, salad,
and mashed potatoes, I can hear his
smooth slick words echoing across
the room.  The heavy giggles and
sensual thoughts seeping inside his
mind, running game on his main
squeeze like the world was his
majesty, like a crowned creation
falling into submission to his
nation.  I step closer to the stairs
and listen to the soft sounds of Joe’s
song, I Wanna Know, playing in the
background, slow rising beats curling
up in the air towards divine enchantment,
hypnotizing harmonies beyond a bed of
thin sleek sheets.  And as I breathe in the
soothing melodies, I’m forced to remember
the days when I was young, a rich tasteful girl
full of chemistry and flawless formation.  I was
grooving to the spinning jams like it would be
this way forever.  I had forgotten how much
time had passed by, how the waves
of his existence was on a new wavelength,
how the stars in his eyes intensified in
immense shapes, how the shimmering
moon was his light inside his kingdom,
the cosmic space taking him into a new
sea of discoveries.
 Dec 2018
Softly Spoken
There’s always a bustle here
In my ritual place of ribs and beer
The sharp scent of ginger and coriander
The acrid burr in my nose of seared flesh
Fusion food served around me
But I go for Hirata.. again.
Can’t argue with taste, and it tastes
Korean bbq and Buddha beer
A brief nod to the moments of clarity
As said by drunks
The beer bottle cool in my hand as I reflect
Beads of condensation forming on Buddhas belly
And I’m here hoping for Constant
It’s now my third attempt
In as many months to catch a glimpse
And tonight apparently the stars align
Jupiter and Mercury on the rise
As I walk in
There is a way about him
So much bluff and bravado...
reminds me of someone I once loved
There is a mischief in his smile
Something warm in his eyes
Even beyond his jokes of his ego
Too big for the Room, apparently
I don’t discourage..
He’s honest in a way that piques
So here I am
Third time lucky finding Constant
To my delight he recognises me instantly
“Lucky Buddha for the lady?”
His eyes dance..
I interpret, maybe to much
But believe he’s pleased to see me
So we joke..
We laugh
I watch him get an earful
For not concentrating on the flow
The manager in tow..
and he side-eyes me and winks
Inwardly I hi-five myself for
Timing this so perfectly
So here I am
Trying not to watch Constant flow
Trying not to blush as he looks my way
“I’m too old for this ****” I think
Then feel like a kid
When he throws a grin my way
I regular Wagamama in transit.. for the food mainly... ok maybe not all for the food
 Dec 2018
L B
Before he returned from the fields
she must get there!
Harnessed Ole' Jerry to the buckboard
by herself
flung wildflowers mixed with iris, roses
tied with string
up on the rough-hewn seat

She was sweating, ill
and pregnant yet again
But some things always mattered more
than dinner at his hour, on the table
Sometimes in her frantic mind
she found the strength to curse him

Wiped her brow with sleeve
No bother for a hat
No time to tuck the loose hair to her bun

Hiked her skirt and hoisted sorrow
beside the wilted posies
Grabbing reins and slapping
Jerry's quarters with them soundly
she rumbled madly
out and up the hill

toward the cemetery
once a week
Her promises--
of always –  in his fear
she kept
An image from the homestead in Hatfield, Massachusetts, related by my Auntie Edna's telling of my father's mother,
Celina Arnel Rodier.  Never met her.
 Dec 2018
harlon rivers
Silence speaks —
its say beheld in its
own truth laid bare

Its voice is deeply felt
but rarely revealed
in the tight economy
of considered words
it quietly whispers —

The reality it bares,
soundlessly eroding with a
shameless emotional deluge
that rivers through
the poet's heart

When you feel alone
in a crowded room,
you overhear the drone
a racing heartbeat ...

    When you're
going down the road
feeling bad,  chasing
    the centerline,
reckoning some kind
a life passing by
out the rolled down
       window ;
hearken in nature's
     tone poems
blowin' in the wind
                                                            ­    ­
    It  was  thence
    i came to know
my sum of simple truth:
Organically self-wrought
Environmentally  molded
    from the clay of life
    a survivor of many
    a passing storm

    Season's change,
water seeks its own level
The silt does not get to say
how far down stream
   the river carries it

and we still wind up
in the same old place
parsing the watermark 
       stains of time

and a poet — is not a word
i'll longer use to describe
   who i've become


harlon rivers ... December 7th, 2018
blessings,
Harlon Rivers
 Dec 2018
harlon rivers
White violets in the window
Scarlett leaves tumble across
the mossy hidden stones
mound beneath a chilly winter's dawn

A cold wind bares the dogwood tree
where puffed out plumaged woodpecker
gleans on creations' plump red bounties,
beheld subsistence beget for feral wings

Bright crimson fattened rose hips season,
lingering in the frigid morning dew;
stirring warm memories of fruitlet tea's
steeped from gathered garden magic spells
A spoonful of love and raw honey mellowed
a life once so lovingly endeared

Hot Blueberry dutch-oven scratch biscuits
imbue the wafting fragrant air —
life's cherished moments tarry
in the head and heart;
sipped by ruby lips still tasting
the untamable passion
of a breathless goodnight kiss

White violets blossom in the window
the morning fire's crackle echoes
a pining  memories' gentle whisper
awakened by the incoming wintertide

A dulcet breeze not soon forgotten
— melancholy traces linger
like a passing season's swan song

as your memory — leads me on...


harlon rivers ... December 5th, 2018
 Dec 2018
lX0st
On nights like this
Tired eyes reminisce
Of a former life
Like French doors opening
To familiar gardens
Where prunes grow on fingers
And lavender blooms
In the iridescent luster
Of warm water droplets
Serenading shoulders
Where reason and chaos blend
Into peach white tea
Swallows carry songs
Through their wings
Stirring decadent incense
Of exhaling trees
Sunlight waltzes with
Saturated leaves
Their indelible patterns
Rhythmic marigold sleeves
Carefree meanders along
Luscious promenade, swathed
In pomegranate-stained poppies
Ripe for the picking
In them, a fragrant ecstasy
Alive inside this memory
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