There's this spider I know.
He sits on my lips,
Weaving webs of pure silk.
To trap in my lies...
...those little black flies..
For what horror would ensue
should one but slip.
What havoc I'd wreak
Upon my web of silk...
...now oh so weak.
For there is never just one.
Now there's a hole!

I'm done!

And out they would swarm!
A cloud thick as smoke.

Oh those little black flies....
They'd be my demise...
Should one but slip.
I could choke.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

WHAT A POEM SHOULD BE

A
        Poem
               Should
Be
             Devoid
                  Of sentiments
            Should be
                   Dark as the Night
Or
                Clear as the day,
          *A
      Poem
            Should speak
Attention
And
        Not seek attention
             Should be
           Bright as the culminating cloud
Or
           Dark as the emanating nights
A
        Poem should not seek, but speak
Should be
              Free as the Moon moves the earth
       A
           Poem should
Be
         Free, but not stale
     Should be
            True, but not forced
A Poem
       Should not seek,
          But speak
Should
Be
    Vast as Rainfall
And yet
       Calm as Dew falls
A
                      Poem
Could be
        Violent,
But mean no harm,
Could be hateful,
          But mean no hate
    A
          poem
Should
      Be bright as SUNSHINE,
Should be
           Vast as Rainfall,
      Yet
         Calm as Dew falls
A Poem
     Should not seek attention
But
     Speak attention!!

Should be
        Vast as
               Rainfall

                     *Should
                          Be
    Vast
       As
            Rainfalls

hours drip slowly
onto a taunting empty page
the soul’s depictions brushed simply

a palette of whispered words
dry as if it were thoughts painted
onto a tightly stretched canvas

it's been said so many times before
                   similes,...
     form clots at the tip of the quill
                    words,...
finally surrendering to gravity’s flow
as the ink scribes the paltry ruminations;
flooding the same stifled notions
another way into another moment

metaphorical sleights of hand
incarnate onto the absolving
       sheet of parchment;
traces of past now’s ensconced
       in considered words

        miles of silent reverie,
                     spun,...
        like a spider reprocessing,
        carefully savoring
        each fine silk thread of web,

        spinning the womb of time...

© H.A.  Rivers 2012 … All Rights Reserved

You remind me of Jazz.

The way you sway in and out of my mind.
So gently.
So boldly.
The way you pull me along with the pining in your voice.
Lulling me in to memories of our false Joy.