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Ten times last one ten hours past one
ten things to do before I pass on
or gain a new perspective
or listen to my sub-conscious' directive
to pass on to someone my knowledge
what I learned in the school of hard knocks
or just sit here give the world one last whirl
maybe get drunk run through
the cornfields again naked
play ring around the rosy
or pass out
spread-eagled glorious in the
morning on the grass
with full double visions
the sun peeking
over yonder past
the scrub oaks in
the distance
at last
I've found her
she glows
and the darkness
empties the world
like a toilet flushed
counter-clockwise
pure water and hope
now
Past midnight...
apart from a nocturne playing
i hear a symphony of peaceful breathing
and snoring...rhythmical, this quiet evening,
it sends me soaring up my own universe,
with eyes closed, it grows more immense
creates some kind of a calm, in the silence
surrounding me, and my muse's presence.
stardust and moon provide me a crown
while i float...and probe around,
seeking something i don't know about,

in this journey,
i feel the absence of souls, slumbering deeply,
dreaming their simple, or strange fairy tales.
the firmament, wears a navy blue veil
stars are dots, they glow and scintillate,
like a warmth in the cold....emancipates
my invisible wings flap and fold,
a door ****...my hands take hold,
my destination...bright, resplendent,
"Cosmic Coffee Shop," a place, transcendent,
brewing a blend
-the dark, the positive
-the sweet, and the negative
a sign says, "write....there's pen and paper
in every corner..."
an invite, for people to create prose and poetry
where coffee is free, smells...tastes heavenly
a place to share...with brethren, in poetry.
::::::::
(an old poem)
1:01 AM


☕️ Sally ☕️



Copyright November 21, 2016
rrab
on a sleepless night,
  ...a plane roars
     ...breaks the silence-
I. the September
the August past
a November rush
of cold air
warmth hast
forsaken these bones

every leaf has fallen
along the path
the young men plunder
or forever render useless
a waste of genius

and we sit as stumps
alongside tender shoots of grass
and striving pines
new
small as urchins here

we watch all the hustle bustle
to fro hurrying
and wonder
how those humans do it
looking at the orange

of the sunset
glow
(Candles)

A different kind of wind murmurs
a humming repeatedly echoes
restless birds fly round and round
a ball bounces up, down...back and forth
all of these, amassed in one's awareness
like an itchy patch on the skin,
...nagging...

there're many reasons for sobbing
but few are heard,
cries of discontent, of despair,
of mourning, from waves of violence
man-made, and natural disasters...

babies are born under the sun, 'neath
bridges...growing up, bathing, under the
falling rain, in floodwaters of many seasons,
in rivers without warmth and passion...
they get older...get used to those waters,
becoming dark-skinned...red-skinned,
some remain fair-skinned, with disheveled hair
faces aren't smiling...not all are willing
to share their questions...just their needs...
they need plenty....they seek free time
free knowledge, especially food and shelter,
whatever could be spared...and shared
for them to survive...
the world needs new avenues, new routes
for those reaching out, but could not...

a spark...is where it all starts...
the world needs candles to light
keep them burning bright,
flames, be enforced...empowered
protected from being blown...to resolve
even a bit, of the nagging itch...

one would think...it's kinda impossible
yet the thought is countered right there and then

    with God...nothing is impossible!


Sally

Copyright October 7,  2017
rrab
Penned on watermarked cotton paper
Cursive letters script the words
of a surrendering rhythmic rhyme.
The ardent sonata was written
by the light of a Blue Moon’s shine.

The blood red ink bled through
the white wrinkled cotton pages;
musical notes dried by the warmth
of glowing Moon Beams radiance
in the subtle pollination breeze...

The maestro Coyote’s howl cried out!

Instinctively rousing the stillness of the night;
       a feral essence echoed
       through the eerie silence
       of the distant horizon,
bringing helpless lovers to their knees.

The words to the Cabernet Sauvignon
       stained midnight  lullaby,
       were emotions quilled,
       blending an aura accenting
       organic warmth of tones...

       The native maple trees'
flowering canopies of Spring
released a dusty yellow pollen
onto the watermarked cotton sheets.

In a moment of rapturous intimacy,
       an elixir of intoxicating bliss
illumined the achingly euphoric moments.
A natural untamed wildness was exhaled;
       savored ecstasy released
       into a passionate song of love …

That poignant melody forever lingers,
       like hieroglyphics on the walls
of some long lost abandoned cave.

Engraved, etched, brushed and stroked
       onto the brattice canvas
       of a musical Minstrel’s
            melodic montage ...

       Watch the artiste’s fingers
       prancing graceful ballet
       Worn down catgut strings

                                *
moan
          
     ­                  weep

              purr
**

       crying out lustfully.
     as if it were
    enraptured lovers'
  breathless sighs

  the rhythm’s cadence
whispers a masterpiece
       in an infinite
       harmonious time...

       The tempo’s lines
                Phrasing…

                 ...hush...!

             ♪♫♪ ~ ♫  ♪♪

        Listen to the pictures flow...
Listen to the weeping guitar strings
      of the passionate troubadour
stroking the metaphorical canvas scene.

       The ebb and flow
       of the musical rhythm's throb
arouse the Blue Moon’s hypnotic  allure,
    throwing incandescent shadows
    that dance around Moonbeams.

Joyfully twirling, blissfully embracing
in the blossoming Forget-me-not fields;
            Bluebonnet Lupine
               swirl and tango
       with the moonlit breeze.

       Lilacs fragrant aroma drifts
with spring’s churning romantic haze;
rekindling this fleeting memories recital.
The Minstrel and the Minstrel’s song
         now yearn to be set free ~

      Timbre without reverberation …
The twilight serenade was never penned
  to be hidden from the Nightingale

A romantic moment’s sorrowful lament
to be abandoned like a broken dream;
   fading unnoticed into forevermore ―
      Unsung,  unsaid, unreleased,
                     unrequited
                through eternity…

              The maestro Coyote
       is a wilderness troubadour
       illumined under the gloaming
               full moon’s spell.

                Howling soulfully...
               wailing impulsively ~
              ... crying hopefully
             pleading mournfully
                     lamenting
the Minstrel’s breathless cadenza ...

A bitter sweet musical embryo of love
                 found and lost
                       below
           the full Blue Moon’s
               glistening light…



©  H.  Rivers ... 2012, 2013
           all rights reserved
Notes (optional)

"It's a marvelous night for a moon dance"
from the written pages of a hopeless romantic

Post Script:

An attempt to blow the dust off  the hidden archives and the aging tomes to bring my unpublished writing portfolio back into the light.

A friend from my musical past ask me to publish this once again and LEAVE IT published...how could I say no to one who uplifts the low (?)!
She loved the mesh of hair over her eyes.

My hair is all messed up, she smiled
I'm enmeshed in love, she kept smiling.

The winds rushed past
piercing her with kisses.

There goes the girl
the sky parted the clouds to see
her cheeks are sunset blush.

The birds hovered low over her.

They cackled and the air rippled.

The engine in awed silence
felt her weight.

Oh she weighs so low
light with the burden of love
.

Over the bridge and down the highway
she melted in the crisp autumn glow
and he would never know
behind him she rose and fell
in that only once ride
with him.
The blustery east wind
gathers the fragrant  
Warm Springs
high desert
mountain sage,
cascading
downhill
through
Dry Creek pass
surging downward
from above
the Hood River valley,
with breath of sky's bouquet
of billowing
aromatic avalanche,
gushing
of heaven's zephyr

The poignant
sudden starkness
of fiery autumn leaves
letting go
whirling ― falling
helter skelter,
pushed urgently
flying westbound,
beckoned franticly
by
distant whispered
ocean bellows
blowin' in the winds
    of change ―

Adrift across
Parkdale
mountain meadows,
Coyote  bent,
paw trodden
ripe sweet grasses,
pungent  with
waft of mountain sage
and fermenting apples fallen ―
the waxing silence
of the marvelous moon
echoes  just beyond
the Lost Lake of the Woods,
its golden orange crescent
dances on clear lake ripples,
high perched
sky reflection lapping
the moon kissed shoreline

 ― alone ―  

The Sliver of the Moon,
skinny lithe
unripened youth
arching
as unsated
       summer love  ―  
sage memories
waxing and waning,
whiffs of honeyed Jasmine
writhing witherings,
coalescent

    time drifts onward ―   

unstoppable changes
never turning around
looking back
to see
their fading reflection
    recurring ―

  

august rivers 2017

note to self:
September 15, 16 east wind
Breathing Waft of lingering Mountain Sage
another Autumn soon comes

... and I'm getting older too
When our senses are heightened, do you ever think about the journey of the stimulus(?)!  like the path of scent or even smoke...or a distant sound.
How far is the distant horizon you see...even how far away can we be touched (?)! in its many realms...

Just stuff in drafts...
all these are real places
on the long road home

All habitat at Mt. Hood's fingertip reach
in Oregon, North America
Home of the devastating Eagle Creek wild fire of 2017
In the treasured western scenic Columbia River gorge

Waft of Mountain Sage
Written by:  h.a. rivers
our mothers tears fill a hospital ward
as a doctor summons the Chaplins call
last rites administer to this tiny newborn
thrice in five days you're destined to fall
born with a hole in such a delicate heart
yet no doctor nor cleric could recognise
this was to allow the world seep through
a shining eighth wonder of pale blue eyes
held on the sill outside a neonatal room
i saw with my soul a love birthed anew
dad he promised that you'd be home soon
there to the years of childhood we grew

the time had come for mam to say to me
sister was different in other ways as well
not for you was destined a desk at school
nor books would you read nor stories tell
innocence of the pure and purity of truth
special she said born of down syndrome
and yet would i never once see you down
for your smiles to me evoke only wisdom
now as you pass over your fortieth year
my sister i cherish all that we hold dear
for you are a family's jewel in it's crown
raising a world from love handed down
for my sister Siobhan, a shining eighth wonder of pale blue eyes
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