words drift away unfettered from whence they came, passing like undreamed clouds – pragmatic eyes to the sky in a searching stare – unsought thoughts disappearing hence a fog bow fading into sunlight
there are days when it comes out in my silence there are days when it falls down in my tears:
muse – muted in poet's pause, heart and soul whispers laid bare unwritten behind parsing eyes disregarded words let loose, ungarnered the way low hanging fruit falls benign — unharvested —
shortsighted insight from a bird's eye view silently fermenting traces and unfiltered memories come and go unheeded words, discarded like the passing time of our lives
at times it's ludicrous to follow down lingering footprints left behind callous: when the shoe won't fit; slogging across eroding time-worn stepping stones scattered on this twisted line these feet have been walking down, trying to make a getaway from myself
walking away from the memories like so many indelible footprints to escape – while dreaming stardust into stars in nameless constellations – reaching out from the inside, site unseen, trying to experience the empirical shape of stifling silence in a theatre made by chance
distilling the gifts and burdens of trying to live a worthy life only I'll see...
harlon rivers ... September 27, 2018
pondering reticence, my recent hesitation makes me wonder — do you ever just not write down the poetry that is right in front of the eyes of your soul? This is the last piece i've written and feels as if it could be... but any poet knows — you can't steer a river
"One Man's Wilderness" by Richard Proenneke, is the title of a book I read twice this summer "Alone in the Wilderness"
"poet's pause" a truism/expression coined by Pagan Paul