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  Aug 22, 2017
Blindly Certain

I'm a no one;
Just a stranger that happened to pass by,
Who made a silly mistake,
Yet you talked like we were meant to.

Just a peculiar case;
Talking random things,
That seem to mean nothing,
Yet made its way to be remembered.

A cathartic mess;
Leaving a note that said I'll leave,
Trying to forget how much it'd hurt;
You told me to come back.

Words that made me hold on,
Coming from the most unexpected person;

Dancing with what you've said,
Somehow excruciatingly sweet;

Exhausted with nothing more to say,
Though wanting to talk;
Cold coffee.

I miss you

Even if I know you don't remember me
  Aug 21, 2017
Lora Lee

sitting here but not
my insides
       in a twist
my organs blooming,
their flower landscapes
rising in my solar plexus
like poetry expanding
its cellular shapes
        light frequencies
I need way more.
I need the pulling off
      and stripping down
of souls
I need to meet in
a depth of falling
I need to be pushed off
the silent gates of madness
into endless sea
no looking back
senses piqued
from slightest brush
of oral butter pouring
on hot cream
my mouth, a searing
crimson wound
oscillates in
contraction radar pulses
ripe for intense
tongue exploration
         aching to be filled up with
your distinct flavor
My essence molecular is
overflowing with fluid
giving me life
in throbbing, raw
electric vibes
whipped organic, in
                 rolling tides
Somewhere, out there
                  our volcanic impulses
                          meet in steamy ebbs
                     and send energyflow
to a new and ancient universe,
and I am
a raging heaven's child
      wrapped in
           a tight little
     blood pumping
through these veins
             my longing for
                 dark stretches
   of intimate caresses
to soothe
  the spikes
      of snaking pain
Give me
those airwaves that
let me breathe freedom
into the fields of our skin
Let me run like wild herds
of the animal within

and as I find myself
hanging off
my many-braided loops
         in zigzag split,
my skin rips open,
parting fibers
that expose my
helix swivel
hips grinding into
reaching in to
pull out
fresh rebirth
from between my folds
O help me to allay
this tender affliction
undo me, already
so I lose control
one little shove
and I am over the cliff
deep into ocean
clit over spliff
I am beyond ready
so grind it to the hilt
Give me your
tender-ripped heart,
spill your honeycomb milk

I am here, ravenous
in the pan
uncooked yet ripe
saliva and breath
steaming my own innards
flushing out strife
I am piquant hot pepper
ready to be broiled
my blood is already
my tender meat oiled
mull me over
in your oral cavity
like sacred wine
until I drip
through your bones
and down your spine
Just meld with me
                        and flow
into that light tunnel
of dark time and space
so I can stake out
my rhythms
and claim

  Aug 20, 2017
Nat Lipstadt

for Harlon Rivers

the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent

it is all of these and not one

he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river

transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully

as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly

his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,  
searching revisionary pathways

but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves

this life,
its unsteady gait, 
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position

in him,
my own histories, 
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure

this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others,
but we,
are the untitled,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the


Oct. 20, 2016

harlon is one of the best poets here
if you are new to his writing, be sure to tell him honestly what you think...

his work can be found under
Uncover him, and discover yourself within






Harlon Rivers:
my personal call sign, Poseidon
Poseidon was very fitting with Harlon River,
due to the symbolic nature of the water in their names.
I have only read few of this gentleman's work,
But I can assure you his work is very much a gift to the audience,
And like Poseidon that gift is fire to humanity.
Dawn of  Lighten


and of course<
  Aug 19, 2017
Fucking tired

last night
i came home late
to my mother yelling

i tried to reason
to no avail
she didn't believe any of my words

her hand on my arm
her voice high and loud
she tried to push me inside
she wouldn't listen

tired and angry
i walked away
she followed

then i ran
and ran
and ran
and ran

till i could no longer hear the flopping
of her shoes
behind me.

i had to return later
but the feeling of that run
of disobeying
of my heart beating fast
of my small lasted freedom
is still in my mind
causing me
to want to run once more
and never stop
till i'm so far away
even her in her sliver car
can't find me

i want to run
and run
and run
and run
and i don't wanna ever stop

  Aug 18, 2017
Lady of Ravenhill

Is the way
You fill me
In ways
I didn't know
I was

©LadyofRavenhill 2017
  Aug 17, 2017
Kim Lang

When is it the right time
To open the closet door
To look in on a journey paused
To risk the truth and find
Boxes taped up with angry haste
Adventures stifled within four walls

When is the right time
To sit with the papers, the moments, the times
To make the decisions
To be brave in the face of pain and find
Cherished moments stuffed haphazardly away
Flashes of beauty smothered by a storm

When is the right time
To laugh, to cry, to hate, to mourn
To acknowledge the truth
To risk the unpredictable path that leads to
A heart ready, open for healing
And a closet - with room for someone else

  Aug 16, 2017
Kevin J Taylor

Keep Calm.
What doesn't kill you
Just takes longer.

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