Her novelty has faded.
The stars hang back, distant ladies-in-waiting.
The night sky, their palace, is eclipsed by cities
Exploding with neon lights and grotesque trees.
She is too romantic.
Inch by inch, the black sheath is drawn back,
Revealing her smiling crescent.
She keeps a faithful orbit, and stirs
Blue oceans with long white fingers.

In her full sphere
She is a perfect spotlight,
Turning quiet snowy fields into
Illuminated empty stages.
She plays peek-a-boo, uncovering lovers
Gleaming whitely in the mouths
Of beds.
The beauty of entwined limbs
Exposed in her milky radiance.

She is the sun’s soft reflection.
He is never dim, and the black
Silk bag, a sort of corset,
Is ready to devour her again.
The wine is drained from the glass.
Her smile has become a slit.
The single pearl
Gulped,
Cloaked in shadow again.

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

The Violin’s azure strings wept softly,
from inside of a mind made cell;
musical echoes lamenting,
a poignant abyss too vast to fill
each and all silenced reverie,
leaving the philosopher’s stone
                                          unthrown

Blue guitar minor chord changes,
bent notes phrasing sharps and flats;
memories ―      gently weeping confirmation
as a repressed flow of soul
pensively leaks out

The spirit's currents eddy
suffused within written verve;
silently purging the soul's fountains ―

                                    musical rivulets swell
                                     quietly overflowing
                              an alchemist’s soul unfurled...


        © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved