When you're young,
You may write to
Your latest infatuation.
Or, maybe out of
Teenage angst, you'll
Write to yourself -
Catharsis for your built up
Anger and frustration.

When you're a little older,
You might write about your
Wedding day,
The vows to your bride.
Or maybe when you bring
Children into this world,
You'll write about
The fear that comes
From becoming a father.

In your thirties
Disappointment may come,
And you may find
Yourself writing to
The man you were 10 years ago -
Wishing you had taken the
Other path in that yellow-leafed forest.

When you hit your midlife crisis
You might write about the things
You have or have not done...
Or maybe you'll write about
Your newly found passion:
Harley Davidson Motorcycles,
The rumble between your toes.

Retirement brings the turn of the line
As "every season has its sign".

In your older age,
You may cease to write
For the muse of your youth.
More and more,
Your poems will end
With the words,
"In memory of..."

Each one reminding you
To be thankful
For the sock that helped you
Find the book that was loaned
To you months ago,

And you will notice things like
Those naked-spring-branches
So harmoniously intertwined -  
A piece of art that
No painter would be able to emulate
With a thousand brushstrokes.

And as you sit down to reflect
On the typed documents
Of your life's work,
You have a friendly conversation
With a long-distance friend,
Reflecting on it all.

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

You will not see my shadow pass
the gate of mournings eerie dark
Nor hear my voice among the reeds
that grow above my silenced heart
No fondest kiss to furrowed brow
to quell the torment of your making
for you have left me here alone
to sleep the sleep that knows no waking.

The quieter he became ...
the more he could feel
only a single lit candle
moved the stillness ,
gripping the void between
lucency and obscure darkness

longing eyes slipped slowly closed
as the flicker faded ,
inner quietude dimming all light
the darker it got ...
the more vividly he could see

a nearly silent exhaled sigh
let the memories flood ;
leaning into the bereft
where there once was light ,
he became a timeless silence
                              without form
                     only shaped by retracing
                        re-remembered words

yearning to understand
some of the greater things life unfolds
experiencing the unknown
                             without fear ,
                      for to clinch and feel
that which seems indefinable

     for here ,
in this formless
manifest dimension ,
all layers of essence
are peeled back
to the bared aurora
of a soul's spirit light ;

at the core of inner stillness
      nothing is impossible ...



© H A Rivers all rights reserved