Zero four hundred,
Early to wake,
Early to fuel,
The oiler is,
Hmmm...
Where you find it.
Radar will find it,
Only ******'s eye
Will get you
Along side,
In one piece.
Fifty men
Move as one,
Hauling span wires
Ship to ship,
Then,
Hauling hoses
Ship to ship,
Between the ships
The boiling sea,
Calls out its threat,
'Make no mistake,
Lest you be ******
Into my jaws,'
Two hundred tiny feet,
Or less,
Between those ships.
We pump as quickly
As we can,
The sooner we can
Break away,
The sooner we can
End this work,
Back breaking,
Dangerous.
For when it's done,
There's other work
Yet to be done,
Perhaps some chow,
As well.
(We hope there's time)
But most of all,
Our tin can,
Can disconnect,
From this giant
Of an oiler,
Break away,
At thirty knots,
Steam safely on
"Duty assigned,"
Full of oil,
Full of food,
Full of movies,
Full of all
That lets it live,
A full work day,
Is yet ahead.

Kindness is an essence painless for us to reach
The smallest one makes our journey light
A memory of a kindness seldom ever leaves
Brings a smile to our faces
When it is recalled
In our sight

Such a powerful virtue is contained in kindness
Though often considered insignificant
It is a choice each one of us carries within us
To nourish a seed of hope in a soul
In dire need
Of replenishment

Kindness is a gentle element, smoothing tension
Throughout energy flowing in us all
Abundantly, in supply, to each and everyone
A choice, perhaps considered insignificant
With an effect, one could never
Consider small

The burden of the sky..
The burden of the sky is the replenishment of the earth..

Roses have thorns like the pain in my heart…
But they have soft petals like the light that comes in through the window in the early morning…
The blood red color of the petals fills my heart with blue blood cells needing replenishment…
But the soft feel reminds me of the time I caught her eyes and she caught mine….
The thought of falling again brings the bittersweet memories to my mind in a whirlwind of petals floating across the sky….
As I spin with the petals I think of the times I held you close and landed a gentle kiss on your forehead…
And the time I felt my face burn after the words of snakes slipped from my tongue…
The fluttering petals swallow me with the light feeling of love…
This light feeling brings me in a full circle again and I feel like I’m going to be sick…
And then it passes as the crimson petals continue on their way to another couple…
To create moments full of despair and sadness for those who have betrayed the other like…
The thorns on a rose who betray the beauty of the thing….

One foot in front of the other.
Days passed by.
Walking was said to be a spiritual practice which yielded many dividends. The replenishment of the soul and the connection to all around you. Pilgrimage to sacred sites, walking the labyrinth, meditation. Strolling, cavorting, frolicking or wandering. As we stretch our legs, we stretch our minds and souls.
Few philosophers and writers had ever penned the absolute, gut-wrenching torturous boredom of the walk as Ronnie James now experienced it.
Fifty-six bones, one hundred and twelve ligaments and seventy-six muscles of dull, throbbing pain.
Who could tell how long it had been? He had but only the tedious task of counting his steps to judge it by. He'd long ago lost all track.
Sauntering alone through the barren ocean of sand.
Indeed, Thoreau wrote that the word itself, "saunter," may have been derived from “sans terre.”
“Without land or a home,” murmured Ronnie.
With every step we take, we leave some ghost of ourselves behind,
He who sits motionless, watching life pass by through the window, may be the most awful vagrant of them all – but the saunterer is no more vagrant than the meandering river.
Days passed by.

I long for
   the sanctuary of sleep,
             my palm, relaxed,
      upon your heart
head nestled
      into the crook
            of your kindness,
slow strokes of tender
shelter from
the storms within
             thunder quelled into gentle
                as the stars fill my bones
       leading me into
forests of sweet, dark
replenishment
   scent of pine
         and loamy moss
             over my body,
forming a green –quilted
blanket of tiny-budded love
my fingers planted deep
into the cooling soil,
sprouts unfurling
crickets in night chant
fireflies a-whirl
and the bond
in our  
veins, delicate fronds
                intertwined yet      
                       giving space
                   to breathe,
simply breathing
lungs expanding
in the cracked
wood tranquil
of mountain air
hushed rush  
For now,
through panes of glass
          the moon
                 casts a watchful eye
                              caressing my
                          sadness with
            her woven strobes
                                        of
                                light

Note: this isn't my work, but a work of one of the poet named Haron River ( currently go by H A Rivers) in this site who is currently MIA! Time to time I would scour poet's work, and allow them to teach me with their wisdom with their penmanship.  This was a poem Haron River gave me as a memento, but all his work is golden, and should be shared!  Hopefully new comers would check his work out! Without any further ado, here it is!

Untitled

Refreshed perspective gathered words
Like the ocean riptide gather
The rivers' flow at the confluence
Repurposing back-eddies,
Rejuvenation of stagnant brackish waters
Inherent soul-shine purging
From ancient core of earth mother

Light arising from the depth of inner stillness
As if a refilling wellspring burst forth,
Reawaking sighs too deep for words
Forming poetic constellation
To lighten the nebulous darkness,
Like sea of ink transformed into poetry

A sage opus renewed
By the muse of a migrating flock
Striving to discover new sacred grounds
Yet there is an undeniable song sung
In the howling wind of change
An incitement from a higher dialect
That empowers a restoration of the spirit
Oeuvre uplifted by rogue waves of wind
Arousing that which time erases

A renaissance manifest
Among the rousing nuances
Of poetic continuum,
Provoking a verve revival
Judicious to discovery
The enthralling vastitude
Of every breaking wave
In a vast sea of poesy

Where prevailing currents
Stir oceans of verse eternal;
Provoking verve revival,
The magnitude of an unbroken circle,
Oceans swells merging oneness
With the omnipresent of color
Of uncharted depth

As if thoughts assuage
By the Union of distant touching souls,
Spark nuances spanning poetic realms,
Transcending barriers of unexplored lexicon
To manifest the immensity,
Enkindling rhapsody of hearts and minds

Deeply rooted soul replenishment
Harvested from the tree of humankind,
Willingly sharing without regret
Enabling a metamorphosis
Of the human journey

The cousin of death is slowing my breath, and has me wondering how much in the tank I have left.  Insatiable emotional depth. Pleasing evenings, some of which I had not slept.  Saw your river, ran to it and leapt.  Stepped along the stony bottom revisiting memories, never forgotten.   Stopped in for a smile but the wood on the bridge was rotten.  Past lifetime I've taken a lot in, but haven't let much out.  The garden that my heart is in is experiencing drought, waiting for a downpour, accompanied by the majesty of a thunderstorm.  
And so my soul soaks in the tone of being alone.  
Never a dull moment but no hand to hold.  
My whole can unfold, unto a page.  It's my key to unlock myself from the cage I felt.  Loosened the belt around my head.  Decompressed the mind many a time, worry free in bed where dread is not an option.  Then the thoughts popped in, Where we were cropped out.  Each of you a beautiful flower bud and I hope to see you sprout, and eventually thrive.  I silenced any negativity, to hear from my inner child that's still alive.  Let go of pride to make amends to the few.  And I wish nothing but love to all my waves have touched, the old and the new.  Now is forever, but at times I have postponed.  Now I find home in where I roam, and loan vibes at no interest.  Hard to see the path solely focused on the finish, but too many instances left the words/actions inconsistent.  Still finding out that i'm so resilient.. I just see an empty pond over yonder, and often ponder on how to fill it.  Thrill through the skill of spontaneity, I must disappear before the lords seek to vanquish me.  Outdoors to explore pastures of grace unseen on this face of the trip, among greenery and sounds astounding.  It always amazes me the situations I am found in.  Now to doze off, for mind and body replenishment.  Power enough within all to create direction to switch the skit.  I just hope we come to fully appreciate the characters that starred in it.

There are thrones that are not thrones;
  but instead,
are ones built on the counterfeiting of substance,
where hands grasp at weightless scepters,
mistaking empty air for authority.

There are crowns that are not crowns,
forged not in fire, but in absence;
polished not in wisdom, but in hunger;
worn by those who mistake imitation for inheritance.

This is the kingdom of voided substance—
a palace where the Wellspring does not flow,
where no roots drink deeply,
where no walls hum with the resonance of truth.

And yet, they gather.

They gather in circles of shadow--
parched tongues speaking of rivers they have never touched,
fingertips tracing the echoes of power
but never the power itself.

They weave words like veils over their thirst,
drawing others into the orbit of their illusion,
stealing what little water remains
in the ones who have not yet fully entered the Source.

They feed—not from the Well,
but from the moisture of the lost,
sustained by the remnants of those
who still carry the trace of what is real.

And they call it life.
And they call it wisdom.
And they call it love.

But the crown they wear is hollow.
The weight is an illusion.
The throne beneath them—an image, projected;
a structure that exists only so long
as no one leans too hard upon it.

They fear those who see.
They mock those who refuse to kneel.
They rage against the ones
who have touched the living water
and now speak of its taste..
of its cooling replenishment.

Because they know.
Somewhere, beneath the gilded artifice,
beneath the hollow performance,
beneath the empty sound of their own voices,
they know.

They were never given entry.
In fear, they ran from the cost of true substance.
They hold no access, only illusion.
And so, they take,
and take,
and take—

Until the weight of their own emptiness
crushes them beneath the throne
they have built from rust.

But rust does not hold..
   it deteriorates.

And when the kingdom crumbles,
when the crown slips from their grasp,
when the illusion cracks beneath the weight
of what is,

what will remain of them then?

For the hollow cannot stand
against the gravity of the Real.