I sit with the same old books in twilight
at my grey colored balcony
as if i am there for years.....
Don't you believe I can dance with wild wind?
I cry with the sunset when egrets fly home
Don't you know I smile with the morning sun,
forgetting all the mourns for awhile?
I remember all those dead cactus whom I cared enough
Have you forgotten all the dusts and lush green places
where once we sat for years to celebrate moments?
I love from distance like the moon adores darkness
In a crowded place, don't you feel my absence .....?
I tolerate you like the branches of tree tolerate the unknown birds
Don't you believe in to live a life with one soul who called you mine once?
I smile when darkness occupy my thoughts
When words may not be beautiful than my silence
Don't you know how to appreciate little things in life
that make life simply content?
I want the open sky, green field, blue ocean in return of my every single tear drops
Don't you know when you break hearts, hearts love you less?
Haven't you learned how to caress a broken soul that came back again and again to you to fix her every damn shattered pieces?
You gave her false hopes, opened the door and drove her away.....
I respect those who knows suffering, struggle, pain
I embrace my flaws and imperfections in a perfect balance
I color my darkest hours on bright canvas
Don't you know chasing rainbows are in vain?
In the gallery of a town, art was duly contained
and cared for carefully without contamination.
There was a painting there, painted with oil
paints that rained and formed a picture of a bird
on a canvas of vivid blues, browns, and greens
that fixed eyes on it like webs to hair.
The artist spoke:
“We are all swallows: proud, free, agile.
We are all oceans: formidable, hostile.
We are all stormy weather: thunderous.
We are all columns: supportive, calloused.
Entwined we will walk,
down to and up to the sands,
into elixirs made with salt;
swelling our joyous hands.”
Men, women and children all strolled by,
and let not one of them see the lows and highs
of the artist's soul. A boy stood there with
no-one: his uncorrupted eyes walking up and
down the mined canvas. He felt no sand
under his feet; he felt no wooden skin and
complexion in his hands.
“We are not swallows: ashamed, caged, stiff.
We are not oceans: defenceless, mild.
We are not stormy weather: soundless
We are not columns: defective, defiled.
Like slaves, we sing
on top of the wings
of new-born Spring.
The ground we sowed and toiled,
reaped dangers of fantasy untold.
singing the siren song to us.
But we must not fuss.
I bleed the colours
of a deadly rose garden.
Red, yellow, blue, green:
colourless eyes remain unseen.”
To saunter through the chiming world,
Downy and white, a cloud burst wafted,
Fresh as the sight of a newborn furled,
A glimpse for mortals gazing gods lofted.
How lovely a way to sail through world,
By streaming to seas or wondrously land,
Fresh as the wave that breaks and curls,
To come from airs breezing from heavens.
Belted Kingfisher perches atop leaning alder branch throne
just watching the river flow over shallow pea gravel shoal
Swirling crystalline waters reflect unturned stones
shielding tawny Crawdad depths , only known by those
who look beyond that which veils aneath river flows
Unfaceted agates sheared from roots of cut bank carved mines ; metamorphic rocks gathered and gravity drawn ,.. falling
from Mt Hood headwaters to Zigzag salmon berry vines ,
below Ripplebrook sand bars.., beyond...
bright banded agates smoothed by time ,
vestige from majestic mountain miles high
and perpetual motion glacial sands
Fiddlehead ferns unfurl beneath crested blue top notched eyes
creation sculpted with the amazing grace
nature’s babbling headwaters song
Swelling river tail-out’s undulating riffles
gather the Kingfishers' silver flash of hope
Conspicuously hovering over sacred salmon redd
smolt filled waters undulating thrum
ennobled by unbounded innate purpose
abruptly diving for renewed sustenance
singing supplicating rattling psalms
Fuzzy feathered continuum nesting in riverbank holes
intently communing with the rivers' whispered anthem ;
keenly apart to the parity of higher visions of grandeur
perched above the river margin's
delicate murmuring symmetry
where Alder latticed roots cling in hopeful harmony
with the faith that moved mountains
unto this distant rocky shoal ...
April 19, 2015 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved #Earth Day
Screaming goes the midday sun
As voices move and footsteps chatter
Words of promise and love and romance rise
Onto the forest green of the world
Never did her skin match the surface of her crimson heart
Never did her eyes shine nor blind the people of her choosing
Never did her face seem to catch the sulken view of suitors
Nor did her voice capture the attention of the world
The world denied her and she denied the world
Yet her feet painted colours of their very own
Making a masterpiece
A line-by-line pattern of golden streaks of colours
That kept at their place
Kept where she stood
Aligned perfectly with the rise of the sun and the fall of the moon
According to the ones who saw
According to the ones who knew
And according to the ones who left
Misinterpretation never dignifies the righteousness of a canvas
Nor does it eliminate the mere reason for it’s purpose
A single streak can own much value,
While a collection could just be patterns;
A child’s word can be easily heard
But intertwining it around your mind is much harder.
She glazed her ground with the rainbows of her tips
Her voice not heard but her creations seen
And while an audience of words is not received
The birds of heaven don’t forget.
Crow in the sun so black,
You are blue, a dark shining
On the green innocent lawn.
Crow in the sun creeping,
On land you are awkward,
In the sky you are blotting.
Crow in the laze of the day,
Your eyes are unbalancing
In the gardens overgrown.
Crow in the sun so black,
You are shimmering dread,
On the green unkept lawns.
sometimes the rain falls a little bit harder
somedays it feels like april blues and
the rain falls a little bit harder on your umbrella
even if your window invites sunlight onto your face
and the newly birthed flowers tickle your feet as you walk past
and the grass curls softly in the wind you leave behind
and the birds chirp hello like a beautiful little chorus
and the day is new
sometimes the rain comes by and it falls a little bit harder
than it did yesterday,
so the flowers are subdued
and the grass reaches for that rain
and the birds duck for cover
and the day decides to try again later
you can try to hold a little hope but
april is not yet over
everything you need
you'll find in the cupboards of your soul
spoiled fruit, stale bread, and brown water
destitute, on the road again, going everywhere but home
the corn fields go still with even a hush of your name
and everyone turns grey and wonders
what ever happened to that poor, poor thing
you could've done so much but just decided to rot
but no one mopes over you in your small town
they still shoot the birds in the sky and eat the apples in the tree
no one cares for your letters
they make their fires with your sloppy handwriting
it's truly appalling how i could have been someone
exactly like you
if it weren't for the fact that you imprisoned me in
the cupboards of your soul