I think I'll stop
that lasts
a moment or two


my thoughts begin to form
into some force that builds
it has no place to go
down my arm
      through my wrist
          into my fingers and
              out through their ends

into the pen
         flowing from it
            onto the page

in black ink or blue
          in pencil or green marker
               pink crayon or highlighter

onto backs of bills
           old letters or jagged-edged envelopes...

any empty spot looking lonely
            and in need of being stroked

my pen strokes it and coos to it
              giving it life, giving it meaning
                                                       (I hope)
                   making it a page in my book,
                        my scattered book that may

never be bound

do I want it to be?
do I want it free, floating, scattered to the wind

like blackbirds leaving a tree
              shooting out in all directions, writing
                   their book, their black ink making a deep
                       impression in the pale blue sky, cursive writing
                            with frills and dips and curves

watch how they move, how they write it all down
                 in the heavens for all to read like books on a library's
                    shelves holding themselves out, offering their very souls

to the loving hands of all who pass by, bound pages waiting to be freed
                  to fly across our minds like blackbirds across the sky,

a new page there

Someone's poem...I should have written it down...reminded me of this one.

Guarded we were kept in rooms like cages
It felt like prison cells for us to cave in
Screams burning our throats and lungs with spit stumbling out of our tongues in which burned like hell
The constant reminders that it's suppose to heal and help
But medicated up we were and I don't call that any sort of help
Lab rats we were the test
Pills and pills pour out over and over again
Our rooms guarded at night with little freedom we were locked in
And when we were allowed out we were constantly mistreated
For me I was misdiagnosed not once but several times which made me feel so defeated
After a while my mind went bleak and I lost track of time
Day in and day out everyday felt the same and I couldn't break the endless cycle it was a strain  
And being said everyday felt like a constant struggle to get "better"
But how can you get better when you're inside locked not able to see the nice summery weather
From what I remember my roommate clawed the walls like there were chains and shackles on his hands
He tore open his knuckles trying to break free but there was no escaping so we laid in our beds hopelessly
When it came time of night I got to call home I was high
The pills they had me on were not right
So I slowly broke down in my mind
A place to help one heal but it took so much time
I was scared shitless worried that I was finally out of my mind
Because I knew I was not in the right state of mind
One bad slip could have cost me my life
But when I was sent here it was all a lie
My mom told me I was seeing a new therapist, but here I lay institutionalized
The unfortunate Bipolar chaotic mind of mine
Once I was set free I thought I felt fine but
Weeks later sadness and depression yet again overcame me
Some pills and whiskey tried to take me away to heaven which I'll see some other day maybe?
That's when I sent myself back to actually try and learn something this time around I wanted to find my solid ground
At first it was hard because me and the guards watching us all didn't get along  
When I tried helping others there I was shamed for it as if it was wrong
How wrong can it be helping those who hurt and are helplessly unhappy like me
The guards were always pretending they didn't see a damn thing
People cried and screamed on their knees, snorting pills, and cutting themselves with anything they could reach
So broken so reckless so helpless one should pity
When we sat and discussed things in group therapy we were judged and mistreated
But I myself came to learn and grow
So from broken fragments I was able to rise which did feel better than getting high with the people I once called friends that after all this left my side
I didn't let things get to me I sat I listened I spoke dearly
The bullying of others didn't help me along, but I knew I'd get out sooner if I was nice and acted happy and didn't play and edge them along
There were constant fights which I had to split up
Some of the others didn't seem to care nor give a fuck
But luckily for me and the few friends I made we worked together to better ourselves and get out of this place we found to be so shitty
With the right state of minds we surly flew out of the cages we all grew
One by one we were set free
Hopeless birds we used to be

Bipolar drugs metal hospital fly high

Jimmy was his name,
To frighten was his game,
His mission is to keep  birds at bay,
A true professional of his day,
Though out in all kinds of weathers,
Trying to deter those things with feathers,
Considered a master in his field,
Scarecrow Jim had the job well and truly sealed.

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 the 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 a little while?

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?

In return of my every single tear drops, I want the open sky, green field, blue ocean
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?

~||April 2017||

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.
He spoke:

“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.
Soul-reaping bird-singers
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.”

Ormond 7d

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

Notes:  written about an actual real place where i go fishing
on the Clackamas River, Oregon...USA

Paying homage to Mother earth is something I enjoy often as a writer mused by nature.  We can never be reminded enough to appreciate the delicate balance and symmetry of this planet's ecosystem.... republished Earth Day 2017
Manny Arriaga Apr 19

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 collision
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.

Branden Youngs Apr 19

She was a bird locked in a cage, so she never knew how to fly.
The only sound she ever made, was a soft cry.
No wonder why she felt like she never belong,
she was such a beautiful bird, but without a song.

Ormond Apr 18

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.

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