JAC Jul 12

"You? Ha,"
he grinned.

"You're just like me,"
he said, his features glued to mine.

"Lost, and searching
only in your own reflection,"
his eyes narrowing
as my eyes focused.

"You can't possibly believe
you'll find what you want to find,"
said the boy in the mirror,
holding my gaze.

leolewin Jul 5

Each day I see a different part of the picture,
Giving me fleeting notions of comfort.

Each day I feel a little different,
Making for an interesting ride.


Emotions changing with the seasons,
Happiness comes and goes with the tide.

Each day I learn something new,
Discovering what
resides inside.

meg Jul 3

My saviour is a hunter, and he loves like a Sunday storm.

I’m singing in the blue room,
singing for him
and when I’m done, his applause
is the rain
battering,
a gale-force encore.

My saviour is the devil, and he loves like the sea in summer.

I’m skipping through thresholds
to reach him
and once I do, his arms
are the branches
caging,
a thorny embrace

My saviour is The Hermit, and he loves like the sting of a wasp.

Our nights,
nights we sleep sharing breath,
those nights are his.

Our mornings,
mornings he feeds me strawberry halves,
those mornings are mine.

My saviour is no saviour, and he loves like he hates:
all at once, with nothing to soften the blow.

There are 14 steps in my house.
He has stood at the top,
waiting for me to fall,
since I was a child.

leolewin Jun 28

Young boy, stop crying, don’t shed more tears.

One day you’ll be loved; one day you’ll be revered.

Young boy, be inspired by the stars at night.

Be open to the wisdom, be open to the light.

Young boy, make sure you always love yourself first.

Be in-tune with your truth, in the moment be immersed.

Young boy, don't be afraid to take a chance.

Who cares if you’re not perfect - only a few are, at a glance.

Young boy, be the change in which you seek, be bold be brave be your truest self - celebrate being unique.

rivers Apr 23

An ordinary springtide breeze
skipped lightly upon pungent
amassed trillium felicity


an arousing spring cadence
wafts lighter than yester night's
vague hope silently stirred
between ensconced memories


squandered dreams benumbed
by a chilling need to forget
what tarries unforgotten
in mending hearts broken


more than any practical sense
beyond fleeting lifespan :


for a candle burns more dimly
just before the wick's smolders rise ,
evanescing smoke dissipating ;
like tears that dry on their own


a candlewick gasping for wax
before vanishing into its own ash
a fading memory of light ―                                                                ­        .


April 23, 2017

© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Montay Henson Apr 17

I've seen this one angel hanging in town
she dances and sings and spreads happiness around
she's kind and funny and unique
She bathes me in light every time we meet
She grips my hand and walks with me down the street
this angel isn't mine, but she knows what I need
she knows my angles and shows them to me
she read the lines that I am hiding closely
she heats me up and melts me slowly
She brings  the light when the night is lonely
And when I look at her eyes I swear they're glowing
I know they're knowing I can see her probing
It's not easy hiding from these angles she's bringing
I want to speak, but the words are tainted
My brain is jumbled and my thoughts scream faintly
I know I'm being a selfish brat
Is it my fault that I can be myself with you?
Is my my fault that your essence is addicting?
what angle do I need to see to see you being an angel over just me?

Haven't made anything in a long time, something happened recently that made me need a release of my feelings and thoughts and well, here it is.
Chris Thomas Apr 14

Part I

There is a trail that I've walked a time or two
Wearing heavy shoes made of crackling fire
I've left behind only a charred unrecognizable road
And a sunrise as bitter as its roots

The trail parts swiftly, cleaving me as it cleaves itself
My route is camouflaged in winter's blanket
I spin on heels that have worn their welcome
And I walk beyond the borders of this dream

There's an old woman in a cottage
Who tells me I have a mist behind my eyes
"Brown is the color of failure," I tell her as I pass
And she flashes a half-smile that chills me to my bones

Part II

Late to rest, yet early to rise
Quarrelsome images tirelessly haunt my sleep
The old lady waves from the bottom of the hill
But it's too late to turn back now

I see a saddle of good weight resting against birchwood trees
Yet no sign of steed for miles around
As calloused palms meet calloused leather
I sense the spirit of its rider wash over me

The path now winds like a time traveling clock
My breathing hastens as my feet carry on
I hear whistling but I'm unsure of the source
Is it me?  Or is it something out of sight?

Part III

I come to a clearing at long last
Blistered feet have taken me far, just not far enough
My pupils sense a brightness I haven't encountered before
Instinctively, my hands shield my cowering eyes

The old woman is there, whispering to lilies
In a language my mind has no hope of comprehending
She pays no heed to my presence at all
Yet she knows that I linger in my bewilderment

She plucks a lily from the unblemished earth
And I see a brilliant steed at the center of the shimmering field
"Brown is the color of failure," she says with a parched grin
And suddenly my path becomes very clear

Part IV

I flinch as the light overwhelms my perception
Evolving now into an ethereal embrace
Though blind, my feet move without my mind's approval
And suddenly I am mounted upon the majestic horse

Like a snare drum, its gallop is steady and gallant
My sense of direction in disarray as I'm carried through the woods
I hear the woman's hands wringing at weeds in the distance
Despite how far from the clearing I should be by now

The horse tenses and sneers as momentum careens to a halt
I feel myself being thrown through air, time, and space
My brown eyes blink as oxygen floods my rested lungs
Gasping, I realize I'm as awake as I have ever been

End.

This work is the result of two weeks of writing, which seems like a long time for a piece of this length.  But each time I sat down to work on it, something else just called to me to either write or re-write.  

This piece is focused on the substance of my dreams; how quickly they seem to unfold in my mind, and how deeply they seem to point to something in my heart that is unsatisfied with its condition.
Bongani Moyo Apr 11

Story Time

The girl with the beautiful laugh never ends up with the boy who secretly wishes to make her smile every day.

The End.

How many times should such continue to happen
Bongani Moyo Apr 11

Moon lit intentions as I come alive in the night time,
Sun shy with the actions when it comes to what really matters.

I rip myself apart in the hopes that something braver rises from the ashes.

We all go through this at times

fight the need to pull the thorn, kill yourself to be reborn,
live your life in fear of death, clinging to your final breath
harm done even when you win, pride is such a deadly sin
count me out or count me in, til the day the world wont spin
fine me for my will to be, tax the squirrel the use the tree
sell my insides, scamming me, nothing in this world is free
shaping, taping back together, taking, raking all your splendor
faking, making us pretenders, facing, gaping black forever
bring me down and ream me out, fill me up with hate and doubt
tender fetal origins, generations' collagen
lets go out and hit the town, shoot one up and knock one down
binding, winding, finding sound, listening to my heart pound
bursting vessels 'round the socket, ball it up into my pocket
flyin higher than a rocket, once you've tried it, try and knock it
asking nice to get inside; soiled, rotten, blushing bride
with her hands between her thighs, only wishing for surprise
see our circle dissipate, seems i've found you just too late
all im left with is my hate, and the need to procreate
lose your temper, mind and soul, listen to the blackness roll
deaths compile and raise the toll, what secrets does the future hold?
wretched roaches writhe and run, while rancid tyrants toll the sun
leeches, peaches, pears and plums, kill me when my birthday comes

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