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Beside the river,
I transfigure into my feather shape
I am in my bird state
Calling out for my mystical encounter
"Come make me wings and help me escape "

I feel a strong heat and an intense grip on my back
I look at the mirror and see my reflection sewing me wings around my neck

Its all a trip i claim

Just like a drop of paint in water
The rain came
to destroy the image of my lover

My unheard comforter that willfully has to lie

For this river reflects my buried will to die

But i ignore it all and fly high because i am entitled to the good things in life

Words Of Harfouchism
old willow Oct 5
The song of eastern river from afar.
Once again, time has come to visit.
Like the thread that you hold,
time weaves and unfold.
While my memories is still strong,
I recite this old song.
Life is cut and stilled in the midst of time,
with moments engraved in heart,
I sing this song in time.
Nothing more intimate than sleep
wake before dawn, go downtown
prepare for tomorrow, come home from work late.

Most cities prosper undisturbed
sleeping peacefully
while the tide goes out.

Are we asleep or are we dancing,
surrounded by buildings,
a primitive fertility dance in the forest?

Sleeping in my clothes,
sleeping in my underwear,
two dead leaves, then a breeze!

Fall asleep by the river,
in front of tv,
soon I will know who I am.

In the last days you may be found sleeping in the laundry mornings,
or in the holy spot
gazing at a crescent moon.

Get up early but gotta nap,
winter afternoons or summer heat
Thanatopsis, Big Comfy Couch.

Sleep in the bed next to your wife
that way when life ends
someone misses you.

That sounds harsh but we’re matter of fact
about the fact of death.
Death is most of all like sleep.

Doctor, engineer, lawyer, soldier,
writer, poet, that’s the pecking order,
get some sleep, get over it.

Not the kind of gal who’ll have *** twice
on the first date. When that happens
marriage, babies, graduations, tragedies, sleep.

Headache, surgery, through it all
there’s sleep, a haven, heaven, hovel, cave, raven,
a place to be with eyes wide open.

Don’t have a hissy fit
or case of colon cancer, get 8 hours
shuteye in contiguous array.

If not, listen to a TED talk, they like explaining things
Selected Shorts solves insomnia,
The Moth Hour, the peaceful father, mother.

Sweet pleasing Sleep!
in Hades
where the lights are always blue, gentian actually.

Every third thought doesn’t have to be about death.
Sleep together, get laid.
Sleep. How memories are made.
Sleep. In the palm at the end of the mind or on another plane.
All I want for my people
Is an education and a means that's skilful
So we can tap into our innate
Compassion and wisdom
We're all wrapped in our personalities
And back at a distance
So we suffer when dealing
With our own brothers and sisters
And I'm a suffering witness
Trying to preach the Science of Living
So as to penetrate the ego
And put us back in position
Like a relaxed spine in meditation
When you're comfortably sitting
The current is a bit too much for most
In this lively river
But when you're able to capture the moment
Waves are still water, like a picture
I hope I paint it vivid
A heart is radiant in Harmony
I hope you catch the rhythm
Imagine in a mirror
Love, compassion, joy, and equanimity
Characteristics of an awakened mind
I'm just trying to reflect its brilliance
Staying mindful
And of self, I try to keep desires empty
To be of benefit
Takes pure will and stainless intentions
mydesirelines Sep 29
In their eyes
she, is the holy river
and I, am a doubtful sinner.

I drowned myself
deep in Ganges.

Now she, is a holier-than-thou
and I, am a confessed sinner.
Ghats of Banaras, in India, is a holy place where Ganga river is washing sins of many from thousands of year.
Mark Parker Sep 25
Rocks ripple my river reflection
as amber and caramel leaves spiral
from sleeping oaks
landing atop water as lily pads
and clothing my mirror image.
I envy the resting trees,
tucked in for the winter.
The place exists somewhere, I just have to find it.
Xella Sep 24
She met me by the river and turned her cheek to the sun
taunting it. Her willingness could cause a mark in red,
like a statue she sits so still.

My feet dangle in the river, which she dare not touch and I know
why she must stay so fussed with the pray that is all in her head,
to think she may die.

Or end up dead down some dark dingy creek
gives me no better reason to meet her here where she knows, her
friends. To say goodbye is to become a foe with the daring woman.

So I just hope that she'll turn her head and pull the mask to her chin.
To look me in the eye and scream in my face,
that I might die tomorrow.

Even though I know she could strike me down this minuet,
with the river raging i'd close my eyes,
to the fish flailing, and my friends across the waters.
To the beat of the rapids, i'd happily die.
I'm trying this new thing, writing but not editing. Then coming back to it months later...i'm trying to create a stream of consciousness...key word trying. So...i didn't edit this, just wrote.
Jonathan Moya Sep 24
The lavender skin river
whispered with a maiden’s call.

Bonnet curls kissed her banks
in a flush of forgiving tears
for the trawlers bruising
her mercy and calm,
each departing an oily scar
that dispersed in the flow,

for the water is never mean
this cold season
to those that whip her  
yet never scuttle in her embrace,
for she is an orphan
seeking the lost ocean’s reunion.

She wonders on rivery things,
the searching and sloshing swirl,
the geraniums, irises, lobelias
breaking off in purple sacrifice
to soothe her aching waters.

knowing that endless
Sunday baptisms have made her
sacred to those who
know only the dawn and twilight
of the sun above her
and the watery blessings
below that feed them.

The river flowers tickled her and
the laughter spread on her stream
and she knew what she meant
and what she meant to them.
She moved closely away
to the tiny hands in the grass
waving her goodbye
and the longer, bigger ones
welcoming the trawlers home.
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