In kissing the ocean
The old rivers dream
Of flying as clouds and
Reverting to streams

In drinking the river
The youth of the twig
Absorbs some small knowledge
Of trees that are big

In bleeding the mountain
The crack in the stone
Enriches the water
That springs from its bones

In breathing these pages
These poems I pray
Wish for me to become
A river someday

How did I end up back here
Blind to what lies ahead
Yet in the fading road behind
I see each bridge and bend

Like the tide I have returned
With your mem'ry on my mind
Yet like the tide, my lessons learned
Wash away before my eyes

I lost so much with you, my dear
To walk along your way
The path we planned together
Would have led us both astray.  
I washed the silt, the sand, the dirt
In brackish water tears
As hand in hand, God led me on
Back to familiar piers.

The dust I stirred up as I left
All settled with each stride
So here again, I journey on
With you not by my side.

I guess thats just how it goes when you break up in a small river town.
Paul Jones May 18

These halfway feelings...      hang in the balance -
sad to have left you,      happy to have met.

20:25 - 18/05/17
State of mind: sadness; complex.

Thoughts: from memories - the sadness in leaving somewhere or someone you love but also feeling good about those times.

Questions: none.
rivers Jul 2

The voice within is falling silent;
betrayed by the narrowing
mileposts fleetingly passed
Only muted word traces are left behind
like crumbs in the transitory wake,
conjured in heart's rear-view mirror,
the nebulous emptiness
in-between the disappearing

Just a murder of crows remain
    perched pensively
upon broken lonely deadhead treetop;
60 million plus years of evolution
listening to the uncommon silence beckon ―
as black-eyes clearly look beyond

The most vocal oracle awaits sentinel
down below where the pavement ends;
crouching haughtily atop
The End of the Road ― sign
ere the long and winding road
   turns into a pathway
        beyond its end

The metastasis of loneliness
chokes out the waning breath
from the failing lungs of hope
A perpetual journey evanesces
in search of an unsullied light,
  never enough to penetrate
     the blackening tunnel
            of destiny lost ―
    fallen short of the mark 

         Mindful eyes blur
the meaningless abiding mileposts ;
    fading highway markers
      that stand transfixed
     at the side of the lonely
             road home―

the rest of these days are empty
  road kill run over by Time ...

           "caws ― caws"

    harlon rivers ―  June 30, 2017


from:  The Slow Death of a Poet collection ― by harlon rivers  
The completed collection :


Neo Morake Jul 1

The tears that we deliver,
forever remind me of rivers

At first just small drops,
often on cold mountaintops.

They start to chase down a dream...

Desegregating to meet,
Piece by piece.

One would find that we,
meandering along,
occasionally meeting rocks
while dancing around blockades,
& often with unintended driftwood.

Eventually culmination gets them to oceans and seas,
but they had to figure their way.
All of that breaking down & meandering had an end-to-meet-
but the journey had to be made before it could be reached.

I don't like the feel of the moisture that hangs in the air,
The heaviness of humidity like a film coating my skin.
long and winding roads between trees soon to be cut by the hands of man,
Rivers to be violated by curious fishers and children.
It fills me with tranquility yet anxiousness to know somethting so beautiful will be destroyed.
These looming trees,
The aging moss,
The rolling hills occupied by the tall grass rolling with the wind like on-shore waves.
I can breathe but I can't,
An unveiling curtain covering my eyes as I yearn for some sanctity amongst these trees.

I feel a little lost in these mountains.
Sun Jun 12

Rivers flow to soothe the lost minds
Tango goes on between the breeze and the sails

See the rafts of mystical clouds
Adrift far

Waving to you like sunflowers' smiles
Sky cries to the sailor's eyes
Bring back all that
Once belonged to mine
The tales of trails are not your stories
Stop by the sea~
When dead Seashells not yet told

Sun May 31

They  are traveling in distant horizon
Memories fading
Dust and distance defeated
Venomous or sweetest moments
That once belonged
to your soul's skins

Better you let it be
All you have is yourself and the memories

Rythmic rain
Tearing you apart
Not for your melancholy
But the restless mind
Keep whispering
To wake up in an unknown land
Where mountains and ocean are closeby
Rivers flow and starring at you
Calling you 'Home' .....

Sun May 21

We have walked the paths together
without sharing a word for years

Crossed the dying rivers
drank serenity what they had only left to offer

Loved silently
when life was busy with unlovable things

Drifted apart
when arms could not hold onto each others anymore

rivers May 12

There drones a constant unrecognizable voice calling
Its restless mutters coursing rampantly,
uttering through these tangled conduits within
Pulling strongly with an undeniable might,
come by here to carry me down ―  give forth
an untraveled pathway,   I've never laid feet upon

The veiled dialect echoes ― thickly flavored;
an evoking voice conjured of a thousand little voices
hold forth as one,    penetrating ― silently
Screaming within a bitter cold gale,  
a harrowing rogue breathe warring at my soul,
trying to feel for a hope overcome by reality
There's not a clear path dead reckoning
that wends away Stormy seas' gales of doubt

A netherworld threshold beseechingly beckons
from beyond breadth of conscious realm
A hearkening ache warily drawn out unspoken,
summoning to follow an urgent path;

Imploring to conquer whatever prevents ―
hold sway, though fecund fears arise
like muddy flood waters' bitter sweet philter
to the parched and the hungry heart

For it’s a journey trodden in threadbare worn out shoes
to sense the earthen murmur beneath calling me home
urging a callused barefoot soul's blind perpetuation
humility without surrender ― mercy shorn of pity

A timeworn wary moment lurks undeniably ominous,
standing alone with the hoarse, grating voice of a storm
Prone to strive to push on through to another distant shore;
swimming through the tempest torn at the convergence,
where the river from the cradle to the grave inescapably flows ―

It takes a lot to understand man's entreating wonderment;
it takes a lot to look upon the flaws of flesh he yearns
a lifetime to shed,    like tide washed sands and ashes
bestrewn haphazardly by fate,   scattered raindrops
orphaned at the confluence of river and sea

Trepidation whispers like thunder within a resilient pulse,
a broken heart's prevailing tide writhes deep as well
Utterance rumbling amidst a certain kind of raging unease
through the unraveled promises belied at a long journey’s end,
from a great distance beneath a paradise sky still so far away...

© harlon rivers ... May 2017 ... all rights reserved

Next page