Silence speaks —
its say beheld in its
own truth laid bare

Its voice is deeply felt
but rarely revealed
in the tight economy
of considered words
it quietly whispers —

The reality it bares,
soundlessly eroding with a
shameless emotional deluge
that rivers through
the poet's heart

When you feel alone
in a crowded room,
you overhear the drone
a racing heartbeat ...

    When you're
going down the road
feeling bad,  chasing
    the centerline,
reckoning some kind
a life passing by
out the rolled down
       window ;
hearken in nature's
     tone poems
blowin' in the wind
                                                            ­    ­
    It  was  thence
    i came to know
my sum of simple truth:
Organically self-wrought
Environmentally  molded
    from the clay of life
    a survivor of many
    a passing storm

    Season's change,
water seeks its own level
The silt does not get to say
how far down stream
   the river carries it

and we still wind up
in the same old place
parsing the watermark 
       stains of time

and a poet — is not a word
i'll longer use to describe
   who i've become


harlon rivers ... December 7th, 2018

White violets in the window
Scarlett leaves tumble across
the mossy hidden stones
mound beneath a chilly winter's dawn

A cold wind bares the dogwood tree
where puffed out plumaged woodpecker
gleans on creations' plump red bounties,
beheld subsistence beget for feral wings

Bright crimson fattened rose hips season,
lingering in the frigid morning dew;
stirring warm memories of fruitlet tea's
steeped from gathered garden magic spells
A spoonful of love and raw honey mellowed
a life once so lovingly endeared

Hot Blueberry dutch-oven scratch biscuits
imbue the wafting fragrant air —
life's cherished moments tarry
in the head and heart;
sipped by ruby lips still tasting
the untamable passion
of a breathless goodnight kiss

White violets blossom in the window
the morning fire's crackle echoes
a pining  memories' gentle whisper
awakened by the incoming wintertide

A dulcet breeze not soon forgotten
— melancholy traces linger
like a passing season's swan song

as your memory — leads me on...


harlon rivers ... December 5th, 2018

Hey **!
Oh my ghosh! What a day this is.
Lightning  streaks across the sky,
The clouds clap and roar,
Little lakes bubble with joy,
The rivers rumble gaily down the mountains.
Not to mention,
The trees stand with limbs akimbo,
Drenching from leaves to roots
in the lovely rain,
The birds cuddle in their nests,
All sing tra la la la.........................
For its raining, raining,raining.

the mountains follow me follow the mountains
the mountains come after me along with the water
along with the lakes along with the rivers
with fish and people and dressings
and ships and pirated and soulful
and love and all sorts of similar

paper airplanes fly in the sky
like my brains and not mine like light
my and not mine as my darkness and mine
but do not forget that my self
that's all my eyes have seen and read
hence I am sand and grass and mountains
and mountains and lakes and you and people
and everything and everyone

18.10.18

your eyes
are the ocean

salty tears
are its waves

bitter storms
are your temper

and lonely shipwrecks
are your rage.

my eyes
are a forest

feathered lashes
are its oaks

shady glades
are my sadness

and weary deer
are my hopes.