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Quotedbykayla Aug 2018
when did it become so painful

why did it get to a point of it being so hurtful?

the search to find a trusted one goes dead,

with the battle to have one to speak to,

emotions are trapped inside my head.

for the love we gave was yet so sweet,

but pure,

we still couldn't find the medication to cure.

then blood became sweeter than tears,

when we dragged our blades,we overcame each fear.

it flowed like the rivers,

so fast you feel the shivers.

the life in our veins

disappeared one by one-after each pain.

we became one and diverse,

when we sharpen each pen

and write a new verse.

a promise of security,

yet still take away my purity.

they told her to remain silent,

but how can she- when they still stay so violent

what did you expect love,

for them to treat us with respect?
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
Picture a late afternoon
iridescent honey-yellow:

The glance she knows is seen
her cool hand placed in yours
your stripped shirt she rips,
her mouthing, “You’re it!”, hiding,
revealing herself stripped,
her finger tipped shh,
the brush of *******,
surrender and assent.

She'll rise with a rustle
of desiccated pines,
needles will fall from her back,
she'll crumple a cigarette pack,
humming a vacant lament,
fingers caressing a fossil flea,
embalmed in a dangling pendant.

Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
180828F

A girl I knew. She said on several occasions, “All my boyfriends remember me”. This was very important to her. Seemingly more important than actually maintaining a relationship with any one of them. Her memories of them were like fossils, like insects preserved in amber in a pendant, that she would rub over after a final *** act with her most recent specimen. Naming her Amber for the way she kept and used her memories (was I to become the flea?), and portraying her actions as a farewell soliloquy in mime seemed like emotionally truthful fun.
Quotedbykayla Aug 2018
She cleaves onto her like a blunt razor-
stroked onto the mustache of a young man.
If only she was omniscient enough into resisting
the beguiling beauty within and beyond the tangible.
She constantly craves composition within thine peoples,
yet they make augured gore holes into her oesophagus.

Lesser does she know to refrain from it,
yet more she knows to stay.
More does she know their separated fortune,
lesser she chooses to be borne in hand.
Her notion is of higher standards,
yet still the lowest.

Scarf up thine eyes;
Plug up thou ears;
Tape up thine mouths;
Nevertheless chop off thy tongue
bakunawa Jun 2018
i'm sorry
if i was
never able
to tell you
'fix yourself'
before
you totally
blocked me out
(or blocked me away?)
i was too busy
fixing the things
you broke----
like your own trust
oh
and i did trust you too
fyi
just saying
and our
well
"relationship"
if you could still
call it that
which by the way
you said
'ayokong mawala ka kuya'
that will lose it's value
if i translate it to english
because for some
unknown(lol) reason
i still treaure those
words
(broken promises are just words right?)

and umm right now
i'm sorry if
i couldn't reply
so quickly
that you're asking
for help----
i'm too busy writing this
which by the way
you should really read
when i publish it
probably when i've moved on
and umm
i can laugh about it already
but really, at the moment
all i can think about
is how
i wasn't even able
to tell you
'fix yourself'
before you broke me completely
because i was too busy
hurting
by myself
and apparently hurting in your behalf
since apparently you're 'too cool' to cry for me.
don't worry, after i write this
i'll probably
not say those two words again...
and i'll probably
fall head over heels for you again...
bah if i ever let you read this
that means i've either succeeded or quit?
but for now
i will try to fix you
fill in the blanks
umm septemer 2017---- finally got to publish this
please laugh
just laugh
laugh!

and umm btw, to avoid any sequels nope i quit mkay? done, g'night.
harlon rivers May 2018
"From every wound there is a scar, and every scar tells a story.
A story says, I survived." - Fr. Craig Scott

... a tribute to a fallen brother ― R.I.P  Les
... you were with me every step of the way to the top



crampon cleats tickle her bedrock
far below the frosty powder dusting;
released from where her majestic peak
parted yester night’s obstinate clouds.

the alpine atmosphere
first chilled and then plummeted
as the starlight glistened;
illuminated ice crystals sparkle
like diamonds in the rough.

I am overwhelmed
by the peaceful aura
surrounding me.

watching how
"these"
footprints
mark the snow
...arousing
a lucid,
stirring awareness
of my existence;

...inciting
a conscious moment,  
extraordinarily deepening
the realization of being.


harlon rivers ... May 24th, 2013
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2528185/beyond-the-telegraph-road-a-poem-in-memoriam-of-the-love-of-friends-brothers-promises/

postscript:
the poem above is notes turned prose poem...still stirring from a moment remembered. We were best friends from the neighborhood just shirt of 20 years.  When we were teens, skiing, we used to look up to the tip top of Mt Hood and say: "someday we'll climb up there together and look back down here from the top";  four years later i saw him drive away down our gravel road for the last time ― you never know which goodbye is the last ―

This is a piece inspired by climbing a snow and ice packed, 12,000 foot dormant volcano in the cascade mountains of the Pacific Northwest.   The original, that this is intended to be an intro for, is "Beyond the Telegraph Road"
  
Edited to say: Thanks for the encouragement Laim...without it I may not have shared the rest of the Memorial day story here at HP...
harlon rivers May 2018
" Don't walk behind me; I may not lead.
Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow.
Just walk beside me and be my friend." - Albert Camus


                 ~              ~               ~    

The telegraph road circled through the foothills,
rising towards the majestic mountain high
It’s been a long and twisting passage soon forgotten,
with the pavement abruptly dead ending,  
just below the timberline

The dawning blue heavens look so much closer now
Just a step away from standing within reach                                  
The birds uplifted on the telegraph wire rest atop me;
perched on the final material traces
disregarded by a digital world

My awakening soul is ascending beyond
the distant alpine meadow horizon  
At the threshold of an untrodden wilderness wonderland,
climbing up above the meandering clouds

It’s exhilarating to look back and know
there is no turning back around;
I’ve never been higher
and can never get back down

What unknown frontier lies in wait before me now?
Just on the other side of the impossible dream?
The last step forward to find the next step beyond the bounds
There is not that much that changes,
when we just repeat the same old song

The atmosphere’s thin air leaves me gasping for wings
Like dust and ashes free to soar with the tempest breeze
If only time would sever these loathsome ties that bind
The ones that enchain the weight of this load unto me

While understanding the pace to a long journey’s rhythm
The only barometer you have to trust is in your heart
Adaptation is at the core of freedom's survival
But it feels almost like running away  

I have felt the fear of falling with nothing left to lose
I’ve climbed as far as flesh and bones can reach
I've come this far always feeling subtly afraid
It has been a great distance back from the beginning;
knowing I must take these last steps alone.

Understanding it was love that brought me here
Naturally tugs at the spirit in my soul encouraging me on
I'll keep searching for the shining light of guidance
Listening for a voice that softly beckons me home...



written by:    harlon rivers ... May 24th, 2013
Authors notes: a prose prologue;

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2528189/beyond-majestic-boundsa-prose-prologue-to-beyond-the-telegraph-road/

5/26/2013 Edited to delete the back story:    ...thank you for reading.
harlon rivers May 2018
Three thousand miles
navigating a storm
without drop of bad weather
Abacus odometer clicks
rotating forward ―  
spinning with the
world go round

Circling back down
a long and winding road;  
where unforgotten memories
were once searchingly explored,  
untrodden pathways
coursing way up north of alone
on the low highway
  
Now an aging shepherd
wonders without a compass ;
a vagabond deprived of light
from an ever blurring north star
Heart empty as a gas tank
with a broke down gauge,
running on fumes of hope
for unpromised tomorrows
Running from loneliness
just to be on the run

The gales of silence bellow
No feelings I can see ― lay me low

Wild-eyed daydreams
of Full sails billow out
through the windshield,
only hearing the unspoken
moments sigh restlessly ―    
The dull droning road rumble
re-sighs renunciatively,
a tired monotone voice
mimicking the loathe silent echo
wallowing in an
omnipresent hollow void
deriding unspoken chaos
between the passing centerlines ―

A frost heave pothole erupts,
with a leaf-spring rattling thud,
as a fleeting cloud of dust arises,
set adrift with the draught
headed off the east side
of the Alcan highway:
blown way outside the lines,  
towards the Alberta prairie

White knuckled steering wheel
held sway,  rolling down
a beckoning wilderness
          reincarnation; 
default reset button paused ― 
stuck in a moment ― until another jaw rattling
frost-heave pothole in the highway,
            jars it free

Leaving it all behind
like a sigh breathed
in a silence a heart has outgrown;
just a fleeting cloud of dissipating dust,..
         a paling whisper
the past seems to send forth
  like a fading last breath

Letting it all unfold to become what it is


     harlon rivers ... May 2018
       ... travelogue 2 of some
Cam May 2018
Every year is the same,
same people,
same places,
same time,
same faces.
They bring me their labeled tickets,
the same ugly tan-colored, black-inked tickets.
Bent and smudged as if it went through their wash.
No time for conversation,
not even small talk,
only the same old.... hello.
They sit, they smile, they leave.
They sit,
on that same old boring brown box,
"Feet placed where the red exes are please."
You think they'd already know that by now.
They smile,
tilting their head to the right,
their eyes looking directly at the lens,
looking as if they were hypnotized.
They leave,  
the camera flashes bringing them back to realization,
they release their breath,  
"Goodbye!" They say,
"Have a nice day!" They say.
Who I wanted to be is who I am not today,
who I wanted to be is not where society has placed me,
who I wanted to be is what society calls a joke,
who I wanted to be is free.
A photographer.
Not here working for life touch taking pictures of the same bland faces,
I imagined myself... flying,
Like a bird traveling around the world,
Capturing every moment I see,
Where the natural light glistens across the landscape,
where i can direct the poses of my subject.
But instead,
i'm stuck here taking pictures for life touch
of the same people,
at the same places,
of the same faces.
this is my first time posting a poem.
i do not work for life touch.
a soliloquy is an act of speaking one's thoughts aloud when by oneself or regardless of any hearers, especially by a character in a play.
(so im acting as if i were working for life-touch but i really wanted to be my own free photographer).
-cam
bakunawa Apr 2018
You've always seen right through me...
It's like
I'm looking into your eyes
    and I see forbidden fruit...         
a forbidden love         
It's like
I'm staring into a mirror
trying so hard          
to look for myself    
but all I see is black.
Like a corpse---            
It's like
I give all I have
In love with you
---Ectoplasm---    
             I give all I am          
To be with you
To let you feel      
  Who I am...
----I am a poltergeist----   
It's like
I'm reaching out
My hands open wide
Extended towards you
      and when              
you look                  
it's like                      
     you don't even see me----
We hug
and it's as if    
you could          
almost just              
pass right through me----
It's like
We love each other...
But it feels like                  
Necrophilia.        
It's like I'm gone...
even if you're looking            
straight into my smile                
my smile I force myself
for you to see                  
it's like you're still looking---                
you can't see me can you?    
forcing a smile
on my face          
day          
by              
day                
do you even know
      that I just smile for you          
because
I'm tired of you
always crying for him        
   night              
    by            
night        
But you can't even
See the smile don't you?
----It's like I'm his ghost----
It's like
I'm a nightmare            
and I'm haunting you                
except I'm right here          
always right in front of you.                        
------always waiting to be noticed.    
always.        
Waiting for you to realize
That love is not a ghost.                    
Love is not a graveyard.                    
Love is not somewhere lost.            
Love is not sealed up in heaven.    
Nor is it burning in the void of hell.
Love is here                              
Love is waiting in front of you                      
always----                                                  
even as you were crying for him                  
    even as you were lying for him
even as you were fighting for him        
even as you were falling for him                        
even as you were breaking over him
even as you were blinded by him                         
even as you were losing him
even as you were mourning for him...    
always----
Even if I'm            
the only love                
you're allowed                  
to love,                                      
you've never                
allowed yourself                
to love me...                              
You've always seen right through me...
We are both alive but when we hold each other it feels like necrophilia---- there is emptiness in your eyes even if I pour all I am to fill you up daily....
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