"artesian" poems
(Quote by Spike Milligan)
One very wise man sat and said
That, long before this world is dead
This planet’s problems won’t be solved
By reasoning which, though now evolved,
has got us, where we now do sit,
Afloat neck deep in mankind’s ****
There’s SARs, Ebola, AIDs, Bird flu
And in the woodwork, West Nile too,
Each replicating viral spat
To mutate, (at the drop of a hat),
To complicate enviro’s stew
Of global degredation’s brew.
Urban spread and over stocking
**** deforestation’s shocking,
Depletion of aquatic life
Intrinsically creating strife,
Industrial pollution’s goo
Ozone depletion... ALL FOR YOU!
*Environmental degradation
Means the world’s a weaker place,
Susceptible to malady
Wide spread across the human race.
Those animals in corn fed stalls
Who never get to see the sun
Or graze green grass where honey bees
Are vanquished by varroha’s fun.
Too late to save the Hector’s dolphin
Conservation’s lost it’s tools,
Rastafarian hootchie smokers,
Save the whales to **** the fools.
Governments sell the carbon credits
Everybody smells a rat
Restorations for the birds
And social conscience creamed the cat.
****** greenies own the airwaves
No one gives a flying ****
That good artesian water’s poisoned
By good farmer’s leached out muck.
CO2 in global warming
Sings it’s song of fast decline
Glacial retreat a-roaring
Bass relief in blood *****
I guess the little children’s future
Most depends on lady luck,
Humankind in mass denial
Most don’t give a flying ****
Marshalg
In retreat to Taranaki’s green haven in the gales of the equinox.
21 September 2011
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 2:09 AM UTC
(Quote by Spike Milligan)
One very wise man sat and said
That, long before this world is dead
This planet’s problems won’t be solved
By reasoning which, though now evolved,
has got us, where we now do sit,
Afloat neck deep in mankind’s ****
There’s SARs, Ebola, AIDs, Bird flu
And in the woodwork, West Nile too,
Each replicating viral spat
To mutate, (at the drop of a hat),
To complicate enviro’s stew
Of global degredation’s brew.
Urban spread and over stocking
**** deforestation’s shocking,
Depletion of aquatic life
Intrinsically creating strife,
Industrial pollution’s goo
Ozone depletion... ALL FOR YOU!
Environmental degradation
Means the world’s a weaker place,
Susceptible to malady
Wide spread across the human race.
Those animals in corn fed stalls
Who never get to see the sun
Or graze green grass where honey bees
Are vanquished by varroha’s fun.
Too late to save the Hector’s dolphin
Conservation’s lost it’s tools,
Rastafarian hootchie smokers,
Save the whales to **** the fools.
Governments sell the carbon credits
Everybody smells a rat
Restorations for the birds
And social conscience creamed the cat.
****** greenies own the airwaves
No one gives a flying ****
That good artesian water’s poisoned
By good farmer’s leached out muck.
CO2 in global warming
Sings it’s song of fast decline
Glacial retreat a-roaring
Bass relief in blood *****
I guess the little children’s future
Most depends on lady luck,
Humankind in mass denial
Most don’t give a flying ****
Marshalg
In retreat to Taranaki’s green haven in the gales of the equinox.
21 September 2011
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 3:14 AM UTC
My French Gem
The Rose tickler
finely handwritten
The movie part gave
her the sign life
crossed over gem
French kiss the morning
The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun
Double touched but forbidden
On the Cheetah necklace chase
The French Lieutenant
her body and lips moonstruck
On her chaise
To get over it another work of art
that got more attention
To revive her from drowning in
the gem scattered like a
benevolent
blue splat philanthropic
Looking more into his unknown
diving suit mixed
with envy green how she got mixed into
the stranger of Poison Ivy
Her love didn't show all her
attributes God spiritually well
She went to the pastry heart
how it flaked all
over like crystals
He was patiently sitting but got persuaded
That little gem of the lounge
Her firey gem was the canary
that got his tongue
Her gem stands taller
The crafted lines of quality in the
Pillars
"Le Bonheur De Vivre Gem-Art"
French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting
He's transformed.
Shape heart delicate uniform.
"Parisians on a mission
A kiss is a serious manner
LOVE" Gem birth opens her
He modifies her rainbow
Artwork of brush yellow
twinset platter hello fellow
the essence beloved to follow
So worth her wait being watched
By the crystal rock, he loved her
going up in spirit or she falls for him
The gem to be it
Magical modernly gem -fit clock.
See through hands meditation harp.
Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp.
Lips movement beyond hearts.
Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts.
Artesian heels tapping boots.
Fall for Autumn love cahoots.
Beloved, divinely he's the healer.
The picture spoke she's the winner.
Wilderness he glides kisses prints.
Pushing her waves hints.
Everlasting one thought he's guessing?
Art never part beautify stem.
Eyes so genuine he's her gem.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
Born to an Italian father
and a dreaming,
wide-eyed American,
travel was my fortune,
my life before I chose it.
One late September evening,
my wide-brimmed
velvet hat and I
discovered
what it was to fly.
Surging through moving sculptures
of clouds,
riding the Pan Am night
flight to London,
I was nine, and I was hooked.
Peter Pan was my secret love then.
I had saved my loose tooth
for the English tooth fairy, wishing
and hoping for an English penny.
Scones and bridges from my books
were real now to taste and see.
I began to write then, mostly
in my mind.
That was how I lived then,
and still do.
Finding and forming
words within for everything.
A sacred artesian spring,
i Fonti del Clitunno.
Perfection at Paestum.
Stonehenge,
when one could still
walk among those holy stones.
The early church of Santa Sabina,
whose high windows
transmit light
through membranes of mica.
The abiding silence
of these ancient, sacred places
held me transfixed.
Continuity of time flowed,
like invisible honey,
all around me.
I wanted to taste it with my mind.
Know it with all of my being.
And one day, find the right words.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
**Earth Day, April 22, 2017 "give back to Earth",
as an "offering" for all the planet gives us.**
For Global Earth Day information visit: http://www.earthday.org/
Her ominous shadow
shown a path
far beyond the miles high
a majestic mountain stood
Silently climbing down
million year old
steep canyon walls
at dawn,
each step chosen carefully
coursing with purpose
Finding a way forward
was the only way
to look back up
river carved ravines
where higher ground
once stood
Instincts drawn downward
gravity feed towards
the faint murmurs
deep echoes tracery
down sheer basalt cliffs
Artesian waters'
resounding gurgles ―
bubble up to quench
a lost soul’s incurably
intrinsic parching thirst;
to find an unfolding
metamorphic peace
in the trove of igneous
fountain veins of earth
There’s not need to wait
on sunrise pathways lit ―
there is no fear of gravity’s
downward silent weight
nor burden to be borne
Listening beyond dark silence .
igneous bedrock roots
beckon deeper expanse ;
spirit realms of ancient souls
whisperer like thunder
to the soul of man ―
Awakening ruptured lifelines
deep below earthen crust ,
creations hidden essence
eternally remembered
by the light above ...
April 2017 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
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Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
#***Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains
Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul
Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway
Rooted in boulders***
*scattered within
milestones
and*
***riverbed Cornerstones
Gray
As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn
With intent a higher law's freshet flows
For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue
Rolling currents thickly bestow
A river of simple truth lay bare
A stream of random kindness betides,
Rivulets of unconditional love abounding
Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence
Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests
Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers
Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide
Blossoming undercurrents gushing,
resounding,
rhythmic ebb and flow
Verve undulating wholly alive
Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ―
Wellsprings arise from bedrock
ancient mother earth
A surmounting light leavens abidingly
From imploring water's flowing river song
To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings
divergent from thither and yon
Through which to portage
A way to carry back home in psalm***
h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
In urgent call.
The door opens by elegant wrist.
Her lashes close.
Soft beads of water fresh out the shower.
Made glorious, covering me.
Her scent the tip of my nose.
Every wrong made right.
Sweetened cocoa butter, the hint of mango.
Artesian painting reflects us.
Offering safe passage from tongue to lips.
Open, the taste of delicate skin.
The fragrance of all I'd need.
Seasoned by discovery.
The rediscovery of thought.
The towel drops.
Every breath a caress from which we grew.
A flower in bloom, ripe in unification.
Well soaked in eternal ache.
The artesian painting retouched by desire.
Consistently in the utmost obligation.
Undressed,
The passage of me to you
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
.
*Heart and soul pour forth
an artesian spring
arising
set free
through the conduit of poetry
brilliant constellations gleam adrift,
soothened reflections
float away unfettered,
mirrored upon
peaceful rivers sojourn
downstream
coursing afar
conjured beyond
the mesmerizing spell
of the outbound tides beckon
unconfined
swallowed
by the scattering voice
of the rising sea
fomenting
a comfortable silence
all at sea
within ocean deep
someone you used to know* 2017
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
I ponder of something great on a sonderous level can a man a sentient being ever exist like an omnipotent being
am I just a subsidized being is the vanity of a self-absorbed world
the pneumatic indifferent fascist question my legitimacy so I question the society of a world more cold and more active than an incestuous birdy and the bee
They question an artesian hand slightly smaller than the average man yet the
significance of the difference in that artesian is not the manic who refused me
embarrassed me
rumored me
****** me to a dark inexsistant inbetween
the coldness of a lover never to be
because she is in league but out of reach
like a lion her simple minded pedagogy has left her to everything and everyone
as she is not mine and I am not hers just the birdy and the defective bee
a farce love story the ending of a never beginning trip why o so dramatic
because I just can’t help falling in love with one
a selfish self absorbed vanity in a repugnant world disgustingly this pedagogy stays to me like glue on this dying bee
this is true of our starcrossed unrequited drug induced comatose that put me into this ponderous level
the inevitability of what truly will never be yet for some reason these
sounderously significantly radical thought I ponder just like a pneumatic bot
have you ever felt this lost
this cold dark nonexistent in-between
a limbless sentient rushed in the ever invoking might of hysteric emotion
I ponder this cold and warming toiling notion
The one like a lion can you and will you requite and love me
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Mystery girl, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are like an anti-gravity wave -
the farther I go, the more I pine for you.
Some kind of growing exponent:
yes, you are the solution I ignore in my
quotidian root-finding mission;
Ah, the annihilation, those killer eyes!
Now I see, we inhabit orthogonal planes.
Your uv, to my uw, you are IR to my ivy.
Wonder-woman, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are elegance. Ripple-play at pebbles,
those dimpled cheeks.
Deliciously symmetric. Alpha 180, no Beta
at all - well not Cartesian.
Guess it's subterranean, Artesian,
in the k-space, transform domain,
my mind-space, where, girl,
you are a wonder of beauty and grace.
Magicienne, let me make an Ansatz about you:
You are the particle for Love waves. A lovelet.
Dressed in that kaftan when you walk in,
I will sublimate. Ether-maker, you solve
the Hamiltonian, I see now how matter's made.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
As children, in this springtide of the year,
my two brothers and I would venture deep
into our woods, exploring all that had thawed.
Walking along, there was little need for talk,
absorbed as we were in the scents and sights
of lovely nature, awakening all around us.
Following a line from the artesian well that fed our home,
we listened for signs of an undiscovered, woodland stream.
There, we heard it. That secret, lovely gurgle, somewhere
hidden under soggy brown, deciduous leaves.
Excitedly, we used sticks of hickory and oak
to dig down, to free the living water.
Once we had found it, clear and singing,
we leaned in, working together to ease its path.
Time disappeared from our minds,
this self-appointed team of junior engineers.
Somehow, though we wouldn't have known it then,
that freshly springing water was life itself to us
surging forth once more, finding,
like each of us, its own way home.
Now I understand, remembering
our common sense of purpose,
the way we worked together,
with single-minded focus, why
freeing it really mattered to us,
mattered so very much,
and always will.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
We're talking
put up a hand
to stop a hurricane
futile here,
folks.
Two days past trying
while listening
to Hermine's tails
lashing at the windows,
I reach deep
into a well of emptiness
for a lost bucket
of words
filled with dusted
dried feelings,
the rope frayed
to snapping.
A thirst to heal
will lead me to drill
elsewhere,
thirsting for the tears
commingling with rain,
the tears that burst
from a stone-crag heart
in artesian splendor.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
Being divorced is not very much fun
Two kids, no dad, life on the run
A king-size bed with two pillows
But she’s sleeping alone
On a whim she headed East to the West
The Cowboy convention in Tucson
With her new boots and hat
And old friend Laura Lee, wearing a vest
This Hollywood screenwriter has seen them all
Jive city slickers with cell phones and new cars
It had been so long since she’d really been kissed
Her love life needed a punch, it could not make a fist
Samuel Dawson was born on and still lived on the ranch
He rode fence, chased cattle, is one studley man
With a soft streak as demonstrated by his craft
He works wonders with leather, why it was art
He too was lonely, this singular man
He’d cleaned himself up since his wife went and made other plans
For he had deserved it, so he sat hoping to sell
Wishing he’d find that artesian well
Stop the action, let me set the stage
There he sits at his craftsman’s booth
Underneath the canopy in the hot afternoon sun
Here comes Rebecca meandering along
She lingers and fingers his feathered and leathered strands
He smiles and she notes his mustache and tan
They talk, she will not turn away
Laura Lee shouts, “Let’s get on the way.”
This is where the story begins
One cowboy love that has no end
She’s still a writer on fine TV shows
Sam is the wrangler, whom everyone knows
Loves a lady who fancies parasols
On hot Summer days, who now rides a horse
Who no longer leads a half-finished life
Where western handicraft is everywhere in sight
And their love is on course
Some don’t understand, some don’t want to know
But bridges are built wherever you go
Even on land with no river in sight
When a cowboy finds love he succumbs without fight
The ranch is now located in Southern Cal
The fence he mends is picket, see for yourself
For I know them, and please call me Sam
She’ll be home in a few, I’m her lover man.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Devastated was the word. Yes, it fit.
The night before found her restless and fitful, up and down, churning, besieged with scattered thoughts. Noisy chattering, fragmented bits of fear, hurt, shame, regret, disappointment and judgement, all jostling with one another, all scrabbling like jackals to be the first to gnaw on her bones.
Why was she carrying the full burden of shame? Had he not shown his flaws?
But as the indignation rose, the words of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wept through like an Artesian wellspring of wisdom reminding, "But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"
"WAIT JUST ONE MINUTE HERE, AL!" she protested.
crickets
"Oh no!" says she to herself, as she dusted off her Ouija board, "You will come back here!"
Nervous fingers and shaky vocal chords work together in a synchronized effort to pull him away from his glass of fermented potato and there he was, a bearded wild haired man with an intense stare that left her wriggling under her skin. But she was on a mission and she would not be deterred.
Clearing her throat, she began, "Mr. Solzhenitsyn ---"
Aleksandr raised his hand up in a gesture to stop her
His heavily accented English softly penetrated the air.
"Pебенок, tell me, what do you need?"
"I need to understand."
"Tell me why." he pressed.
"Why?" She forced her words past the hurt that sat lumped in her throat,"I'm trying to make sense of betrayal. How can people insist they truly love even after lies have been uncovered?"
"Tell me Кэтрин, would you agree that morality can often be found to be at odds with passion and desire?"
She nodded.
He continued, "And that good intentions are often found to be at odds with unconscious motivations?"
"Yes." she whispered
Aleksandr sat thoughtful for a moment, then gently and softly spoke. "You understand Кэтрин, your problem is, you want too much from understanding. It cannot turn shadow into light and it cannot right wrongs. So, no Pебенок, you are not in need of understanding. What you need is to accept that a thing is what it is."
He drew on his pipe and smiled tenderly.
"And you need to make a decision.
You must decide if your wounds have made you more ... or have made you less."
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
You,
girl who's starved of passion:
I disappear into you like
a drop of sweat in a sea of desert sand
finding the well beneath.
Buried river,
one drop from the surface boils you
turning artesian spring bringing
flowers to the desert missed longer
than forever could fathom.
New oasis,
let me bathe in your pools,
lounge in your shady breeze,
and muse over your every petal.
Bring me home in the growing seeds
I’ve sweat for you.
Dawning goddess,
don’t vanish or melt away,
and I’ll never let you dry,
forever sweating the water
I drink from your springs,
to find you again and again.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 5:25 PM UTC
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR
is what your eyes are screaming at me,
pencil scratching across page as
fingers stampede, stationary upon
your desk. don't you
know what you're doing to me,
with your Catholic faith and
artesian frame?? I swear
to your god (for I am
Protestant and yes they are different)
that you will ruin me and I swear
to my god that I would
love nothing better for in
your unmaking of me there is
a subtle art,
not an artifice, and it is
this which I adore, possibly
even more than I adore thee.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
tea-cream earth underoak
lying drenched in sun gleam
streams, a sky in between
the green sheets laid upon
and the beamyblues
breezes blew past
our post-modern monument,
and I shuddered like the towers,
as i was amply leafed.
strong winds knocked
branches loose, falling from
seventy-four inches up in the air.
a logjam tore a hole
inside my artesian mouth.
still, fresh spring water
found a way out,
taking a ride in a turnstile
cycling through
riffle and pool
all the way to its end.
clothes soaked, made holey,
by rain no righteous men know;
I tried my hand with a needle and thread
still trying to forgive,
a soft fabric to sow.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
Look around what do you see?/
No matter what endeavor
Visually/
was dream up by an artist
Realistically/
They create the world
Which we live
imagery/
aesthetic visions/
Precisely
entice thee
kitchen/
television shoes clothes
Cars and homes/
Think about it?
it's an artistic scheme/
optimistic exquisite
An articulate scene/
Step back take a view
Coppistetic articles/
clothed What ensues /
Open your eyes
enclosed in false truths/
Artesian the currency
Naturally Flows through/
artery
Eyelids down/
an optical torrent/
I've been drowned/
in surround sound torment/
cinematic pictures that
Visually pour in/
Articulate with in particulars
Such a beautiful song/
The rhythm of the words
Guide me and carry on/
Music to my ears
The universal art-form/
In a cold world storms
Keeping our hearts warm/
Auxiliaries the art of war
Artilleries
silly me/
Addicted to creativeness
Soliloquies/
abstract attract
In fact an artist
Artistically
Art of Art artifact/
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
I have no words to say
I will have no words to say
what words do I say?
one word is all needed.
and it's a verb.
not not a name for something.
artesian
deep within us -
you and me
in there where there is no
you and me
and no other word matters
say it to choking throats
say it to the evening birds
say it to the withering flowers
say it to the corners at night
no other word matters.
it's a verb
when we've found it
there's just
no need to say it.
it's a non-local field
collapsed everywhere
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
The door opens thanks to our own
to finish the last artistic word
from an artesian in the 15th century
to be my only best friend
having no trust in human beauty
to know love will lead to disappointment
To be a broken man
pale as a lizard in the cold
liken to a painting
ready to be sold
To wish not to feel
to know an Ideal
to find a state of mind
to find the soul of mine
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Once again I came and waited here for you
Knowing you would never show
So I sat and watched the ivy climbing true
Upon these walls
To and fro
I do believe this time next year
Still waiting, I will be
Filling my artesian well full of all these tears
Flowing freely
Inside of me
Perhaps one day all that climbing ivy
Will overtake my well
Take within itself all this inside me
I am afraid to show
And tell
Therefore, no longer will I sit here and wait for you
Knowing you will never show
I will go out into the world searching true
Leave this ivy here
Alone to grow
I will no longer wait for you to come to me
Filling my artesian well
Instead, I will leave all this ivy here to be
As I climb right out of
My own shell
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
What night-bird sings across the river?
What bear of winter whispers
low and deep in the cave of its mouth?
And who is she who moves toward the many mouthed artesian,
invisible to the clouds and stars that live in her reflection?
We stand on our heads;
the world turns its duplicity to meet us as
our imagination ventures beyond the beyond,
before it rushes back to be with she who has not yet released us.
She spins her arms in all directions;
our mother, calling with the night bird says
“here children you’re safe with me”.
We walk the southern bank of the Ballone.
Before the weir we imagine the river
mirror to all the world.
Then the weir-gates reveal her power.
Broken water announces our birth
and friendship;
a turbulent opportunity to bright with stars,
to carefully wake the sleeping bear.
Beside this river
Our future is brought together,
And like her, this unseen strength
Will flow potent, low and deep
and with our mother
nurturing.
MChallis © 2015
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Her eyes,
deeper than any artesian well,
capture me
completely.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
butterfly shells
clipped wings
the ocean curls and crashes
beyond the reef
I umbrella-shade my eyes
cast shadows over overhead sunlight
the glimmer blinds
so prettily
and I swallow all contention
like sand-crusted fried food
It's a kind day at the beach
the clouds grace us with their presence
and I spit out my insurrection, my envy
of such shrouded calm
wafts of cloud, like pink bubbly fairy floss
so sweetly
like a wind-cuffed boat
choked by destiny
we watch the sun bathe down into the ocean
submerged bleeding orange into an obsidian eye, a pearl of blue
don't say I didn't warn you, says the storm
rumbling, grumbling,
toiling and boiling
I've been on this horizon all my life, it growls
little more than petulant lightning
I've never trusted thunder
all bark and no bite
but I believe in this shark-storm if only for the palate of streaked colour
the sky is a wanting canvas
my eyes are needy spectators
the soggy chips are artesian entrees
and the butterfly clips refuse to mount and swoon
So
the recipe is baked; a perfect storm
a pointed knife, carved cataclysm
a catchechism of the repentant earth
we only see the sun sleep
when it knows it's been bad.
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 9:34 AM UTC