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It was golden and splendid,                                                      
That City of light;                                                            
A vision suspended                                                              
In deeps of the night;                                                        
A region of wonder and glory, whose temples were marble and white.              
                                                                              
I remember the season                                                            
It dawn'd on my gaze;                                                          
The mad time of unreason,                                                        
The brain-numbing days                                                        
When Winter, white-sheeted and ghastly, stalks onward to torture and craze.      
                                                                              
More lovely than Zion                                                            
It shone in the sky                                                            
When the beams of Orion                                                          
Beclouded my eye,                                                              
Bringing sleep that was filled with dim mem'ries of moments obscure and gone by.
                                                                              
Its mansions were stately,                                                      
With carvings made fair,                                                      
Each rising sedately                                                            
On terraces rare,                                                              
And the gardens were fragrant and bright with strange miracles blossoming there.
                                                                              
The avenues lur'd me                                                            
With vistas sublime;                                                          
Tall arches assur'd me                                                          
That once on a time                                                            
I had wander'd in rapture beneath them, and bask'd in the Halcyon clime.        
                                                                              
On the plazas were standing                                                      
A sculptur'd array;                                                            
Long bearded, commanding,                                                        
rave men in their day—                                                        
But one stood dismantled and broken, its bearded face battered away.            
                                                                              
In that city effulgent                                                          
No mortal I saw,                                                              
But my fancy, indulgent                                                          
To memory's law,                                                              
Linger'd long on the forms in the plazas, and eyed their stone features with    
awe.                                                                            
                                                                              
I fann'd the faint ember                                                        
That glow'd in my mind,                                                        
And strove to remember                                                          
The aeons behind;                                                 &
Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Jay M Wong Mar 2013
Captured by a passing gust, minute petals dance in the warmth of the heavy air. The sun rests overhead; its blinding, piercing rays, malicious in warmth, scorch the innocent earth. The air is hot and heavy – suffocating, if not, stifling. There lacks any existence of life in this barren wasteland. It is a dry and it is dead; the depleted desert stretches for miles and all that could be seen is but the dry terrain – the earth and sand engulfing everything that was once there. And still the minute petals dance in the blazing heat; their owner, a withered flower, suffers the harshness of the burdened terrain. Whether it be the blazing heat or the heinous droughts, the flower struggles for survival, its florid beauty, withered, but it continues to exist and play the role Someone gave.

I was born – their first baby.  I had inherited all my precursors’ failed dreams and was burdened at birth by their expectations and goals. I was to achieve what they failed to achieve, be what they failed to be. I was to walk in their footsteps and finish their unfinished business. My parents were the first to set foot on American soil; hoping to succeed in this new society, they had set valuable goals for themselves – which unfortunately they failed to complete. And knowing that their desires were no longer achievable, they bestowed their past dreams to the next generation.

Did I first hate their burden blaming Someone for placing me into the heavy shackles of the past. I felt their goals, a mountain of failure, upon my shoulders. I was drowning deep in the ocean of my precursors – their dreams, their desires, a treacherous wavefront upon my chest. I was a vassal made to fulfill the dreams left behind. I was a culprit perished in the barren lands. But above all, I was blind.

My mother was burdened by my birth; her dreams, a shattered mirror, were no longer a reality. In order to nurse my toddler self, her desires were put aside, as she worked multiple jobs to support not only our new family, but the existing family consisting of my father and his siblings, due to the death of their mother months before my birth, and the abscondment of their father to flee financial issues. She had sacrificed her livelyhood and personal dreams for the family's posterity. She had forfeit her wishes to a foul hindrance, one whom abolished her hopeful dreams: me – my birth, an anchor upon her merchant barge.

Yet, numerous times have I waken in the midst of night to find a glaring beam beneath the door; its illuminating glow, penetrates my room through the confined entrance. It was my father finally home. He was never someone to talk to for he was always at work; he was never home for his restaurant never permitted; he was never present at my birthdays but cake was bought from his sweat and soul. And often would I not see his face for months due to our disarranged schedules. Had I hated him for his absences. But now do I love him for his sacrifices. He had trusted the next generation with his heart and soul, and his absences were solely to support his loved ones.

Had I not understand, beclouded by the mist of Why me’s and I cant’s, but now do I find their bestowment a gift. Slowly, have I grown to understand; their pain, their suffering were merely a token for my success. They have gambled their livelihood solely for my efforts; it is something simple I love you’s will never equate; their debt, I must attempt to repay – sole gratitude will never recuperate the wounds of a broken dream. Their wounds tears my eyes when I envision them. Their ideals yields a weight upon my chest. Their agony crumbles my heart like an unneeded paper. In the past, did I not understand their ways but now have I realized the blessing they bestowed upon me.

Therefore, I was granted their heritage and must fate drive me to abide by its path. Do I now understand the pain they have suffered and the sacrifices they have made. I was born into a family of high hopes and expectations – I was their withering flower. Have I grown to accept that role – to shadow my precursors hoping to shatter their traditional defeat; it is the role Someone gave. And He will never be blamed again for He will rid this blazing heat and treacherous terrain so that this flower will cease to wither but bloom in the autumn air.
Originally an essay that was written as part of a college application in 2010. Now, it is a fragment of a biography.
HRTsOnFyR May 2015
In my mind, as infinite as the heavens,
I am but a starry eyed stranger

Wandering through her shimmering realms
Beneath an ebony sky, laced with crimson,
Beclouded with spiraling sprays of stardust

A child, a warrior, a saint full of sin,
I pass through the vapour of my shadowselves

Layers falling away like rotten tree bark
Exposing the rings within, like fingerprints,
Looping coils of time, bending but unbroken

Somewhere in the distance a dragonfly dances on the surface of the water,
Unknowingly admired by a sharp toothed Chinook

As another lost soul pulls back on a well worn syringe,
Seated on a broken toilet, slowly leaking across the scarred, yellow linoleum.

While a mother in Africa nurses a starving baby from her malnourished breast,
A stomach ravaged by dysentery,
Lips cracked and bleeding beneath the relentless heat of the sun,

And a pimple faced pop star sips champagne from a crystal goblet,
Wearing eight hundred dollar sunglasses and basking on a beach in Barbados,

Where they will spend more on hotels and liquor for a week than most families will earn in wages all year.

I close my eyes to imagine a world where only dragonflies sip champagne,

and people ACTUALLY care about one another.

But the former seems more likely than the latter...
So I return to my inner sanctuary of dreams...
And once again, I am infinite.
harlon rivers Jan 2018
There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly
over the perceived salience of his musings
  
It was as if there were a veiled mystique
that left hopeful understanding ,
                   ambiguously obscured ...

His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale ,
like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,
                   drowning acumen ;

albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions ,
scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye

                    Illusive accord ,
                    beclouded by seeming stigmas
                    borne of the flesh ;
                    delicately sensitive nuances ,
                    misunderstood imperfections ,
                    bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ...

In the hush of pensive repose ,
flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ;
bequeathed as if darkness
was magnetically drawn towards light ,
purging muted understanding ...

                    Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,
                    accepting , that all answers sought
                    are not meant to be understood

A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ;
the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved ,
befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat ,
understanding a circle is vulnerable ,
only makes it stronger ―

                    hence ,..
                    it had been written
                    in countless misunderstood ways ...

Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently
for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ ,
tattooed on introspective walls
far removed from the afterglow of light ,
where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;

                    heart speak hushed , deft words avowed
                    in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper

                    soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow
                    from unseen depths , permeating
                    deeply within inner realms

The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :

               "Spell words that bind together passing strangers  
                 Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone
                 Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual
                 hearts and minds with words of love and light.  
                 Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,
                 a faith in unabated love
"

and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words

…words grasped from emerging thoughts
                   drawn in to the light
                   searching for other adept words
                   to recite yet another way ,
                   sketch another word-scape ,
                   written with the relentless inexhaustibleness
                   of an unstoppable awakening ...  

Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light

                   he will write it again and again ,

                                          ... finding another way to be set free ...



                                                          ­       Harlon Rivers
Thank you for reading

Stanza in italics is from :
*Spell Words that Bind Together Passing Strangers*
Jay M Wong Jun 2012
The heavenly, upon the mortal earth, they gracefully fall,
Be it the burdened Oak leaves fiercely stripped of all.
For upon the ground do these golden items lay a’peace,
But surely does such great flare and color cease.
And surely will, what once golden, now deceased, rot and fade,
Giving way to the diet of worms to consume, ‘til it decayed,

For it is winter that draws a’near this dreadful season,
The abandoned of life around is but the resulting reason.
Before the heavenly sheet masks the lonesome land,
Before the clouded skies return its fated demand,
Fly, fly, must these cherished birds to the South,
The directions, to each other must they then mouth.

Oh, to be’st the bird, should we all greatly wish,
Employed not, yet only to feed upon its dish.
And only to have the needs that truthfully count,
That of which are life, food, and shelter we all discount,
Beclouded, must we as the greatest individuals be,
Ungrateful for the things that we have been given free.

And so, must we mask our needs with things we pretend,
Are of greater value than those we should really commend.
But yes, a lonesome bird needs not to think nor fear,
Of its faithful future that slowly creeps a’near.

For a bird needs not to worry about fulfilling its dream,
To be’st alive is but a greater gift than those extreme,
Until he who thinks the greatest individual is himself draws near,
And from their body and soul must apart he tear.
To hold the trophy of the superior being,
Must those of inferiority lay rest or fleeing.

Oh, to be a bird is but a greatful and heavenly life,
Free of humanly constructs acting as both blade and knife,
That tears and shed and manipulates the human soul,
Forcing one to live beneath the abysmal hellish hole.
Free of that treacherous label of both race and class,
Free from that stamp of color and wealth and belief, alas.
Free from the tortures that upon themselves humans place.
Free from the superior mind that games itself as disgrace.
Free from the jealousy that roots in one,
When another finds of a greater sum.
Free from the troubles that root in the Earthly land nigh,
For upon the Heavens may these birds undoubtedly fly.

And to fly a’South, is all that these birds gracefully do,
So to the treacherous North, do they bid their adieu.
A poem on the misfortunes of human society.
harlon rivers Nov 2018
Remains of the summer
sunlight drip out,
entomb'd in raindrops
from the prevailing
gray beclouded skies
Memories of joy
bathed in sunlight
unravel like a wind
frayed kite dancing
above a day at the beach

Soaring seagulls ponder
all thousand feet of kite string
tied to a hidden bliss below —
hurtling through
the shapeless heavens
tethered to refreshed
dreams still lingering
within an untamed
child of the wind

Morning falls
from  the  trees
in whispers
of golden sorrow
The damp chilled air
smells fresh as the traces
of heaven's cleansing rain —
befallen drop  by  drop,
each plash counted
from an angel weeping,
splattering the broken silence
all  through the night.

An inflamed montage
of leaves surrender
all this unholdable lifeline
we  ever  know;
blanketing the fields
of  autumn's tawny  grass —
Sowing a mosaic colored
reclamation  reposed
atop a nascent green,
soon enrobed by impending
winter’s pallid slumbering hues

The darkening hush
imbues a shadowing
fugitive peacefulness
bathed in wind river eddies
of autumn’s blessing rains

harlon rivers
November 3, 2018

"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Jesse stillwater May 2018
The deeper the veins
of a silent rising
fountainhead reach,
awaking a muse
more chilling
than the truth
    in the blood ―
a  cold
stillness stirs
that lets me
feel  an
unheeded sigh
cast in the wind

A breathe
of words
from a sudden
burst of silence,
tossed like a
handful of dust
lost in a rush
  of wind ―
a  beclouded
murmur fleeted;
holding your breath
as the aching
passion
manifest,
no longer
containable

I really wonder
if you even know
or care
who's behind
the dark
     cracked glass ―
you learn to live
with what’s broken
   to survive...
learning to look
in the eyes
of a dark horse
in a tight-lipped mirror,
to hear what’s
pushed back down
unswallowed

Staring down
the muted throat
of the voiceless;
feeling the anxiety
of held breath,
turning blue
afraid to exhale

If you look
at these words
and remember
there was nothing
left to lose,
then you'll see
     the meaning ―

I don't need
to hear you
tell me to re-lock
all the doors
I wish I never opened;
knowing there are
still moments
when it leaks out
of my silence

Someday,
at first light,
a songbird
hearkens
the morning
dew's passage;
  I’ll take heed
a song
of deliverance
and rise up
  from
  bended knees ...

but right now
I’m still learning
how to live alone


Jesse e Stillwater
02  May  2018
................................................................


Note to readers: Thanks a lot for reading the things I've shared publicly the past few months.  Many comments I shared intended to support others' work, fell to silence, so my apologies if I ****** you off not knowing the unpublished site map. Its hard to know here; perplexing when you're just a simple unknown trying to just be. For now I'm just going back to being more of a reserved reader until I've got a better idea of which way the wind blows...
mike dm Feb 2017
the ever briggy snapperjab,
once as trallhup as spacescrapers,
had his woo jotty happenstance
jejuned and nooned

and i soon saw
that i too was too much tooned
in the known visible wavelurf
where roving fate is ghosted
by inexhorrorbull ringly meedecree
of blingee choo choo Hist-o-Then

ever since,
my crave
has castled me down
into whitened gray limb petrify

where diggy beclouded sendersave replaces
fray narte Jan 2022
Without so much as a burst of white light, without so much as a beclouded face, lingering — I want to go quietly now, like sawdust in a country road — like seafoam under a gray sunset.

My mind insists on leaving.
Vlarken Hvyrmtor Jul 2015
The moon hangs above me
beclouded

A pupil behind a milky cataract

He knows night's words

When he tells me them my
eyes roll to whites

My succubus drapes herself
over me

Her snakehair is such a mess

They tell me love's words while
biting at her *******

That woman is there in the
window again
black backlit cutout

by yellow light so nicely framed

She dances without moving

I throw a rock at her window,
and she stays motionless

I flee terrified

The winter forest draws snug
its blanket
snow unspoiled by track or trail

My breath is smoke on the air

The wastelands burn about me
bergs of ***** bone

They tell me of secret grottos
in cool underground
wherein water
drip
drip
drips
onto tombstones forever muted

My longing lips crack and bleed
My sunblind eyes drift skyward

I scream for the vulture
my friend
to fly me down there
168

If the foolish, call them “flowers“—
Need the wiser, tell?
If the Savants “Classify” them
It is just as well!

Those who read the “Revelations”
Must not criticize
Those who read the same Edition—
With beclouded Eyes!

Could we stand with that Old “Moses”—
“Canaan” denied—
Scan like him, the stately landscape
On the other side—

Doubtless, we should deem superfluous
Many Sciences,
Not pursued by learned Angels
In scholastic skies!

Low amid that glad Belles lettres
Grant that we may stand,
Stars, amid profound Galaxies—
At that grand “Right hand”!
She by him like an angel always stood.
Her presence often gave him true joy
And warmth, her words were like food
To his soul, and never was his love coy
In her heart, nor was her affection with
Guile beclouded too. She's a babe unique--
Decking out in virtue, diligence and divine wit,
One that could make mortal men weak.
Howbeit she has left him in the lurch all alone,
His life and authorship to paddle on his own.
eleanor prince May 2018
waves orchestrate
bruised kisses
smack

dazed moon’s
beclouded stare
numb

teal canopy’s
torn sinew
strewn

tidal riposte
homeless debris
scars

shattered fins’
bullied silence
screams        

callous world      
spawns grinding
vice

rabid avarice
fuels dueling
drive

winds stir
shifting sands
gasp

light eclipses
night’s capricious
rule

noon darkness
steep ransom’s
paid

earth salvaged
true Son
stands
a lonely shore on a tempestuous night had these thoughts come to mind about the state of the world and the high price paid for mankind's redemption - (Matt 20:28 Christ gave his life as a ransom for many; Matt 27:45 darkness at noon for 3 hours as payment for humanity is made)
Scarlette Aug 2014
Everything is blurred:
Beclouded and befogged.
I need an illumination, as his smile captures my eyes.
Dim and dusky, I ask myself, 'What's going on?'
I need to be closer.
But as I go closer, the harder for me to see...

As the sound of his voice diminished as our distance from it increased.
And it hits me-- a tear fell from my eye as his shadows gone for a while,
like the chances we have-- blurred and fantasied.
mike dm Oct 2015
if the sky were torn
-which it is-
the stitch
inside your oblique
would take the glow of
sun beclouded
and
make it
its own

a cut carved into woundnomore

numb
is
not a thing

itself

it
waxes wanes waves
of photon streeeeaaam
crepuscular crawl of careened being
pilfering
life force
vamp ***** siphon of tor

it is yours
to have

all of

it

awaits your gait
sidelong face lips pursed poised
antidote to troll

you are light
on your
feet
because you are
i think
light of soul streaked

and

smeared across the Verse
you hold space
and black holes inside
one small dixie cone cup pinky out

you are
writer
written down

this glyph is
Willobi Kome May 2018
Just like the theory of floatation
You swim in the arms of confusion
You wonder about your situation
As you wander in circulation

Beclouded by so many distractions
With contemplations
You're not sure of your decision

You wanna turn your vision into your future
Yet you lack the concentration

You down in depression
But am here to tell you,put your shoes on
Run the race like its a competition

The key to unlock your vision isn't in the future
You know where it is ??
Its right here ...in your possession

But it ain't gonna get into action
Until it feels your pre-actions
All its waiting for is your reaction

Just like the first law of motion
You'll remain in the same state of situation
Until your dream is acted upon
Then will you make a progression

You've got the passion
But you lack the ignition
With so much composure
You make resolutions
Neglecting the precautions
Cos all you care about is the solution

Looking for shortcuts to your destination
Forgetting that life is a condition
With no permanent situation
,
I know you've got aspirations
But let your imagination
Trigger your inspiration

You were not born to Be in a stagnant position
Its just a stage of probation

Despise the population
You're an exceptional creation
Don't crave for attention
Let your instinction get you your distinction

Its gonna be a hard decision
But I tell you
The decision you make today will determine your position tomorrow
M S Apr 2015
There was never a soiree without her-
Until the day everything changed.
Strangely that night, all too blatantly
Glasses clinked’, giggles echoed
Inane but spirited chatter
Churned together with the air
The very air that had usurped her being
And not left a trace behind
Pallid evenings gave way to pallid daylight
But like an inkblot in the night sky
Her bright eyes and ever so fervent smile
Were beclouded irreversibly
Her pictures vanished and so did her memoirs
So did keepsakes of her bleak existence
A familiar kind of existence
She breathed in every word ever said to her
Cried with the morose, bumbled with the inebriated loner
Cordially marveled at the disillusioned old man’s jokes
Not too high-spirited and never overbearing
An ever-smiling sponge- a beast of the worst kind of burden
Devoid of desires, complains, broken dreams-apparently
No one seemed to remember her at all
Or notice she was gone.
A raven sweeps over- a little boy stares, everything’s still the same
No wretched tears about the girl who’d never bother a soul
Never mind that she’s gone.
Willobi Kome Apr 2018
Beclouded by your thoughts
I'm sitted in the darkness of love
Should I go
Or should I not ?

This state of discombobulation
Keeps me wandering with no destination
I try to obliviate
But my heart still aches

It bleeds like an uncontrollable river flow that has no terminus
Now its just me..no "us"
The truth of our love is now false

I'm lost
Trying to find my way out of depression
I scream for help
No one hears

Its just the voices in my head
But none seems to be yours
Now buried and gone is my trust

When you were needed, you never showed up
Well ,I guess your time is up
And my love is finally lost .
mike dm Dec 2015
drops of rain
wet the left side of this thought
all feels right as ray
beclouded
fury of were
put behind me ******* finally
Jay M Wong Mar 2018
No matter what life has thrown at you,
Promise me that you’ll shine through it all,
With a smile that turns beclouded skies blue,
For arth thou an angel to which heavens recall.
My darling, doth thou bring beloved sunshine,
To the dreary days under the rain,
For are you as glowing as is fine,
So within this heart shall you always remain.
Jay M Wong Jun 2018
Darling, has your heart gone wary,
For when it darkens upon the summer day,
And the skies beclouded and dreary,
Yet, we must find glee in someway,
So let us in abandon dance and sing,
For her heart to must make some amends,
Cause she just seems to worry about things,
That just won’t matter in the end.
Jay M Wong Nov 2018
Arth we all born to see better tomorrows,
Where the sun never sets with life so bright,
And where we bid adieu to our sorrows,
For they never had a chance in this fight.
Yet, your heart as brief as prologues,
Darling, you don’t seem to know what to say,
Is your love beclouded in mist and fog,
For it has overshadowed your love today.
Jay M Wong Jul 2018
Darling, perhaps now is the time we find our way,
Back from the wrecked abyss our hearts lived,
From beneath beclouded days with nothing to say,
Until we found a place where love thrived.
There must be something in the air,
Like the summer breeze the longs our souls,
For it feels like we were always meant to be here,
Cause darling now is the time to see where this goes.
BITTER SWEET

How do I behold the stars again in the beauty of their shine when your reflection is no longer found in them?

How will the sun ever brighten my days when it is beclouded with the paleness of your bade goodbye?

How do I thread this path alone when the sound of your footsteps no longer echo beside me?

How will I ever take pleasure from hearing the sound of my name again when your most charming sound of voice no longer say it?

How will life ever be lively when you have taken all its liveliness with you?

My eyes long for the sight of you in vain,

My ears listen endlessly for the melody of your songs when you sang me lullaby.

Where once I had pleasure now I have pain.

Where once I had laughter now I have musing.

The very path we once gladly treaded is now forlornly followed.

You were my pleasure but now my pain!
You were the sweetest but now bitterest
Na heart break cause am
Cavernous shadows and clouds encase
the uneven edges of my dream, a dark,
disparate dungeon of beclouded jewels.

No splendor gleams through the pinpoint
gaps. No radiance revels in the penetrating
rays that steadily stalk my internal darkness.

In the deepest center of my dream, I swoon,
wounded by love, which is the light, which
is the Living Flame of Love that sears away

all signs of soot and smudge and stain, all
distorting ripples in the window of the soul,
all disruptive detritus of the dream, its dreaded

diffidence at the prospect of illumination,
of receiving all that it is capable of receiving,
of riding the photons and waves of light

into vast fields of grandeur and affirmation,
of transformation, spilling over with power,
being and virtue, lost in labyrinthine rays

that curve and whirl and roll and plummet and bend
round the center that centers itself outside the circle
of my dream, now flooded with light, an elliptical path

that turns back on itself, leaking through crevices,
slicing up clouds, brimming with the brightest
white, a radiant white aglow with beams of white,

engulfing the bejeweled white that penetrates the center
of the soul, lanced by legions of white, lanced by flaming love,
now penetrated and pinned to the light, until I become the light.

— The End —