"fermenting" poems
over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges
most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs
vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores
hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark
schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen
businessmen
remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve
I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year
or were it better
that we also took a rest?
* * *
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:36 PM UTC
Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight
I'm out
so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
soon.
I'm aging
with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years
Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
for next Spring.
Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling
Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.
Fall comes
construction
halts now and the walls stand half
complete
And outside
the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when
Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
until next Spring.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
Keep it close, do not disclose,
That thought you had, don't let it be told.
Spiralling downwards, gaining momentum,
Familiar now, fermenting the unscented.
Just one step towards the darkest past,
Listen to what you once were told,
"Take two steps forward, one step back".
Letting fears unwind, twisting the truth,
A blanket of confidence unveiled,
Now that your no longer you.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
The gardener*
This is my garden; my apple tree
has over-reached itself. The branches,
weighed down with fruit, threaten to break.
If I had read the signs, thinned out when it was time,
the crop would be less heavy, the fruit less small.
And what there is, is damaged. If it’s not birds
it’s caterpillar, wasp, or earwig.
It will all be rotten soon. I don’t know why I bother.*
The blackbird*
This is my garden; this tree I sat in
and proclaimed my own when it was full of blossom
with war-cry love-call song.
Then mating, nesting, bringing up the brood.
The days were scarcely long enough, but that
was long ago. My children gone,
there’s time now for myself, time for a treat.
My yellow chisel bill breaks in the flesh
of these fine apples. Delicious. This is the life.*
The wasps*
This is our garden – insects do not have time
for individuality. We built the colony, us lads,
chewed wood to make our paper nest, and now
we work to feed the grubs.
“Lads”, that is, using the word loosely – for us
gender is not important; that’s for the queen,
and, as it may be, the ones who service her,
none of our business.
But we need food too,
and if sustenance gives pleasure,
so much the better. When we find a fruit
where blackbird’s chisel bill has broken in,
we eat our way inside, till only skin and core
encase our private eating/drinking den.
So what if it’s fermenting? If we get tiddly,
and roll about, and buzz a drunken hum,
then who’s to care? And if they do, we’ll sting ’em*.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
You were my Electric Enigma
Before I even had a clue
I tried to rig the riddle
But it led me right to you
Oh, what am I to do?
The ivy vine of your intelligence
So intertwined in relevance
Latched to the walls I'm leaping
Spreading further each time I'm sleeping
Fictitious thoughts fermenting for a fortnight
Avoiding a gaze on in foresight
Steady steps approaching the haze
Around a camp-fire light and a wild night daze
Righteous rituals will lead the way
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Is this everything now, the quick delusions of flowers,
And the down colors of the bright summer meadow,
The soft blue spread of heaven, the bees' song,
Is this everything only a god's
Groaning dream,
The cry of unconscious powers for deliverance?
The distant line of the mountain,
That beautifully and courageously rests in the blue,
Is this too only a convulsion,
Only the wild strain of fermenting nature,
Only grief, only agony, only meaningless fumbling,
Never resting, never a blessed movement?
No! Leave me alone, you impure dream
Of the world in suffering!
The dance of tiny insects cradles you in an evening radiance,
The bird's cry cradles you,
A breath of wind cools my forehead
With consolation.
Leave me alone, you unendurably old human grief!
Let it all be pain.
Let it all be suffering, let it be wretched-
But not this one sweet hour in the summer,
And not the fragrance of the red clover,
And not the deep tender pleasure
In my soul.
4.2k
I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform. Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.
Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings. No one
sees the ***** face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.
We rid them of their troubles.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
He has no face
or desire
to face
the large grate
And inside
the wicket of the grate
The little door
to the larger gate
One side named narrow
The door knob's
apprehensions
twist in the fingertips
The other side
slides to the indifference
The 69 peep holes rock in
scandalization
How does one survive ?
The false prophet goes
door to door
selling sheep skin
diplomas
black as raven's hair
His false fruit
lays fermenting adding
pollution to our despair .
The prophet's basic fault is full of self interests
For gain and grain of easy life
For personal prestige
through others pain and strife
His man-centered words
appeal to the ears that want to be tickled with ear candy
And the results are that truth be forgotten , trampled to dust and thrown away
Beware of the smooth tongue Jacob with
the rough hairy hands
of Esau .
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 8:26 PM UTC
A reticent fox slinks by beneath
the trees
that still have leaves
conversing for now
the change in colors
sleeps still, unannounced
the rain smells of ploughed earth
& freshly hung-out clouds
& wellington boots
Autumn's child cries it's first word
& inside a low-lit pub
a crisp old cider's poured
September's dreams
fermenting
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
Socks that hide secrets
Socks that hide shame
Socks that contain
the shadows of pain
They once pranced in the dryer
They now slump in the drawer
They send little sock homing signals galore
Fermenting the anguish
Makes the smell much more tolerable
It was all part of the ineffable plan
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
Blood is the color red.
Evil and fire.
Love and lust.
Rebirth and Jesus.
Danger and anger.
Blood is the color of red of war.
For many who have lost their lives.
And shed blood for freedom.
Blood represents death.
Blood is the color of red running through our veins.
Blood shows no prejudice
Regardless of our skin color
All blood is still the same.
Blood is the color of red cloth.
The killing in the suberbs.
Shows your race.
The slang of gangs.
Blood is the color of red in red wine.
Our grapes of wrath.
Fermenting and full bodied.
The smell of wickedness.
Blood is the color of red in our love and our passion.
Of St. Valentine.
Of our hearts and our mind.
Days of remembrances.
Blood is the color of red in " blood red lipstick".
Attracts us humans through love and lust.
Steals our innocence.
Robs our purity.
Blood is the color of red of Jesus Blood.
It keeps the body of Christ alive.
Brings cleansing to the soul.
Is the rebirth and resurrection.
Blood is a primary color.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
not just in the way I saw you
you're farther than venus
my celestial heart
-she's not even nominal
the thoughts dancing in my brain
fermenting in the pit of my heart
I pick at that heap
-starcrossed & lonesome
love is not just a feeling
it's a perfume we bathed in
we soaked in
-we loved in
but the scent washes away
no longer a distinction
no longer a dizzying coat
-like we never soaked at all.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 7:08 AM UTC
(other states of living)
under nyc rainclouds fermenting for
centuries in the ether machine
gazing across the width of an August interlude
to a clearing amongst the ashes
in the furnaces of destiny
when the dust of time settles
onto our outstretched hands
I will walk past the way of
all weariness and into your splintered eyes
until the path becomes clear
and i am reborn
a motherless child
of stellar regions
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
The Lung.
The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
words drift away unfettered
from whence they came,
passing like undreamed clouds
– pragmatic eyes to the sky
in a searching stare –
unsought thoughts disappearing hence
a fog bow fading into sunlight
there are days when
it comes out in my silence
there are days when
it falls down in my tears:
muse – muted in poet's pause,
heart and soul whispers
laid bare unwritten
behind parsing eyes
disregarded words let loose,
ungarnered
the way low hanging fruit
falls benign — unharvested —
shortsighted insight
from a bird's eye view
silently fermenting traces
and unfiltered memories
come and go unheeded words,
discarded like the passing
time of our lives
at times it's ludicrous
to follow down
lingering footprints
left behind callous:
when the shoe won't fit;
slogging across eroding
time-worn stepping stones
scattered on this twisted line
these feet have been walking down,
trying to make a getaway
from myself
walking away from the memories
like so many indelible footprints to escape
– while dreaming stardust into stars
in nameless constellations –
reaching out from the inside,
site unseen,
trying to experience
the empirical shape
of stifling silence
in a theatre made by chance
distilling the gifts and burdens
of trying to live a worthy life
only I'll see...
harlon rivers ... September 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
this is a poem about happiness.
this is also a poem about how great life is, see? here's a metaphor
comparing nature to the faultless
form of a pedastalized lover,
here's a description of the
effect of changes in air pressure
and localized temperature
fluctuations
on physical matter in a given area.
here's a bland truism that
anybody can relate to.
here's a couple rhyming stanzas
about the ethereal shifting of
connecting threads which
cause all life to dance upon
the cosmic stage like food poisoned marionettes.
here's an ode to the wrinkles of
my ******** and
the bits of fuzz that occasionally
find their home in my *****
here's a sonette to the drop outs
doing better than me
here's a dirge for the businessman
that hangs himself
and a jubilee for his widow
who earns nothing off his death
because he left his entire estate
to his catamite.
I'm writing a symphony in color,
notes of fermenting wood
dogshit and coffin dust.
the violas swoop and drone
the piccolos trill fast enough
to excise your gastrointestinal system
the barotone sax wheezes
and the timpani drum rumbles
(the flutes sit motionless because
**** flutes)
the pianists fingers are bleeding
hes banging with stumps now
his face contorted in ecstatic glee
as if the face of god has parted
the clouds just to scrape his gums
clean with his dietous ****
and lo faint is the whisper
which climbs and slithers
between the
false,
bash upon life with both hands.
here is life here is death
let me show your life
let me breathe your wretching
like squandered
like roots in the soil,
paint your everlasting cave drawing
in the face of your kitchen
and dance around a fire
let the embers lick your heels
til pagan viciousness overtakes
your quivering form.
gasp it in
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
science tells you
growing into a woman
means a fuller chest and
hips just beginning to smile.
it's the new smell of blood.
it's thoughts fermenting
from grapes to wine.
art shows you
becoming a woman
is a series of quiet
revolutions.
a blessing to bear.
taking a little girl's hand.
leading her into
a great Somewhere.
wiping her tears
because she is afraid.
but logic and art are two
halves of one fruit.
we as humans are living proof.
with rational minds.
with paint on our hands.
so listen to yourself.
you will realize
becoming a woman
is a miracle.
a gift. a grace.
a poem dedicated to all
the little girls
and the women that screamed
for them.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
Outside, but not so far away,
Missiles are falling;
Early snow has settled
Beneath gray overcast....
Sirens in the distance
Send their low moan
Across the miles...
Echo faintly in our canyon.
Too cold for lightning,
We turn away from light
Flickering or flashing
Upon the bellied skies...
Don't want to think
About the thundering
The light implies.
Muffled sound and muted light
Confirm our living
Away from town.
Perhaps we are
Far enough....
These days, though,
Places to run are few,
And war is moving out.
At least the news has stopped....
Was sporadic
Then...
Stopped altogether
Now.
Almost a relief....
The coal oil lamp -
Her mother's mother's -
Burns a reddish glow...
Diesel's charring smudge...
Comforts us
In a growing dark.
Roast potatoes,
Rabbit stew,
Pickled beets...
No bread this time
As I uncork chokecherry wine...
And it is summer 1999....
We are standing in tall grass
Somewhere between Red Lodge
And Laurel along the road,
Ice cream pails echoing
With plopping chokecherries
Near black and hanging thick
Like miniature clusters of grapes.
We are there to beat the birds and bears,
Knowing choke-cherrying
Is the hurried work of many races,
Some wearing claws upon their heavy hands,
Others flitting in with beaks upon their faces.
And then the kitchen smells of cherries boiling down
For syrups and for jam,
The old ten gallon glass fermenting juice and sugar,
Stands waiting in the corner,
Later to be filtered off and corked away
In twice-used bottles....
Other years and other picking times
Lie bottled in wooden racks below,
But we have chokecherry wine tonight,
While storms we never thought we'd know
Blow hard against the world.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
I had slept for too long, I know, for my eyes crusted over,
and when I rubbed them I felt relief from sleep.
Walking into my kitchen undiscovered, like a mars rover
I stumbled towards the counter in a bumbling flesh jeep.
the fruit bowl overflowed with bananas and mangoes
and they were beyond their years, wrinkled and hot
from the heat of today, and yesterday, their death grows
towards a beginning only a fly could know, but not.
their fermenting skin was armied in fruit flies,
they had built quite a formidable force and I
wondered had I slept so long? Their fleeting red eyes
scurried in my presence without a question of why.
opening the cherry tomato container unleashed an army like Agamemnon’s,
I feared I had slept that long, in a house of Aegisthus,
a deceptive horse unleashed
flies about my cheeks and eyes-
I feared their anger, only in that moment though,
I hadn’t even thought about it before.
a cider vinegar trap was the plan,
with a plastic wrap coffin,
and in some hours a cider vinegar graveyard
full of crimson eyed drowners.
A brash plan, yes-
or maybe an overthrow of a sluggish ruler
with a small army of energetic soldiers,
my crushing hand slicing like a scythe,
only to be matched by a putrid hatred of a kitchen subjugator,
a hatred the ruler understood himself-
a fear of waking up to it left the fruit
bruising in the basket
in
the
first place.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
when it is still, it reflects
the baby blue sky above
the waves, each sparkle
with the light brown
Coconut toffee made by locals
muddy and Overgrown, it is
the beautiful home of
Wild pythons, chicken, and rooster
Rice Popping, snake wine
fermenting, hot black sand
wood boats of Green and
Brown with Red eyes that
lead the way across the
water to the Floating Markets
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
Colour electricity.
Folded & fermenting
inside an aluminum-cocoon.
In time.
I'll see them,
Passionate purples
&
Beautiful blues.
It will
look like
someone done
painted a mosaic.
All up
in my hair
but it's really
just
my
Ultra-Violent-Weave.
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 6:52 PM UTC
The blustery east wind
gathers the fragrant
Warm Springs
high desert
mountain sage,
cascading
downhill
through
Dry Creek pass
surging downward
from above
the Hood River valley,
with breath of sky's bouquet
of billowing
aromatic avalanche,
gushing
of heaven's zephyr
The poignant
sudden starkness
of fiery autumn leaves
letting go
whirling ― falling
helter skelter,
pushed urgently
flying westbound,
beckoned franticly
by
distant whispered
ocean bellows
blowin' in the winds
of change ―
Adrift across
Parkdale
mountain meadows,
Coyote bent,
paw trodden
ripe sweet grasses,
pungent with
waft of mountain sage
and fermenting apples fallen ―
the waxing silence
of the marvelous moon
echoes just beyond
the Lost Lake of the Woods,
its golden orange crescent
dances on clear lake ripples,
high perched
sky reflection lapping
the moon kissed shoreline
― alone ―
The Sliver of the Moon,
skinny lithe
unripened youth
arching
as unsated
summer love ―
sage memories
waxing and waning,
whiffs of honeyed Jasmine
writhing witherings,
coalescent
time drifts onward ―
unstoppable changes
never turning around
looking back
to see
their fading reflection
recurring ―
august rivers 2017
*note to self:
September 15, 16 east wind
Breathing Waft of lingering Mountain Sage
another Autumn soon comes*
... and I'm getting older too
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
Elves, fairies, dancing queens,
Flirting among the rubble.
Tossing their heads to and fro
Launching into a spiral of trouble.
They of course, laugh in jest
Drunk all of them, seeing double.
Rosy beer in one hand, sherry in another
Creating a hilarious spiral of trouble.
They brewed it themselves, the elves
Bringing the fermenting apples to a bubble.
Tossing in rose petals, well that did the trick
Causing a spiral of trouble.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Your pupils are black holes
and they tug and they tug at me
like how a tornado tugs at the gutter on the side of a tin roof house
in the middle of Oklahoma.
But instead of a gutter and rain
it's blood funneled through my veins
and instead of blood,
it's liquid love.
You're broken
and I like that and how I can just
wedge myself into the valleys of your cracked up porcelain skin
because I am, I am liquid love
and its a simple fact that liquids spread to fill the space in which they are.
Even a river.
But here's a little disclaimer: I never cared much about science.
I was only really interested in our chemistry.
And here is a little exclamation: I don't know anything!
Except that your bruises are actually interstellar clouds
and that spot right under your fingernail is the most comfortable bed of all.
I like how you're covered in speckles like a knock-off Jackson *******
But instead of freckles they are constellations
and I am a quasi-astronomer artist who believes more in zodiac compatibility
than Attiyah's Sun theory.
I think this poem is unravelling
like that sweater I left in your house once
and I think and I think and I think
these last few stanzas are the loose string.
But that's okay because we're falling apart anyway
like the pages out of my old sketchbook from ninth grade.
But that doesn't stop me from pretending that
you're a Gothic cathedral and I'm a hopeless romantic
in the middle of an architectural revival.
And that doesn't stop you from getting drunk
getting drunk off that fermenting liquid love.
And that doesn't stop our hair from growing or
the universe from expanding or
people from living in the core of tornado alley or
you from lining my heart, my heart with the pages
you ripped right out of my diary.
Jun 8, 2011
Jun 8, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC