"hearthstone" poems
Little shadows, little shadows
Dancing on the chamber wall,
While I sit beside the hearthstone
Where the red flames rise and fall.
Caps and nightgowns, caps and nightgowns,
My three antic shadows wear;
And no sound they make in playing,
For the six small feet are bare.
Dancing gayly, dancing gayly,
To and fro all together,
Like a family of daisies
Blown about in windy weather;
Nimble fairies, nimble fairies,
Playing pranks in the warm glow,
While I sing the nursery ditties
Childish phantoms love and know.
Now what happens, now what happens?
One small shadow's tumbled down:
I can see it on the carpet
Softly rubbing its hurt crown.
No one whimpers, no one whimpers;
A brave-hearted sprite is this:
See! the others offer comfort
In a silent, shadowy kiss.
Hush! they're creeping; hush! they're creeping,
Up about my rocking-chair:
I can feel their loving fingers
Clasp my neck and touch my hair.
Little shadows, little shadows,
Take me captive, hold me tight,
As they climb and cling and whisper,
"Mother dear, good night! good night!"
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A Zippo lighter with a smoker's cough,
propositions the ladybug
clinging to a flannel pocket,
You can always trust a tealight
to warm the neglected beetles,
that cling to your chest.
this Ritual of the staring contest.
attention behind the curtain:
When You blink at the Rorschach shadows
tell me, they are not mailboxes.
The spirits linger; we stumble into entanglement
birch trees weaving
baskets from our branches
I'm known to cave on integrity, for the taste of freckles,
flickering tealights in the hearthstone, with a smokers cough.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 3:08 AM UTC
Now do our eyes behold
The tidings which were told:
Twin fallen kings, twin perished hopes to mourn,
The slayer, the slain,
The entangled doom forlorn
And ruinous end of twain.
Say, is not sorrow, is not sorrow's sum
On home and hearthstone come?
Oh, waft with sighs the sail from shore,
Oh, smite the ***** cadencing the oar
That rows beyond the rueful stream for aye
To the far strand,
The ship of souls, the dark,
The unreturning bark
Whereon light never falls nor foot of Day,
Even to the bourne of all, to the unbeholden land.
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Gray Owl hearkens
the dappled daybreak knell
echoing through
the wildwood forest stand;
rock doves and frosty stones abide,
where a marooned heart doth dwell,
disrobed by the longest night's frigid touch
Timber stand grips tight
red clay and bedrock of ages,
postured tall and strong
as eagle's spirit throne
Pine cones hide
in the low drifting clouds,
ripe acorns tumble down alone
unto a windblown
shallow earthen grave,
hillocked beneath
the sky-high canopy
Bones of branches,
furrowed bark from burled oak,
wood-grains of pith,
natural gnarled achings
peeled by the shivering
wind's breath
Paling autumn memories
grow dim as the receding sunlight,
recollections of ebbing Jasmine's
mellowing fragrant balm
waft aloft in a favorite fading fantasy,
the edge of winter metamorphosis
bears down with a prodigious weight
of a different kind of retreating light;
brindled Queen Anne's lace
hold sway across
the tawny frostbitten meadow
imbuing the poignantly
whetting breeze
The blink of an eye winks,
to catch sight of
an intimate glimpse,
an unspoken
solitude holds forth,
the mesmerizing coo of rock doves,
reverently mirroring
the sanctity of the forest wildwood
lingering amongst the frosty
ferns and stones
The harmony of tranquil silence wanders;
only the bowing resistance of the boughs
manifest the shapeless wind’s
whispered breathe
swirling above the labyrinth threshold;
therein lies an unfractured fault line
rooted deeply beneath
the earth’s crust
like the sonorous heart
of a sanctuary hearthstone
Hence there is symmetry
felt in silence that only whispers
in the deep toned consonant
of our own harbored sighs
a holy human blood link
born of heritage wilderness heartwood
beats keenly alive
written by: harlon rivers ... December 2017
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
I
A speckled cat and a tame hare
Eat at my hearthstone
And sleep there;
And both look up to me alone
For learning and defence
As I look up to Providence.
I start out of my sleep to think
Some day I may forget
Their food and drink;
Or, the house door left unshut,
The hare may run till it's found
The horn's sweet note and the tooth of the hound.
I bear a burden that might well try
Men that do all by rule,
And what can I
That am a wandering-witted fool
But pray to God that He ease
My great responsibilities?
II
I slept on my three-legged stool by the fire.
The speckled cat slept on my knee;
We never thought to enquire
Where the brown hare might be,
And whether the door were shut.
Who knows how she drank the wind
Stretched up on two legs from the mat,
Before she had settled her mind
To drum with her heel and to leap?
Had I but awakened from sleep
And called her name, she had heard.
It may be, and had not stirred,
That now, it may be, has found
The horn's sweet note and the tooth of the hound.
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I
A SPECKLED cat and a tame hare
Eat at my hearthstone
And sleep there;
And both look up to me alone
For learning and defence
As I look up to providence.
I start out of my sleep to think
Some day I may forget
Their food and drink;
Or, the house door left unshut,
The hare may run till it's found
The horn's sweet note and the tooth of the hound.
I bear a burden that might well try
Men that do all by rule,
And what can I
That am a wandering-witted fool
But pray to God that He ease
My great responsibilities?
I slept on my three-legged stool by thc fire.
The speckled cat slept on my knee;
We never thought to enquire
Where the brown hare might be,
And whether the door were shut.
Who knows how she drank the wind
Stretched up on two legs from the mat,
Before she had settled her mind
To drum with her heel and to leap?
Had I but awakened from sleep
And called her name, she had heard.
It may be, and had not stirred,
That now, it may be, has found
The horn's sweet note and the tooth of the hound.
ANOTHER SONG OF A FOOL
THIS great purple butterfly,
In the prison of my hands,
Has a learning in his eye
Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster
With a stark, denying look;
A string of scholars went in fear
Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell,
Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet.
That is how he learnt so well
To take the roses for his meat.
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Sell my fortune for this,
hedge my bets and trim the hedgerows,
turn the corner of my hearthstone
find myself neat and low.
Nice and steady, but ready.
For something broader,
something deeper and more meaningful
meaning I have to try harder
and not just idle out and auction off all of my clothes
I don't feel like washing at all.
I get that feeling often.
My attempts at causation may have caused concern,
but I've found you cannot have something to prove
without having something to learn,
that's why every day I die and come back to life.
breath new life, trifle with new strife.
keep kicking until I get kicked out myself.
isn't that what this life is all about?
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
There's a gentleness so tender,
In her heart's Hearthstone fender,
Coming from my Mother's heart alone;
It doesn't matter the occasion,
That a spark of love invasion;
Never pausing, so tenderly has shone.
For you're God's plan from heaven,
For your tender heart like leaven,
To hasten and mix your heart below;
For it doesn't matter where you find her,
There's always something so sweet about her,
Wonder touch, her Mother touch, that I know.
Flowing laughter sweetly sounds all the day long,
Singing the sweetest bird song,
Cheering and hugging every hour;
Then she goes to her quiet retreat,
For her hour of prayer so sweet;
A secret of her sweet nature and willful power.
Soul of my Mother, colourful like a tapestry,
The love of my Mother is as boundless as the sea,
Freshened like a flower with its dew;
For love showers will embrace her,
God smiles from Heaven above to bless her
And her life is ever shining and true!
~Marian~
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
I want to go back to that place
The one I wandered away from
The house of pleasure, warmth, joy
The place where affection is natural, easy
All sheathe their weapons at the door
(Instead of keeping them within easy reach
on the dining room table)
When you close and bar the door at night
You're locked in with a friend, partner, ally
Not a trickster hiding a dagger.
I want to go back to the haven, sanctuary, long house,
hearthstone, table, bed, and garden
Where love is rooted
And flourishes in safety.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
Autumn morning greets us here
In a town buzzing festively.
Through our windows, we can peer
At the sight of discolored leaves.
The wind whips past busy folk,
Bustled within the shopping square;
Coming home to fires they'll stoke.
Hopefully, today proved quite fair.
Small journeys in countryside
Can sooth your soul and calm your pain.
Peaceful are leisurely rides
As rooftops feel sprinkling rain.
Revel in the serene scene,
Winter will soon quickly arrive.
Breathe the crisp, cool air so clean.
It's a pleasure to be alive.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
Rise, brothers,
Freedom calls us.
Grab your guns
Wear your helms
This day all tyrants
Will turn to our servants
This night their hearthstone,
We will own!
Army of the horde is on the way
Warriors, line up!
Standby for battlecry
Bloodlust has conquered our minds and our souls.
Rip off their hearts,
Break their skulls!
Trenches made of corpse
Armors made of bones
Slaying the horde is our goal
Taunts and cry-outs
Sounds of swords and shields
Is our music
Their throats and their backs
Sounds of the bones break
Injured warriors are bleeding
It paints your soul
Stand up and fight
Drive the lance of light
Into the eye of the night
Free the world from the rage of this dark hate
Army of the horde is on the way.
Warriors, line up!
Standby for battlecry
Bloodlust has conquered our minds and our souls.
Rip off their hearts and break their skulls!
Rise up!
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 5:40 AM UTC
the turn of the rail
round the land.
the curve of the
soundbox against
the hand.
the engine rumbles
somewhere, undefined,
as love disappears
tonight.
the wall lines the sea
in holland. The velvet
folds close the stage
at the opera.
Tile on the roof
silently shedding
the rain as love
disappeared today.
Relentlessly cold is
the hearthstone.
The march of the
nightshift to
the factory
from home.
Barge tied to barge
sounding the horn,
a freight of black
coal, buries the heart
as love disappears tonight.
Dark are the waters
plied by the fishing
boats and trawlers.
The paths are
map-less
ruthlessly speaking
a language that's foreign.
At the edge of the
canyon without
finality, love
disappears, over and
over again.
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
never and never my boy,
riding away and away
from the land of the hearthstone tales
to never look back,
fear or believe
that a look cast into the past
might trip you up ahead.
never and never my boy,
fear or believe
that your Troubles,
dressed in cloaks of Joy -
snarling and snaking,
roughly and blithely
shall leap -
my boy, my boy -
into a home under new trees
in a sunlit year
to eat your heart
in this house
in your whole new world.
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
Depression lies.
Sitting there like a crouched creature, trapping the beast inside,
depression lies.
“You’re unremarkable, not desired, an adjunct failure,” it cries.
Depression lies.
Moving slowly, bellowing, sluggish through a swamp of self-defeat.
Depression lies.
It lies, like an unlit hearthstone at the bottom of the deepest, darkest dungeon.
Cold, unloving and chalking each success up as an “accident”,
depression lies.
It bares its soul at the foot of each wrong decision, eating energy away until you’ve withered into nothing,
Depression lies.
It showers us with doubt, like we shower the shower in tears of self-defeat, letting water separate our scars from what we are.
Depression lies.
It has a hold on the mold that pieces pictures of my life together,
bringing comfort in the form of the end, deciding for you that you don’t need a “friend.”
Depression lies,
and I hate it for that.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
Life had tossed you in
flames.
Like hearthstone, I sit
deleting my colors.
Time on black feet
runs, on the sacred
river bank.
Molten lava will ask
when, and from where
the funeral procession will start.
A hard core wants
the evidence of **** Two
leaves will not cover
the naked aggression.
The spooky game had
become, ultimately― the biopic. Once
angles used to roam
on the burning coals.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC