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"heartwood" poems
#(a travelogue) He stared down through the unbroken silence lapping the shoreline Water skippers dart around the rocks and windfall driftwood settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds and emerging broadleaf sprouts A petrified heartwood timber lie fallow waiting bare barked, hushed like a pining lover’s      timeworn love seat,      rubbed smooth as      the crystalline waters      of  half-moon lake Lingering for a while  ―   like a hidden stalker, a perched wildcat waiting for the full moon’s   swooning spell to saturate the thickening dusk quietude;      arousing the urgent      call of the wild — exhaled from the held breath of the wilderness nocturne     on half-moon lake The stillness was scattered with the soft downy hairs of the sleeping cattails,  and the newly shed catkins a spring gust bestrewed from a tall resin birch tree nigh the Sitka willows      He  sat  quietly ...      time out of mind ― tossing his eyes up into the sky; taking the time to read the stars ― catching  them  each  again as they fell into his gentle hands, to show him who he was Seeing their sparkly tracers   trail-out above the cattails,      from a distance they resembled falling stars unable to perceive their own renaissance ― plashing lightly upon the still-water      on half-moon lake A lone shadow glides stealthily near mid-tarn,.. swimming   enchantingly with the grace      of a blackswan Appearing to glance shoreward at the glowing low stars rise and fall, as his eyes twinkled skyward over      the moonlit lagoon ― heavenward of its moonlit ballet; the lone sleek dark shadow      slipping through      a faint circular ripple stirring the smooth as glass waters ―   disappearing like a fleeting moment      waning deep aneath      a subtle silent wake. When all the clear lines blurred, he knew it had been so long ...      but hearken ! … an interceding      long drawn out wail        echoed  a feral ache      across the stillness,      breaking the silence ― as the shadow reappeared;      his tears surrendered to the undulating call of the wild; he felt the spirit of the sole Loon,      as black and white      as the moonlit night, stir deeply in his wanting heart ―      lay bare the silence in lengthy yodeled psalms to the god of the moon Diving down deep yet again, keeping the light he’d been given, vanishing into the lifespring sanctuary of half-moon lake harlon rivers ... May 2018 travelogue: 4 of some more
0
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
harlon-rivers
On half-moon lake ☽
#(a travelogue) He stared down through the unbroken silence lapping the shoreline Water skippers dart around the rocks and windfall driftwood settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds and emerging broadleaf sprouts A petrified heartwood timber lie fallow waiting bare barked, hushed like a pining lover’s      timeworn love seat,      rubbed smooth as      the crystalline waters      of  half-moon lake Lingering for a while  ―   like a hidden stalker, a perched wildcat waiting for the full moon’s   swooning spell to saturate the thickening dusk quietude;      arousing the urgent      call of the wild — exhaled from the held breath of the wilderness nocturne     on half-moon lake The stillness was scattered with the soft downy hairs of the sleeping cattails,  and the newly shed catkins a spring gust bestrewed from a tall resin birch tree nigh the Sitka willows      He  sat  quietly ...      time out of mind ― tossing his eyes up into the sky; taking the time to read the stars ― catching  them  each  again as they fell into his gentle hands, to show him who he was Seeing their sparkly tracers   trail-out above the cattails,      from a distance they resembled falling stars unable to perceive their own renaissance ― plashing lightly upon the still-water      on half-moon lake A lone shadow glides stealthily near mid-tarn,.. swimming   enchantingly with the grace      of a blackswan Appearing to glance shoreward at the glowing low stars rise and fall, as his eyes twinkled skyward over      the moonlit lagoon ― heavenward of its moonlit ballet; the lone sleek dark shadow      slipping through      a faint circular ripple stirring the smooth as glass waters ―   disappearing like a fleeting moment      waning deep aneath      a subtle silent wake. When all the clear lines blurred, he knew it had been so long ...      but hearken ! … an interceding      long drawn out wail        echoed  a feral ache      across the stillness,      breaking the silence ― as the shadow reappeared;      his tears surrendered to the undulating call of the wild; he felt the spirit of the sole Loon,      as black and white      as the moonlit night, stir deeply in his wanting heart ―      lay bare the silence in lengthy yodeled psalms to the god of the moon Diving down deep yet again, keeping the light he’d been given, vanishing into the lifespring sanctuary of half-moon lake harlon rivers ... May 2018 travelogue: 4 of some more
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88
The nakedness of winter lies heavy upon the tolling Sunday quietude Shed  leaves perish into yesterday and the dream of another dawning  someday wanes The  sun ― lay low the drudging  ashen  skyline   Barerd emerald moss scaffolds draw much more distantness to the pallid shadowed horizon The evergreens step forth, roots grasping sacred heart, soil  and  rock In the swelling aloneness you can feel the grain of  the  heartwood rooted in your soul There are no hard feelings but there's an enduring ache, like a tree with a rotting limb languishing  within its blackened bark sacrifice It's not just the grinding time that slips away begrudgingly; more of the same takes a toll  as if another unrung belfry hour in an empty bell tower without a song rang out in vain, peeling  reflections of reluctant hours  c r a w l  by in the insensible apathy A so called holiday passes ― its footprint bears down hard  and  deep as if a paling winter rose grieves its own passing A dry wishbone unbroken lay bare the poignant truth  it  holds; it takes two to make this wish come true .
0
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
harlon-rivers
Dried Wishbone in an Empty Bell Tower ...
The nakedness of winter lies heavy upon the tolling Sunday quietude Shed  leaves perish into yesterday and the dream of another dawning  someday wanes The  sun ― lay low the drudging  ashen  skyline   Barerd emerald moss scaffolds draw much more distantness to the pallid shadowed horizon The evergreens step forth, roots grasping sacred heart, soil  and  rock In the swelling aloneness you can feel the grain of  the  heartwood rooted in your soul There are no hard feelings but there's an enduring ache, like a tree with a rotting limb languishing  within its blackened bark sacrifice It's not just the grinding time that slips away begrudgingly; more of the same takes a toll  as if another unrung belfry hour in an empty bell tower without a song rang out in vain, peeling  reflections of reluctant hours  c r a w l  by in the insensible apathy A so called holiday passes ― its footprint bears down hard  and  deep as if a paling winter rose grieves its own passing A dry wishbone unbroken lay bare the poignant truth  it  holds; it takes two to make this wish come true .
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42
Crimson maple buds magically pucker under brightening skies Lenten rose reluctantly unfolds absolving the shadowed snow, stemming the wintertide Spring's impending bloom mystically stirs the delicate human heart   soothing from outside its sheltering shell A converging pleasantness of a sunshine sown awakening cleanses each morning breath drawn to sate an urgent restrained longing The wilderness carpet comes alive with a burgeoning salient sweetness drawing out a glimmer of gladness from stale suffocating darkness’ wallowing in the winter ennui Another kind of poignant balm sinks from the tall mountain willow tree touching the sprouting blue sky Furry fragrant catkins blossom sweetly like the remnants of a love once known softly brushing against a fading memory of unerasable stains begrudgingly beget Like fawning flowers falling fallow in a passing season’s pollination breeze Manipulating frayed heartstrings, unhealed as the deer peeled scars and rubbed bark of a mountain willow, scarred  from another season past Some protective shell ― never grows back when benign heartwood is brought to light harlon rivers ... Spring 2018
0
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
harlon-rivers
Spring Mountain Willow
Crimson maple buds magically pucker under brightening skies Lenten rose reluctantly unfolds absolving the shadowed snow, stemming the wintertide Spring's impending bloom mystically stirs the delicate human heart   soothing from outside its sheltering shell A converging pleasantness of a sunshine sown awakening cleanses each morning breath drawn to sate an urgent restrained longing The wilderness carpet comes alive with a burgeoning salient sweetness drawing out a glimmer of gladness from stale suffocating darkness’ wallowing in the winter ennui Another kind of poignant balm sinks from the tall mountain willow tree touching the sprouting blue sky Furry fragrant catkins blossom sweetly like the remnants of a love once known softly brushing against a fading memory of unerasable stains begrudgingly beget Like fawning flowers falling fallow in a passing season’s pollination breeze Manipulating frayed heartstrings, unhealed as the deer peeled scars and rubbed bark of a mountain willow, scarred  from another season past Some protective shell ― never grows back when benign heartwood is brought to light harlon rivers ... Spring 2018
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33
Before the time we know that’s writ Before the things we’ve heard of it Back in the first creation fit Four sisters pretty, oft would sit Together and discuss the times And passing moons and passing tides And the task to which each tries To ensure the world was lit With the color or the season A certain gift was given each one For a rare and special reason To paint anew the baby planet The oldest, cold and fair, she was Skin white as cloudy sky of gauze Hair darker than a jaguar’s paws For Winter’s breathing she was fit The second, burned just as a fire Hair red as hatred and desire Who, gifted artists still inspires In Autumn, colors all submit. The third was golden as the sun Hair bright and body made to run Eyes blue as ocean’s storms undone Into summer months she’d flit The youngest, who awoke the ground Skin dark as heartwood, deepest found Green eyes that grow ‘til they surround The earth with springtime, every bit Rules for such were very few Only one they truly knew Don’t pick the flower 'way from view Upon the tallest tower hid For many years they played together Through every storm and every weather Bringing seasons like a feather Any time they thought was fit Then one day while making garlands Of pretty flowers wove to form bands Said,“Hid away, the best of all stands?” So they dared to go observe it Beautiful, and true it stood Like purity and things that could Move heart of stone and even wood. “Such art, alone, should never sit!” So they plucked the only flower From its grave and gentle tower All the plants around it cower’d Knowing powers sleeping in it Suddenly the ladies shot Around the world to different spots Just out of hearing and eyeshot Thus, the cost of crime commit Today they wander far apart Thoughts of sisters in their heart Work with no end, just new start Away from friendships benefit So child when tempted to commit A sin against which has been writ Think of four sisters who once could sit Now wander, from each other split.
0
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC
katherine-goertz
Four Sisters
Before the time we know that’s writ Before the things we’ve heard of it Back in the first creation fit Four sisters pretty, oft would sit Together and discuss the times And passing moons and passing tides And the task to which each tries To ensure the world was lit With the color or the season A certain gift was given each one For a rare and special reason To paint anew the baby planet The oldest, cold and fair, she was Skin white as cloudy sky of gauze Hair darker than a jaguar’s paws For Winter’s breathing she was fit The second, burned just as a fire Hair red as hatred and desire Who, gifted artists still inspires In Autumn, colors all submit. The third was golden as the sun Hair bright and body made to run Eyes blue as ocean’s storms undone Into summer months she’d flit The youngest, who awoke the ground Skin dark as heartwood, deepest found Green eyes that grow ‘til they surround The earth with springtime, every bit Rules for such were very few Only one they truly knew Don’t pick the flower 'way from view Upon the tallest tower hid For many years they played together Through every storm and every weather Bringing seasons like a feather Any time they thought was fit Then one day while making garlands Of pretty flowers wove to form bands Said,“Hid away, the best of all stands?” So they dared to go observe it Beautiful, and true it stood Like purity and things that could Move heart of stone and even wood. “Such art, alone, should never sit!” So they plucked the only flower From its grave and gentle tower All the plants around it cower’d Knowing powers sleeping in it Suddenly the ladies shot Around the world to different spots Just out of hearing and eyeshot Thus, the cost of crime commit Today they wander far apart Thoughts of sisters in their heart Work with no end, just new start Away from friendships benefit So child when tempted to commit A sin against which has been writ Think of four sisters who once could sit Now wander, from each other split.
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60
#*“You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you. You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes, You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth, When you loved me best, And I, you.”* **From: Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover ... by Nat Lipstadt** ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ in memoriam to memories: for Miriam and Nat reading each thought numerous ticks of days, imbibe the silent of the silence hanging from the rafters this wilderness roof; grayed heartwood walls that separate fractals of inseparable distances ― celebrations the roads taken ― memories of those left behind at the side of the mile untrodden Congregated love and sorrow’s spoken words scribed on paper bark touchstones ― etched watermarks of perpetual tides patina the afterglow of life's ebb and flow, traces of everything and naught can ever fill Experiencing intimate moments immemorial; the whispers of living pulse still murmurs in the gentle breeze between the gathered words of heart breathing deeply ― a rush of systemic truth born in the wholly sacred blood bequeathed A soul outside the lines ponders ― the sum whole of a life well lived; coming to understand, although all might not see the same light shine: there’s a place one day we’ll return we found along the way because one day will come by here … harlon rivers ... Memorial Day weekend ... May, 2018 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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May 24, 2018
May 24, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
harlon-rivers
in memoriam to memories
#*“You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you. You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes, You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth, When you loved me best, And I, you.”* **From: Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover ... by Nat Lipstadt** ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ in memoriam to memories: for Miriam and Nat reading each thought numerous ticks of days, imbibe the silent of the silence hanging from the rafters this wilderness roof; grayed heartwood walls that separate fractals of inseparable distances ― celebrations the roads taken ― memories of those left behind at the side of the mile untrodden Congregated love and sorrow’s spoken words scribed on paper bark touchstones ― etched watermarks of perpetual tides patina the afterglow of life's ebb and flow, traces of everything and naught can ever fill Experiencing intimate moments immemorial; the whispers of living pulse still murmurs in the gentle breeze between the gathered words of heart breathing deeply ― a rush of systemic truth born in the wholly sacred blood bequeathed A soul outside the lines ponders ― the sum whole of a life well lived; coming to understand, although all might not see the same light shine: there’s a place one day we’ll return we found along the way because one day will come by here … harlon rivers ... Memorial Day weekend ... May, 2018 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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36
Those memorable days have long been forgotten Haunting those stairways, we climb Convincing wondrous places of mystery again To stare into the ribbons of time Yesterday’s chapters of dreamy faraway passages Leading to rooms filled with slivers of light Dance nimbly across pages of spatial vantages Disappearing on the edges of night A rumbling of recollection drifts into our flesh Striking chords of chronicled accounts Felt in the heartbeat of time we have meshed Into our souls for a reminiscent recount Forgotten no longer, remembered once more Heartwood regaining its core Blooming within those stairways, we store Those memories, of days of yore
0
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 8:25 PM UTC
neva-flores
Days of Yore
Those memorable days have long been forgotten Haunting those stairways, we climb Convincing wondrous places of mystery again To stare into the ribbons of time Yesterday’s chapters of dreamy faraway passages Leading to rooms filled with slivers of light Dance nimbly across pages of spatial vantages Disappearing on the edges of night A rumbling of recollection drifts into our flesh Striking chords of chronicled accounts Felt in the heartbeat of time we have meshed Into our souls for a reminiscent recount Forgotten no longer, remembered once more Heartwood regaining its core Blooming within those stairways, we store Those memories, of days of yore
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16
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
0
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
harlon-rivers
In the Winter Wildwood
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
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65
Rising to meet the sun, A relative of the wind and time, His branches reach out, Stretching from his slumber. The forest flames awaken fear, Into the heartwood at his core, He gives the thought a shake. He would like to see the spring, After the falling snow glazes the forest. A resident of nature, The Redwood withstands it all.
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Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
annamarie-jenema
He Withstands It All
Rising to meet the sun, A relative of the wind and time, His branches reach out, Stretching from his slumber. The forest flames awaken fear, Into the heartwood at his core, He gives the thought a shake. He would like to see the spring, After the falling snow glazes the forest. A resident of nature, The Redwood withstands it all.
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11
I am a tree Sprouting leaves But my leaves too will leave I am a tree My thick bark protects me But contains deep scars Beneath my bark are layers of life The history of my surroundings But my heartwood is dead My heartwood still supports me It won't decay or lose strength But it's only because of my thick bark My outer bark- gained over decades; Protects me from the destruction of my Heartwood For being Vulnerable
0
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
GracePickard
Heartwood
I am a tree Sprouting leaves But my leaves too will leave I am a tree My thick bark protects me But contains deep scars Beneath my bark are layers of life The history of my surroundings But my heartwood is dead My heartwood still supports me It won't decay or lose strength But it's only because of my thick bark My outer bark- gained over decades; Protects me from the destruction of my Heartwood For being Vulnerable
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17
In the midwinter of the soul, all is cold and fruit is nowhere to be found. Leaves and blossoms that once sat spinning light and health have fallen off and lie there, broken down below. The forest floor beneath me, one time, was carpeted with remnants of my last sweet spring of growth. Abandoned, all but lost, and listening, to a moaning in the wind. But trees don't die in winter; nor did I. Spring crept in slowly, bit by bit, an undiscovered quickness in the heart, and hints of breath so far away, so deep within, that stirrings heard were no more spent than darkness closed back in. But still that gentle pressing in the heartwood of my soul, kept on, and stronger day by day until, with terrifying clarity the parts of me that died were seeking fully to control each waking thought. In the midwinter of the soul, the heart is cold, and fruits that once were juicy lie there rotting on the ground. And all seems lost within. But 'tis not so for me, I know, for Spring has come again once more, the sap runs true, runs through each drooping limb. Lift up your heads, you forests of the Lord, bowed down, surrounded, cold within. Let light shine forth within you, let the woodland fairies swim through waterfalls of blossoms as they slip from limb to limb, delighting in the tearing of the chaining wounds within. "Bleed once more," He told me, "let the terror of your sin, destroy the cold unfeeling that has wormed at you - and then at last, the living, green delight will sparkle like the stars of every clear and silent night." Bear fruit in keeping with the cleansing of your soul, for every tree drinks deeply of the river's rushing flow; take confidence, a promised voice to hear: "Well grown, my tree. My good and faithful bough." + And in the brightness of His majesty, I will forever bow.
0
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 6:54 PM UTC
mldetwiler
midwinter of the soul
In the midwinter of the soul, all is cold and fruit is nowhere to be found. Leaves and blossoms that once sat spinning light and health have fallen off and lie there, broken down below. The forest floor beneath me, one time, was carpeted with remnants of my last sweet spring of growth. Abandoned, all but lost, and listening, to a moaning in the wind. But trees don't die in winter; nor did I. Spring crept in slowly, bit by bit, an undiscovered quickness in the heart, and hints of breath so far away, so deep within, that stirrings heard were no more spent than darkness closed back in. But still that gentle pressing in the heartwood of my soul, kept on, and stronger day by day until, with terrifying clarity the parts of me that died were seeking fully to control each waking thought. In the midwinter of the soul, the heart is cold, and fruits that once were juicy lie there rotting on the ground. And all seems lost within. But 'tis not so for me, I know, for Spring has come again once more, the sap runs true, runs through each drooping limb. Lift up your heads, you forests of the Lord, bowed down, surrounded, cold within. Let light shine forth within you, let the woodland fairies swim through waterfalls of blossoms as they slip from limb to limb, delighting in the tearing of the chaining wounds within. "Bleed once more," He told me, "let the terror of your sin, destroy the cold unfeeling that has wormed at you - and then at last, the living, green delight will sparkle like the stars of every clear and silent night." Bear fruit in keeping with the cleansing of your soul, for every tree drinks deeply of the river's rushing flow; take confidence, a promised voice to hear: "Well grown, my tree. My good and faithful bough." + And in the brightness of His majesty, I will forever bow.
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68
There must have been a million raindrops falling down hard Loud drops plummeting from the place where the sky overflows The seemingly infinite pitter patter painfully counted one by one Noir moments impinged beyond a rainy night: Splashes splatter, showers flood torrentially, Shards of water blind the befogged windowpanes, Catching the candle light’s dull flicker Upon the sway to the heartwood of the rain sodden trees But underneath it all, there's this heart Nobody really knows ― unborn and alone Waves of silent reverie seize firmly a fragile heart, Only learning to grasp the soul’s most poignant sensibilities Wrought fifty shades of melancholy blue Dreaming with eyes wide open to see you tiptoeing around me Bereft of touching as we reach for love As if it were a moment we could hold But I'll reach to you from where time just can't go In that beloved moment leading the way back into my dreams Broken silence roused the moment's ache With a boisterous sigh, the daunting fading murmurs Of unspoken breath cogently exhaled Hallmarks  of a secret place no one else can go,.. One drop at a time… © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
0
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
harlon-rivers
A Million Raindrops
There must have been a million raindrops falling down hard Loud drops plummeting from the place where the sky overflows The seemingly infinite pitter patter painfully counted one by one Noir moments impinged beyond a rainy night: Splashes splatter, showers flood torrentially, Shards of water blind the befogged windowpanes, Catching the candle light’s dull flicker Upon the sway to the heartwood of the rain sodden trees But underneath it all, there's this heart Nobody really knows ― unborn and alone Waves of silent reverie seize firmly a fragile heart, Only learning to grasp the soul’s most poignant sensibilities Wrought fifty shades of melancholy blue Dreaming with eyes wide open to see you tiptoeing around me Bereft of touching as we reach for love As if it were a moment we could hold But I'll reach to you from where time just can't go In that beloved moment leading the way back into my dreams Broken silence roused the moment's ache With a boisterous sigh, the daunting fading murmurs Of unspoken breath cogently exhaled Hallmarks  of a secret place no one else can go,.. One drop at a time… © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
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26
and when kindling     will no longer suffice              *those dried fragments                  so easily sacrificed*    i am called to surrender my heartwood                              may it burn slow steady and bright           through the length of freeze and darkness             until miracle tender brave branching                      when blessed returns our Sol                ***burning Self that we may thrive                         keeping vision fires alive***
0
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
kmae
heartwood
and when kindling     will no longer suffice              *those dried fragments                  so easily sacrificed*    i am called to surrender my heartwood                              may it burn slow steady and bright           through the length of freeze and darkness             until miracle tender brave branching                      when blessed returns our Sol                ***burning Self that we may thrive                         keeping vision fires alive***
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11
I've said that I'm a drifter, I've said it for many years. When the hardest time in my life started, my bark was stripped off. I want to be strong, like oak but I have become insecure. I agree with things I would not approve of just so people will not chop me down anymore. I need to be grounded. People come and go. To me, this means I have to drift. I must not get too attached. I have trouble trusting anyone. I don't know what my roots are either. I don't know what my real personality is. I get bits and prices of others and incorporate it into mine. my branches have been carved and broken. I have become plywood. Plywood that does not fit anyone's needs. I have a hard time using words like "Love" or "Best" to describe my feelings. I see them as reserved words. My heartwood is getting stronger but my heart is not.
0
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
bear
Driftwood
I've said that I'm a drifter, I've said it for many years. When the hardest time in my life started, my bark was stripped off. I want to be strong, like oak but I have become insecure. I agree with things I would not approve of just so people will not chop me down anymore. I need to be grounded. People come and go. To me, this means I have to drift. I must not get too attached. I have trouble trusting anyone. I don't know what my roots are either. I don't know what my real personality is. I get bits and prices of others and incorporate it into mine. my branches have been carved and broken. I have become plywood. Plywood that does not fit anyone's needs. I have a hard time using words like "Love" or "Best" to describe my feelings. I see them as reserved words. My heartwood is getting stronger but my heart is not.
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25
Petals in the wind. How like you To leave me feeling scattered. How like you To take away my beauty Without force, no shaking of the tree trunk, Just the slow untangling, loosening, Until I am adrift. Do you hear it? That gentle sorrow, When all are marveling at the cherry tree, The orchard in springtime, The pretty picture it paints In the skyline, the treeline, underneath hopeful feet Of youth in the sweetness of first kisses, first loves – The gossamer thread affixed in the fall. In time, I will be made anew, The petals you once brushed from my hair Will not be mine anymore. But still, each year, I will relentlessly bloom Until the axe has fallen, striking the heartwood.
0
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 1:23 PM UTC
Yaoyan
Heartwood
Petals in the wind. How like you To leave me feeling scattered. How like you To take away my beauty Without force, no shaking of the tree trunk, Just the slow untangling, loosening, Until I am adrift. Do you hear it? That gentle sorrow, When all are marveling at the cherry tree, The orchard in springtime, The pretty picture it paints In the skyline, the treeline, underneath hopeful feet Of youth in the sweetness of first kisses, first loves – The gossamer thread affixed in the fall. In time, I will be made anew, The petals you once brushed from my hair Will not be mine anymore. But still, each year, I will relentlessly bloom Until the axe has fallen, striking the heartwood.
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22
autumnal leaves frost brittled lattice under their own weight crunch exposed nerves toes gasp through clay fatigue threatens clench yet splayed arms extend heartwood congeals coercing ebullience to Earth intrusting tendril beneath edged billows scalping innate patina
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Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
meagan-moore
Roots
autumnal leaves frost brittled lattice under their own weight crunch exposed nerves toes gasp through clay fatigue threatens clench yet splayed arms extend heartwood congeals coercing ebullience to Earth intrusting tendril beneath edged billows scalping innate patina
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13
Viscous mellifluous intonations resonate from mountain air. Lingering in hollows of departed sapling trunks flounced by gravid creek Lain to rest - stone protrusions nestling expurgated heartwood
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Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
meagan-moore
Heart-wood's Rest
Viscous mellifluous intonations resonate from mountain air. Lingering in hollows of departed sapling trunks flounced by gravid creek Lain to rest - stone protrusions nestling expurgated heartwood
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3
***a Singularity     we imagine        in the Center             of her trunk..                 one black hole                      burns slow                           steady and bright                               though still dark..                                     creating curves                                          rings of sapwood                                                  and of bark..                                                        new warmth                                                             each morning                                                                  gift of Sol..                                                                      new branching                                                                            keeps vision                                                                                  fires aglow...***
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Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 10:34 PM UTC
charlesc
heartwood (tangent)
***a Singularity     we imagine        in the Center             of her trunk..                 one black hole                      burns slow                           steady and bright                               though still dark..                                     creating curves                                          rings of sapwood                                                  and of bark..                                                        new warmth                                                             each morning                                                                  gift of Sol..                                                                      new branching                                                                            keeps vision                                                                                  fires aglow...***
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17
Fog drips slowly over rose colored mountains like sap from a tall heartwood tree Lavender skies burst to flames of burnt orange as the sun reaches the horizon The moon in waning gibbous displayed boastfully Sage brush blowing gently sprouted from red dust   on an indelible high desert morning.
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May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
dye
Winsome
Fog drips slowly over rose colored mountains like sap from a tall heartwood tree Lavender skies burst to flames of burnt orange as the sun reaches the horizon The moon in waning gibbous displayed boastfully Sage brush blowing gently sprouted from red dust   on an indelible high desert morning.
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9
Some days the wind blows and bends yonder willow   Its roots hold sway   perched high upon   steep sea cliff walls No gale could affix a bow to such a limber heartwood backbone   Wind arched echoes   undulate to and fro   alike a gentle restoration;   a resilience unrenowned It looks as if it takes the skies weight so lightly, while the rising waves gather an unhallowed chill fomenting untamed at the heart of the prevailing        westerly swell A human tends to lean rigidity right up to the yonder most edge, a thin line threshold         a step away  ― pushed by a moment's gravity; a blind jump over a cliff into an unfathomable deep ocean        far beyond        a forgiving        willow's bend Jesse Stillwater ... 09  May  2018
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May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
jesse-stillwater
backbend
Some days the wind blows and bends yonder willow   Its roots hold sway   perched high upon   steep sea cliff walls No gale could affix a bow to such a limber heartwood backbone   Wind arched echoes   undulate to and fro   alike a gentle restoration;   a resilience unrenowned It looks as if it takes the skies weight so lightly, while the rising waves gather an unhallowed chill fomenting untamed at the heart of the prevailing        westerly swell A human tends to lean rigidity right up to the yonder most edge, a thin line threshold         a step away  ― pushed by a moment's gravity; a blind jump over a cliff into an unfathomable deep ocean        far beyond        a forgiving        willow's bend Jesse Stillwater ... 09  May  2018
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30
I sometimes forget or regret Not knowing you Your roots run deep As does mine But your shaded limbs Stole my light Pilfered my water You were a rotted tree Plagued with fungus that grew into your mind infecting the heartwood it poured out through your limbs spilling into the air choking the saplings as we fought for light it was only then when you were cut removed from grounded roots that we could feel the warmth of the sun that fueled our growth
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May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
jason-drury
Shaded Canopy
I sometimes forget or regret Not knowing you Your roots run deep As does mine But your shaded limbs Stole my light Pilfered my water You were a rotted tree Plagued with fungus that grew into your mind infecting the heartwood it poured out through your limbs spilling into the air choking the saplings as we fought for light it was only then when you were cut removed from grounded roots that we could feel the warmth of the sun that fueled our growth
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21
The days when I could grasp life around the hips (and hang on as she strode through sunburnt suburbia, keeping bare feet free of puddles and chalk) were long surrendered when my legs lengthened into those restlessly swinging stalks that grew down just to kick up their roots at the possibility of roads vibrantly unfamiliar from what they've known. Once soft sapwood, all pliant and green we had no wit to appreciate these pains and aches as muscles break, tear with every step and repair themselves only to creak the next day in protest and celebration, each smile born of fear and exultation. This is my new way to feel contained and stable: as I grab your hand and slip under the library table. There, hush sound is our breathing deep to laugh harder and stronger, silent and crouching alive together here, our legs feel like heartwood, the sturdy stuff that only softens to ash when our stomachs catch fire.
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May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
liz-2
Heartwood
The days when I could grasp life around the hips (and hang on as she strode through sunburnt suburbia, keeping bare feet free of puddles and chalk) were long surrendered when my legs lengthened into those restlessly swinging stalks that grew down just to kick up their roots at the possibility of roads vibrantly unfamiliar from what they've known. Once soft sapwood, all pliant and green we had no wit to appreciate these pains and aches as muscles break, tear with every step and repair themselves only to creak the next day in protest and celebration, each smile born of fear and exultation. This is my new way to feel contained and stable: as I grab your hand and slip under the library table. There, hush sound is our breathing deep to laugh harder and stronger, silent and crouching alive together here, our legs feel like heartwood, the sturdy stuff that only softens to ash when our stomachs catch fire.
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19
see the wooden statues, how they walk about, locked inside, their heartwood screams to be cut free of doubt watch the alabaster statues, dance around the room, their translucent skin masks the beauty of roses' passionate bloom break the marble statues, real beauty's trapped inside, chisel away, bright flames ablaze, with light too bright to hide melt your bronzened statue, show me your true form, though lovely,copper and tin will never compare to the gold that shines within --bruised orange
0
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 1:22 PM UTC
BruisedOrange
break out
see the wooden statues, how they walk about, locked inside, their heartwood screams to be cut free of doubt watch the alabaster statues, dance around the room, their translucent skin masks the beauty of roses' passionate bloom break the marble statues, real beauty's trapped inside, chisel away, bright flames ablaze, with light too bright to hide melt your bronzened statue, show me your true form, though lovely,copper and tin will never compare to the gold that shines within --bruised orange
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20
Laying among the saturated soils Amidst the dry leaves and briers The wood around me sturdy Tulips urgent in growth How can everything around me be so brave When I am not. When I am but a tightened voice, a hushed mind, I lay still and do not have the courage to whittle my way through the frost. Resilient and beautiful in the decay of rock and withering thorn As these things close in about me I could only wish the transference Into my own doubt. Justification is a long-spent nightmare Wasting closely by, sinking into the earth of my skull. Catkins and the spines of gum trees hesitate in the sky With no breeze, and no self-fulfillment Never searching or wincing at another open sliver of bleeding heartwood. It's funny how the moon has always been there, perchance As it dangles now in the evening air Full and light like a swan breaching a blue lake. Almost breakable, almost surreal in strength. Things grip to life in these woods. Under my body thousands of dances for survival. And here I feel it the most A yearning that is not there, was never there, Never born into me and never settled in my marrow. Turning upward, I speak my truth. I can only be so much these wires of thorns This tumult of leaves Until I acquiesce to the night.
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Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:51 AM UTC
little-wren
Melting Winter
Laying among the saturated soils Amidst the dry leaves and briers The wood around me sturdy Tulips urgent in growth How can everything around me be so brave When I am not. When I am but a tightened voice, a hushed mind, I lay still and do not have the courage to whittle my way through the frost. Resilient and beautiful in the decay of rock and withering thorn As these things close in about me I could only wish the transference Into my own doubt. Justification is a long-spent nightmare Wasting closely by, sinking into the earth of my skull. Catkins and the spines of gum trees hesitate in the sky With no breeze, and no self-fulfillment Never searching or wincing at another open sliver of bleeding heartwood. It's funny how the moon has always been there, perchance As it dangles now in the evening air Full and light like a swan breaching a blue lake. Almost breakable, almost surreal in strength. Things grip to life in these woods. Under my body thousands of dances for survival. And here I feel it the most A yearning that is not there, was never there, Never born into me and never settled in my marrow. Turning upward, I speak my truth. I can only be so much these wires of thorns This tumult of leaves Until I acquiesce to the night.
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30
this is short and sweet, things have soured, was in the ocean, found and trusted a raft, was I daft, now been cut adrift, raft is rotten top to bottom to the core of the heartwood. there is a rift in my naive trust of circling sharks of pirate people who disarm you with kind words then throw nets trap the free flight our birded wing. She flies no more. Broken wings, can't be restored, Bullies sometimes dress in suits and ties and where brotherly and sisterly disguises. So sad
0
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
darrell-wade-elverum
she was a bird, she was on the wing
this is short and sweet, things have soured, was in the ocean, found and trusted a raft, was I daft, now been cut adrift, raft is rotten top to bottom to the core of the heartwood. there is a rift in my naive trust of circling sharks of pirate people who disarm you with kind words then throw nets trap the free flight our birded wing. She flies no more. Broken wings, can't be restored, Bullies sometimes dress in suits and ties and where brotherly and sisterly disguises. So sad
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25
Chill, dust rising with the fall of your head upon your chest, intonating the etches of your open journal, coastal rain, a steady drip through the weakened roof of the abandoned artist loft: *I listen you listen no talk no talk* Your lips pursed tight, catching my breath to hold space for so sorry a sight, my hands clasped against the cold and the sad The abandoned paintings paying a silent vigil, blue, purple *I listen you listen no talk no talk* Your cadence intensifies, your chin trembles almost imperceptibly your furrowed brow holds the space for anger, for pain and I want to grasp your wrists, close the book, fold you into me like the heartwood of an ancient tree- quiet, strong the rain still falls the dust rises tall *I listen you listen no talk no talk* Your words aging us both in moments in truths as heavy as deaths as you speak plainly the pity of the unsaid sowing the pattern that brought us lower than earth *I listen you listen no talk no talk* You should have told me to be stronger. I should have told you to stop.
0
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
mure
Haunt
Chill, dust rising with the fall of your head upon your chest, intonating the etches of your open journal, coastal rain, a steady drip through the weakened roof of the abandoned artist loft: *I listen you listen no talk no talk* Your lips pursed tight, catching my breath to hold space for so sorry a sight, my hands clasped against the cold and the sad The abandoned paintings paying a silent vigil, blue, purple *I listen you listen no talk no talk* Your cadence intensifies, your chin trembles almost imperceptibly your furrowed brow holds the space for anger, for pain and I want to grasp your wrists, close the book, fold you into me like the heartwood of an ancient tree- quiet, strong the rain still falls the dust rises tall *I listen you listen no talk no talk* Your words aging us both in moments in truths as heavy as deaths as you speak plainly the pity of the unsaid sowing the pattern that brought us lower than earth *I listen you listen no talk no talk* You should have told me to be stronger. I should have told you to stop.
Continue reading...
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