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CK Baker Jan 2017
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chip wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame

rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on the iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat

bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls

whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight

sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base

cornice clipped on gully goat
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies

triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
harlon rivers Mar 18
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
bulletcookie Aug 27
Where footling trees do grow
nature, apologies need not know
vistas look back at you with eyes of snow
stones, high meadows, and silver timber knots

purple lupines and fire-**** that blush pink
held firm in gravel hands meet lichened erratics
where mountain's complexion in eon's blink
altered antonym of greens and browns chromatic

Where footling trees do grow
clouds shoot over passes round
to sprinkle, clap showers or to plow flows
marmots don down and burrow to ground

seeds and feathers take to their wing
branches' memories bend to storm's prowl
with constancy of change born on this wind
brutes in caverns and caves utter growls

Where footling trees do grow
a precipice of nascent springs leap
into; pine, spruce, ericaceous woodland below,
to gush as creeks, washout to river's slow keep

dappled light and streaming ray divides
fall forest floor with lulling murmur flutters
there bridge a span in wood knock strides
where clinging moss rolls bread and butter

harlon rivers Oct 2017
The blustery east wind
gathers the fragrant  
Warm Springs
high desert
mountain sage,
Dry Creek pass
surging downward
from above
the Hood River valley,
with breath of sky's bouquet
of billowing
aromatic avalanche,
of heaven's zephyr

The poignant
sudden starkness
of fiery autumn leaves
letting go
whirling ― falling
helter skelter,
pushed urgently
flying westbound,
beckoned franticly
distant whispered
ocean bellows
blowin' in the winds
    of change ―

Adrift across
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
as unsated
       summer love  ―  
sage memories
waxing and waning,
whiffs of honeyed Jasmine
writhing witherings,

    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
When our senses are heightened, do you ever think about the journey of the stimulus(?)!  like the path of scent or even smoke...or a distant sound.
How far is the distant horizon you see...even how far away can we be touched (?)! in its many realms...

Just stuff in drafts...
all these are real places
on the long road home

All habitat at Mt. Hood's fingertip reach
in Oregon, North America
Home of the devastating Eagle Creek wild fire of 2017
In the treasured western scenic Columbia River gorge

Waft of Mountain Sage
Written by:  h.a. rivers
em Jul 2015
I want to say that I'm getting better,
that  these scars are starting to feel
like the marks of a warrior who has won battles,
but even if the bleeding has stopped, the war is not over.

There are so many days when the sun will come out,
and I can feel its warmth wash over me, and it is
when I am covered by its happy grace,
that the shadow of sadness is cast across the
sidewalks.. those sidewalks where every *****
was a canyon to wide to cross.
My blood stained on every square.

And as I stand on top of that mountain and look down
upon the valley that I had conquered,
i realize,
that my footprints spell your name...

Then there I go again,



falling, right back into
the devils claw.
love.......ehh not for me :P
Tommy Randell Jun 2017
Is there a mountain in your day for you today,
Something you have to do, or fail?

Someone difficult to meet perhaps and get along with,
Someone you see as a task, that person who just doesn't fit?

Someone no longer there, who cannot be seen or touched,
Whose absence from your day makes things a little too much?

Is life a hill for you today, a slogging upward path,
Where you'll count your steps one by one, and then take two more back?

Is it pain that saps your willingness, is it fear, embarrassment, or worry,
Makes the day ahead a little too steep to set out on in a hurry?

Or Debt, that wall of glass too sheer, too slippery for a foothold,
Hangs there like a frosted fog that chills you with a numbing cold?

Maybe today is just one more day on your solitary lonely trek
That bereavement, divorce, or just not being loved is the test?

Each day is a maze of questions, a confusion of zigzags and choices,
We all look up some mornings wishing we had easier options.

The trick is to not see the mountain, the trick is to know in your heart
What the world needs is for you to be in it, and each day is a brand new start.

Your path is the way up the mountain for you to find and to share,
The hills we climb are inside us, they don't take us to just any Where -

Success or failure doesn't matter, it's not triumph or victory or glory;
Each day that place you come to, that you are there will be your Story.

Tommy Randell 08th June 2017
Daisy Marrow Aug 2013
You told me you wanted to die
on the mountainside on the 28th of July.
The same day your mother died.
Chased by your sins shouting melodies that are carved on skin.
The kingdom has fallen and you were loved in the best ways possible by the people you wanted, but now the river overflows all the dreams you once held close to you dearly.
And now here you stand reading the letter that she wrote.

"Keep alive and live past my grave. Grow flowers in the darkest places and bring light into your lungs and breathe the air that smells so sweet. Believe there is a place beyond the hollow ground and believe we'll meet up there one day again, but please do not make that day anytime soon. Climb the trees that the past has planted here and swim to the other edge, always be on the other side. Don't worry if you trip over your own feet. Don't fiddle with the cuts you marked but kiss them each day until they're there no more. Follow the path that leads to the river and watch how it flows gracefully over sharp rocks to make them smooth enough to hold. Early in the morning awake with joy because the sun shines for you and the birds sing for only you to hear. Do this for me, my lion heart."

And you kept that letter in your pocket every day and held the crisp paper in your hands pretending it was hers.
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