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Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
harlon rivers May 2018
(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
Notes: i'm certainly aware i've not been here as often and active as i once was. **** happens and so does life, and it will ... so much so, the travelogue chronicles felt worthwhile for a moment, the first 4 were from the 1st 3000 mile leg of a 6000 mile and 6 month round trip road-trip journey ―

All apologies to those that found the length of my work tedious.   When i've tried to make the ink go other than where and how long it flows naturally ― i fail and stifle, paused in my own sown silence.   Too predictable to continue to ignore ― peace
652

A Prison gets to be a friend—
Between its Ponderous face
And Ours—a Kinsmanship express—
And in its narrow Eyes—

We come to look with gratitude
For the appointed Beam
It deal us—stated as our food—
And hungered for—the same—

We learn to know the Planks—
That answer to Our feet—
So miserable a sound—at first—
Nor ever now—so sweet—

As plashing in the Pools—
When Memory was a Boy—
But a Demurer Circuit—
A Geometric Joy—

The Posture of the Key
That interrupt the Day
To Our Endeavor—Not so real
The Check of Liberty—

As this Phantasm Steel—
Whose features—Day and Night—
Are present to us—as Our Own—
And as escapeless—quite—

The narrow Round—the Stint—
The slow exchange of Hope—
For something passiver—Content
Too steep for lookinp up—

The Liberty we knew
Avoided—like a Dream—
Too wide for any Night but Heaven—
If That—indeed—redeem—
Whispers of heavenly death, murmur’d I hear;
Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals;
Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted soft and low;
Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing;
(Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears?)

I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses;
Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing;
With, at times, a half-dimm’d, sadden’d, far-off star,
Appearing and disappearing.

(Some parturition, rather—some solemn, immortal birth:
On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable,
Some Soul is passing over.)
The night was passing, and the Grecian host
By no means sought to issue forth unseen.
But when indeed the day with her white steeds
Held all the earth, resplendent to behold,
First from the Greeks the loud-resounding din
Of song triumphant came; and shrill at once
Echo responded from the island rock.
Then upon all barbarians terror fell,
Thus disappointed; for not as for flight
The Hellenes sang the holy pæan then,
But setting forth to battle valiantly.
The bugle with its note inflamed them all;
And straightway with the dip of plashing oars
They smote the deep sea water at command,
And quickly all were plainly to be seen.
Their right wing first in orderly array
Led on, and second all the armament
Followed them forth; and meanwhile there was heard
A mighty shout: "Come, O ye sons of Greeks,
Make free your country, make your children free,
Your wives, and fanes of your ancestral gods,
And your sires' tombs! For all we now contend!"
And from our side the rush of Persian speech
Replied. No longer might the crisis wait.
At once ship smote on ship with brazen beak;
A vessel of the Greeks began the attack,
Crushing the stem of a Phoenician ship.
Each on a different vessel turned its prow.
At first the current of the Persian host
Withstood; but when within the strait the throng
Of ships was gathered, and they could not aid
Each other, but by their own brazen bows
Were struck, they shattered all our naval host.
The Grecian vessels not unskillfully
Were smiting round about; the hulls of ships
Were overset; the sea was hid from sight,
Covered with wreckage and the death of men;
The reefs and headlands were with corpses filled,
And in disordered flight each ship was rowed,
As many as were of the Persian host.
But they, like tunnies or some shoal of fish,
With broken oars and fragments of the wrecks
Struck us and clove us; and at once a cry
Of lamentation filled the briny sea,
Till the black darkness' eye did rescue us.
The number of our griefs, not though ten days
I talked together, could I fully tell;
But this know well, that never in one day
Perished so great a multitude of men.
Colibri Jan 2013
I.
The soft light touches me like a breeze,
Like a million gentle kisses on my body.
Rushing at me, drenching me, embracing me.
Rippling as I walk closer,
Swirling over my hands.
My dress becomes heavy with the dew of silver,
Dripping from the hem,
Plashing into little pools by my feet.
It condenses on my skin,
Becoming diamond tears, rolling down my arms and face,
Leaving shining rivulets behind.
My hair flicks the sparkling drops, bejeweling the air as I run
Closer, ever closer into the light.
I open my mouth to laugh.
The sweet light rushes down my throat,
Violently, suddenly, choking me.
I fall among the illumined puddles, splashing, floundering, drowning.
A black wave sneaks over me, I fight it.
Vainly pushing against the tangible darkness
The light! The light is growing dim.
I crawl towards it, laugh turned to scream.
Why won't it save me?


I awake with the taste of a beautiful dream
Broken.
Shining rivulets turned to scars on my skin,
Light to dark,
Love to hate,
How could something so beautiful, be so ugly?
Onoma Nov 2015
Slow wind,
hair raising
scintillations...
hands plashing
magenta pools.
Trying depthless
depths.
Martin Narrod Nov 2016
The title and body optional, they drag like loose map lines of a desiccate cactus, if its pins or thorns were the bones of the mule deer's alongside the highway where crimsony two-toned stretch marks were either allergic reactions or hives crawling across all of our limbs, and I aimed at ferocious. My polydactyl ferocity plagued by gorges, oxygen-loss, staying awake for the 36th or 37th hour until the stray humming between us is just another
Symptom of your childhood ploys to see Mercury ooze from your day away from school, out of the thermometer, droplets oozed out of your lips like trending sarcophagi-

The estranged catalyst carried with us through the archetypal and errant weapon-systems our brain stems plagued our visions with, mulish and recalcitrant undulates in a meteor shower of plashing death up I-89. We came for them.

Until the moon cleaved its feral African-eye, peddling its feline claws through every inch and synonym for itching skin could bear red too. Inside a grave, I was the color of fire. Inside a grave, you were the conflagration of histamines and cold orange hands, and we were left with our twisted interstices lashing into the pock-marked hide of the devil-skin rock torment,

And we prayed for the ghost moose, the albicant sinewy strands of disease
In an inarticulate heap of antagonist and agony. Blistery, curmudgeonly mumps, our cold lips braying for the plague, the bleeding from our eyes, nose, feet.
You say you'd take twos and threes of non-batted lashes, unsavory nomenclatures for names no one, not even a doctor in 1985 could mispronounce the diagnosis for, and for what, the cross'd black diamond thatchwork of icicles forming on our appendages, Earth words rocked in a cacophony of ungodliness and sorrowful malcontent. And for a moment of mute apathy, what use you and I would give shivers and trills for one another, what etherized and idyllic blaspheming poltergeist you could claw from my flesh, as I could claw it from yours.

To be free of this disease of winter,
Abolish it in a canonical ablasement of
Ferocity and suffering,

Where cleverly the ovivorous fold harmonizes,
Thwarting the immeasurable Gods to tailor a saw for your arms and my arms. Insects scuttling our carcass in lazy-fair, only to be haphazardly decaying in or without of the red flesh, belly up, without this systematic **** of skin tremors shot by the likes of a Peterbilt, cocked and bullied, readied to candy up another inane banter of horn-slivered antelopes dancing their ghost weevils up to an inexplainable and implacatable chivalry our
Carcasses lie, and our crimsony skins lay half-awake to die.
Itches itch unkown
Breathing in the fresh air near  the trees of serpentine purple,
To inhume  the dolour of my  dejected loneliness..
In the   distressing ire I am that   lacustrine,,
Listening the soft lay in the beautiful lea..
People know, my wounds are   plumbless,,
No tears in my  orbs  ,   seems I am    mage....
People  here are  serpents  who  don't  slay,,
But  are  giving  the  bad  sempiternal   gashes...
Now  look  at  my   stygian  tenebrous  visage,,
From which poesy is flowing with a plashing sound...
You,,  know   their  life   was  in   pitch_dark,,,
Now is lucent and niveous, orgulous!! what I did,,
Those  toys  of  clay   rend   me   savagely,,,
Now my vermilion  ichor exhibits the beautiful limn.
People  of  this  era  are  pitiless,, my  dear!!!
Are deceiving ere and after, not caring for eld..
The poem is about the present world, where  only selfish people live. They can harm anyone  for their own purposes. They are the Snakes who don't care for the old age... They will always give you everlasting wounds
Mike Adam Sep 2017
Mountain water plashing down steeply through and over rocks.

Somersaulting obstacles

Life so easy without resistance

And the cool pool below to venture through,

Sea beckoning a million leagues below.

Restlessness
Rested
And the slow
Fast tumble into dark
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
BOX OF MEMORIES

The years cover them
as much as this rich earth

her memories we dig up
& there they are

good as new

all the things that
used to be you

buried
in a box.

Even the calligraphy
survives the years:

“TILLY’S MEMORY BOX.”

Your teenage self
takes your 3 year old

left blue shoe

cradles it
in your hand.

You have no
memory of it

only us telling you
the story of the memory of

“it”.

How the right blue shoe
was irretrievably lost

on holiday
floated out to sea

by a so curious you.

Somewhere before the horizon
sinking out of view.

But you wouldn’t relinquish the left
(and what it meant to you)

how you wouldn’t go to sleep
without it

clutched in your grasp
for a year or more

until we buried it in this
box of Tilly things.

A broken rattle
wrapped in silence

a chipped glass heart
wrapped in pink & blue tissue paper

a magnetic elephant
clinging for dear life

to the bottom of the box
labelled “TILLY’S MEMORIES.”

I watch you
cry for you

(and I cry too)

for your forgotten self

big unreal
tears plashing

into your open palm

as you
retrieve from Time

the things
that were yours

your frail body
sobbing against my shoulder

like you used to do
when you were my little girl

a left blue shoe
clutched in your hand

now
&
then

as you attend
the resurrection of the you

you
never knew

until now.
Onoma Jun 2
the ground strips

pavement--

with one exhale.

seeing blue become

a chain of color, not

necessarily blue.

without the sun's plashing

residuals.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2020
BOX OF MEMORIES

The years cover them
as much as this rich earth

her memories we dig up
& there they are

good as new

all the things that
used to be you

buried
in a box.

Even the calligraphy
survives the years:

“TILLY’S MEMORY BOX.”

Your teenage self
takes your 3 year old

left blue shoe

cradles it
in your hand.

You have no
memory of it

only us telling you
the story of the memory of

“it”.

How the right blue shoe
was irretrievably lost

on holiday
floated out to sea

by a so curious you.

Somewhere before the horizon
sinking out of view.

But you wouldn’t relinquish the left
(and what it meant to you)

how you wouldn’t go to sleep
without it

clutched in your grasp
for a year or more

until we buried it in this
box of Tilly things.

A broken rattle
wrapped in silence

a chipped glass heart
wrapped in pink & blue tissue paper

a magnetic elephant
clinging for dear life

to the bottom of the box
labelled “TILLY’S MEMORIES.”

I watch you
cry for you

(and I cry too)

for your forgotten self

big unreal
tears plashing

into your open palm

as you
retrieve from Time

the things
that were yours

your frail body
sobbing against my shoulder

like you used to do
when you were my little girl

a left blue shoe
clutched in your hand

now
&
then

as you attend
the resurrection of the you

you
never knew

until now.

— The End —