"ravines" poems
Last night I
had a dream that
you died.
Everyone we knew
came, said their I’m-so-sorry’s,
and
left, filtering out the front door
slowly
like sand through a sideways sifter,
leaving behind pieces,
words and memories
and casseroles I
could not taste.
And the whole time
everyone was here,
you were here, too.
I could hear
you, smell
you, feel
you.
I could feel you
surrounding me like the ghost of the baby blanket
I once had and could never leave at home.
I loved you here and here you would stay, with me,
and now you would never leave.
I could keep you.
You were bound to me.
But the ties that bind are tight and you did not like me leaving.
You could not go with me and
you
accidentally
and without words
by holding, enveloping,
suffocating
you told me
that you did not want me to ever leave again.
So I stopped.
I stopped leaving.
And the calls stopped, too.
The invites. The lunches. The impromptu trips to town.
All unnecessary noise.
The people left. And then it was just you and me.
Until one day I saw what you had done.
Tripping
I glanced in the mirror and saw.
You had etched yourself into my face.
Dug with your nails
terrifying ravines
escaping the corners
of my eyes. Pulled down
my mouth and every
shallow natural valley turned to
deep empty bowl, hungry and wanting.
My eyes no longer held light.
I saw this, all evidence against you,
and I still loved you.
You had hurt me in ways you never had
while you were here – here – and I knew.
And I still loved you.
Slinking up the stairs
I called you to me. I felt you surround
faster than before and
closer, tighter, colder.
Suffocating, stifling and
so destructive in how you loved me.
Slowly but faster
I grew to know
I would not become you and
you would not become me.
We were stuck on other sides of the mirror.
I was so angry
at what you had allowed me
made me
begged me to become.
Realizing
I gasped and put
hand to heart
it hurt so.
I stood upright
how long have I been bent
took in one long deep breath of stuffy air
how long since I opened the windows
and called you to me
when have I last heard a voice not my own
called you to listen.
I felt the loss of everything else
friends
family
adventure
excitement.
Nothing was left of that here
and I was so angry
and I am so sorry
and I yelled
I screamed
I roared
why are you still here
why are you making me like you
why did you come here and
hold me
and keep me here with you
I am not the one who is dead
and I said
and I regret
and I am so sorry
I can’t have you here
go away
and
leave me alone
and you did.
You left me
all alone.
Why would you leave me?
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
in the Guy Fawkes National park there is a harass of them
trotting through its blue hued wends
their days are numbered in the park
park authorities want end to their spirited lark
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
to sight the wild horses in full cantering step
is exhilarating and fills one's heart with miles of pep
their hooves thundering and pelting along
to the wind's strong liberating throng
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
down the steep ravines and o'er the hills they stride
without the reins of a man holding their ranging pride
the wild horses have need of open lands to caper and pace
they are a breed which must be allowed to freely race
up in the high country the wild horses run free
they've done so for nigh on a century
not a saddle upon their backs
enabling them to gallop unchecked around its tract
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
*Dewdrops shining in the sun
On the sweet hibiscus blooms
Sweet orchids open their satin petals
To greet the sweetly shining sun
Against the royal blue sky
With pink cotton candy clouds
Floating across the pretty sky
Like a slow dream or illusion
Too good to be true
Winding meadows and roaring waterfalls
Make sweet pictures of landscape
Mountains high and ravines sharp
With huge boulders
Paths rocky and steep
Such a lovely place*
~Marian~
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
It's like this, and then there was total recall. Fast like a safety plan made wrong and then bouncing in and out all the way down the hall. Up through cable cars, Korean fast food market, wet fish, soupy street, concrete cracks filled with crab meat and **** heads. Just a square, a five block, two street, sideways quadrangle, beat of the Tenderloin, hour of the dove. Every one's dead on these loose ends. Hills of the back of her backside, skin of the back of her neck. Rapture is the grave of the sunset, memory is that thing that I said.
No one cans in carnivores, no one runs moves like a shepherd. Sunday, daft as candy, luck in the ways of the prophet. Canon of the blaze of every woman that died today. The sleep setting, the motorcycle bending the hollow, the ravines noisy interlude, up through the rough and the tangles, huddles in a six pack, three or four walking up the block to meet the rest of them.
The skin doesn't fit right, it wears wrong, the shoulders stiff, the masseuse excuses himself. Buckets of flowers hang from the ceiling like stripped cat christmas decorations in suburban mastermind serial killer resort town. Everyone is quiet because they gotta. They move their feet like they were hurrying death into a red volcano, like they were the errand of red from the top bell to the bottom of the town.
I sit on a roof top, baking in the noon day sun. Stripping sticks and stems off the side to sideways, just roasting away, laying, low in the afternoon light. I see a girl with her hands on her skirt, wobbling, scooting a priest card on a periwinkle terra-cotta. I move my head, turn it upside round to take a better look. No one counts to ten when they see me. The gangster that woke up isn't the gangster that went to sleep last night. My wickedness ended my words mean your bright decay. So I ride the pavement exhausted, burying my coughs in an L-shaped arm
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
today i will look for
chocolate and flowers
and find a pound of
belgian dark in my
pantry, and wilted
tulips on the counter.
i will hand write a
poem because it's
just so much better
on paper, and i will
serenade my darling
with bright eyes
on a scholastic field
after the last bell rings,
for at last i can stop
musing on possibilities
and begin to dwell
on solidity.
today i will bring you
a rose, for the petals
and lines and worn
down world-weary
ravines contained
in you; i will bring
you sweet darkness
in a plastic wrapping
for all the sugar laced
in with your hair and
irises, and despite your
fire and your heritage,
i will leave out the heat
of sacred mayan ritual
peppers because together
we'll be warm enough.
finally, i will lean
down close to you and
whisper what i have
not whispered for a
million seconds or more,
because i just haven't
had the opportunity:
Ya llegué, mi querida.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
scuttling across the valley,
the trench was deep and steep
scorching heat of the dry sun,
dried blemishes on the weathered skin.
Settling along the rocky facades,
hackneyed by the haunting past.
Sleepless nights of the perching predators,
Hibernating in aloof worlds .
Stymied by the wind in the barren land ,
Harnessed by the futile fears.
Simone Melchoir of the sinking ship ,
would not you go down with the fault.
Shunning away from natures affection ,
for every rose does share its thorn .
Sunny ends are reached ,
when the raging ravines fade away.
Slithering away the swirling serpent ,
The sun lurks in the brewing storm .
Sanctity of the witheld winds ,
sapping away the deathly darkness.
Serene air of the seraphic angel,
brought the plighting dreams to the refugees repose
Smelting ores and melting poles,
brimming with brightness the cradled cirque .
Summons of the exalted virtue ,
To burn the lizard and fly away like the phoenix
Succumbing to the wilderness,
to soaring heights and rising spirits .
Swanking in the soothing winds,
the phoenix looked down on the plundering valley.
Scorning at the downtrodden spirits,
The fraternity of the Desert lizard
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
Now as the train bears west,
Its rhythm rocks the earth,
And from my Pullman berth
I stare into the night
While others take their rest.
Bridges of iron lace,
A suddenness of trees,
A lap of mountain mist
All cross my line of sight,
Then a bleak wasted place,
And a lake below my knees.
Full on my neck I feel
The straining at a curve;
My muscles move with steel,
I wake in every nerve.
I watch a beacon swing
From dark to blazing bright;
We thunder through ravines
And gullies washed with light.
Beyond the mountain pass
Mist deepens on the pane;
We rush into a rain
That rattles double glass.
Wheels shake the roadbed stone,
The pistons **** and shove,
I stay up half the night
To see the land I love.
3.1k
Burns Creek
Climbing Chimney Rock.
Dad and David Scoville
In their mid 30s,
Two men out to prove
Their bravery,
Their derring-do.
Nervous,
My Mother,
My brother and I,
Five and six,
Necks craning,
Wait and watch;
Dad moves up and up
Clings to the top.
Inept and six,
I stand below,
Admiring my Father's
Fearlessness.
I am nearly blind,
The myopic, thick-lensed gawker,
Peering upward.
The men climb down,
Victorious,
The day’s challenges
Vanquished.
Heading home,
Choking dust.
Old land,
Deep ravines,
Rattle snake domain.
My father's old Ford
Bumps over red scoria,
Billows burning dust.
Ancient land,
Cindered clay,
Open grazing land,
Dry and hot.
Memories churn
From sixty years ago.
Feb 2, 2022
Feb 2, 2022 at 9:08 AM UTC
I cannot sleep, thinking:
I cannot give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical love poems.
I can give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical life poems.
In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil mix.
A voyage endless.
We too, our voyage.
Endless. End less.
Examine the crevices and ravines that
are the map of your hands.
Your voyage's log, memory storage.
Indestructible.
In the clouds's moisture,
ever recycling, it is all kept, stored.
Your hands well recall
the very first caress,
the softness of the baby skin,
the sweet of the lips,
thirty some long years after.
Dare to dispute?
The original animus,
the anima and the persona combination
the byproduct of blood and tissue,
some call spirit,
some call soul,
is matter that cannot be
destroyed,
nor created.
It only voyages on,
the conservation of mass,
our body, our enlivement,
our spark.
In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil admix.
From this natural brew, renewal.
The voyage is the resurrection
Life ever after.
Life even before.
Life for ever
lasting.
Our voyage is without destination.
Our voyage is our destination.
Our voyage is our resurrection.
Endless. Perpetual.
Eternal.
5:46 AM
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
**Earth Day, April 22, 2017 "give back to Earth",
as an "offering" for all the planet gives us.**
For Global Earth Day information visit: http://www.earthday.org/
Her ominous shadow
shown a path
far beyond the miles high
a majestic mountain stood
Silently climbing down
million year old
steep canyon walls
at dawn,
each step chosen carefully
coursing with purpose
Finding a way forward
was the only way
to look back up
river carved ravines
where higher ground
once stood
Instincts drawn downward
gravity feed towards
the faint murmurs
deep echoes tracery
down sheer basalt cliffs
Artesian waters'
resounding gurgles ―
bubble up to quench
a lost soul’s incurably
intrinsic parching thirst;
to find an unfolding
metamorphic peace
in the trove of igneous
fountain veins of earth
There’s not need to wait
on sunrise pathways lit ―
there is no fear of gravity’s
downward silent weight
nor burden to be borne
Listening beyond dark silence .
igneous bedrock roots
beckon deeper expanse ;
spirit realms of ancient souls
whisperer like thunder
to the soul of man ―
Awakening ruptured lifelines
deep below earthen crust ,
creations hidden essence
eternally remembered
by the light above ...
April 2017 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
In the long journey out of the self,
There are many detours, washed-out interrupted raw places
Where the shale slides dangerously
And the back wheels hang almost over the edge
At the sudden veering, the moment of turning.
Better to hug close, wary of rubble and falling stones.
The arroyo cracking the road, the wind-bitten buttes, the canyons,
Creeks swollen in midsummer from the flash-flood roaring into the narrow valley.
Reeds beaten flat by wind and rain,
Grey from the long winter, burnt at the base in late summer.
-- Or the path narrowing,
Winding upward toward the stream with its sharp stones,
The upland of alder and birchtrees,
Through the swamp alive with quicksand,
The way blocked at last by a fallen fir-tree,
The thickets darkening,
The ravines ugly.
2.6k
In the midst of old ravines and paintings, a succulent soldier dreams.
As dawn starts to paint, as the secondhand piano plays,
his azure iris will gaze
to the sun- the faraway maiden.
In hope that one day, he'd sunbathe and chase dreams
with spring nymphs in holy fields of bonnets and poppies.
Into the poetic imaginations he submerged,
eating dainty buns,saccharine berries and milk by a spiral pond;
and pirouette like butterflies on feathery grass with florets and mist.
Far across the sullen lakes, He'd run with the spring squirrels and foxes;
through the honeyed prairie, the crooned secrets echo faintly like a damsel's song.
In between His spellbinding tales, plants they giggle in harmonious blithe—
that even the gale who gush by in haste, would stop and peer with serene awe.
Abundance of miraculous faith He ignited to his vein,
for the black dots of his crest and spine to someday evanesce.
And in ease, realms of woodlands and lone moors abound upon his eyelids,
that mother nature awaits him.
tick tock, two steps away from the holy born of Christ,
He died of collapsed dream, like muddy landslide of wet monsoon.
His soul— a soul of a fey,beatific and mesmeric dreamer, perish away in stardust.
a shriveled lilac body, graven into a treasure box, a seraphic smile carved.
With waterfalls and chrysanthemums,
moonbeam and fog, an elegy,
and a handful of brimmed ash—the box sealed like a secret letter.
that dusted night
ashes charily scattered to the wide empyrean
along with a brush of vain agony.
Rest in peace, Floyd the cactus.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Thunder… then lightning,
feverish caress of musky notes,
****** scent of loving irony
to curiously tempt each edge
of such a fractionated cubism.
Tiny desert rose, ready
to dilate all its farthest dusty ravines
just to feel its lymph racing out of bounds.
Hot water runs down on me,
raw and bitter into my mouth,
a taunting sadism
for better wince, essentially
in a universe that is not there.
Painted glow of cynic nocturnes,
diluted to loss,
watered down to dawn.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
Mine eyes look upon the heavens with tears,
The sunlight soothes the large ravines on my back,
And the delicious winds does not sting.
I have been eclipsed,
My feathered wings viciously ripped away,
At the height of pleasures; the end of the ride.
A long fall followed, with many changes of the sky,
Flames surrounded me and open air, then the embrace of Earth,
Where I am to be eclipsed in the dance of moonlight,
And find onyx wings;eclipsed wings,
So I may run through the golden wheat fields at the end of dusk each day,
Picking up speed, I will go faster and faster,
And finally I'll fly.
Fly again, and find joy after misery and sacrifice,
After I spend each day in agonizing anticipation,
Of the freedom of flight.
I will never return after I've felt such things,
I will walk this earth, for eternity, free,
I will love and try not to hate,
Laugh, and only cry for joy,
I will not be oppressed, depressed, nor impressed,
By cruelty, and hurt, and pain.
I will be forever and always free,
Always and forever an eclipse.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
Lilac-scented winds
furtively creep through
the window, rhythmically
stroking the lily-white hair
that rests upon her hunched
shoulders.
Thin levees barricade
the emerging seas of salt
as the stationary clouds
dissipate from the
sapphire ice crystals that
encircle her inky
pupils.
Beneath her round,
brittle cheekbones
ancient ravines wind
downwards toward
her steep, narrow
chin, pointing at a
skeletal frame blanketed
in an off-white, floral gown.
Blotchy, autumn, amber
hands cradle the pudgy
infant’s limp body. She
smiles as she presses her
chapped lips on the baby’s
smooth, plastic head.
She leans back in her
chair of solace, rocking
back-and-forth to the
pulsating tempo of her
heartbeat. Her world is
in perfect harmony.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
You are cyclic like
the change of seasons
in your reinvention;
robust is your passion,
a mountain brook
that embraces hills
plains, fields and ravines
without any restriction.
Instantly you would imbibe
any message, air, wind or water
sends through flashes of intimations,
nature's child you are, a woman
in sync with the moon in your veins
and the sun that seeks you from my *****
I only follow the music your heart strings play
that in my psyche resonates, every moment,
it makes easy navigation in this planet my right.
You and I move through the waves rowing
shoulder to shoulder, singing spiritedly barcaroles.
The feminine in me is under your tender care,
I let my masculine self be in communion with yours,
all merging in harmoniously, resulting in only ONE.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face—the face of one long dead—
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
1.8k
With eyes that can strike both fear and awe
and a heart that was forged of gold
A mind filled with wisdom beyond the Library of Alexandra's
and a touch of a mothers love
A hug of a fresh blanket
and a smile of sun rays
A laugh of life
and a ferocious love that envelopes all that are worthy
It is in them that I find solace
from the world and its many ravines
And when I need it most
I can always find them there
It is in them that I bestow trust
as if a chest of ancient relics
And all they have to do is look at me
and I know they'll be safe
I love you, good friend
More than I even know
Overflowing like a flood
with as much force as an earthquake
I shall always be there, my friend
and i'll do anything for you
For you are the most beautiful dragon
and I could never find another
Because in your soul, is a soul like mine
kindred spirits beyond time
And i'll always love you
Even when the moon falls
I'll be your guiding light when you need me
and we shall haunt the lands together
until the end of time
Thank you <3
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 5:27 AM UTC
My internal landscape was once a wetland. Grasses and herbaceous plants sprout from the ventricles of my heart. My rib is a birch tree, a deciduous hard wood crowned with thin leaves. My veins are wild ravines. Inside it is the torrent of rain water that keeps me alive.
My heart is a beating water lily, eternally blooming on the lake of my blood. I was a sullen mist, and I loved it that way.
But they mistook my solitude for loneliness, the crowd, the clever engineers. So they loaded sands on their trucks, sacks after sacks. They opened me up, covered my wetland, and built a city inside me. They paved roads. They constructed buildings. They opened cafes and pubs and restaurants. They turned on their neon lights.
A rave party is inside me at night, and they won't stop until I am filled with cigarette stubs and empty bottles and used issues and half-eaten plates -- litters and grime that I have to clean every morning of my life. My gutter is overflowing and they call this happiness.
I call this wreckage.
I moved close to the bed, pulled the sheet and laid down. I tried to remember my by-gone world -- my birch trees, my herbaceous plants, my wild ravines, my water lily -- before I was converted into a rattling shell called Happiness.
You wrapped your arms around me and press your face on small of my back. My spine was a hard wood once, and every October it shed its golden leaves. "What do you want?" you asked.
The neon lights and the avalanche of noise from everywhere drowned my thoughts, and all I can do for my defense is curl my mutiliated body. "Love me until the end of everything," I whispered. "And understand that this is not a plea."
This is a burning desire to have my wetland back.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
amid scurrying feet
in the whirling humanity
with divided aims
and sizzling brains
she paused with singularity of purpose
never in a hurry, more at peace
on a park bench, alone
bent and weird, she sat.
when she moved
her bones creaked
on rusty hinges!
ragged in dress, torn in body,
face scourged by Time,
its contours deep like ravines
her withered *******
hanging like nests of tailor birds
hair lying disheveled,
with eyes shrouded in mist
she looked out into the sinking sun,
never dreading the darkness that falls
the park bench was her temporary halt
she sat there every evening
determined to live on,
with the coins habitually dropped
into her outstretched hands
by those sailing past her
unobtrusive self.
like a monument of patience
she sat.
sat, so alone!
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
I've met people that live their lives like a burning building,
All motion and light, excitement, smoke and fiery glow.
They mostly have wavy hair, like the constantly moving surf.
I'd like to think I am this kind of person,
For the allure they project,
But in the end, opposites don't attract,
Only opposite personalities.
If there are no similarities, then
Nothing will come of it.
I'm a gently flowing river,
Only when my temper melts the icecaps,
And the melt water rushes down,
Only then do I rage.
(Flash flooding on occasion)
A burning building and a river,
About as far apart as two personalities can go,
This goes to show you how this funky freaky universe works.
Cosmic soda jerks, making asteroid root beer floats,
***** floating through blackness,
Flaming and frigid stars and comets,
All spinning just right, to create this magnetic field
That drew me to you.
I meander and I have my rapids and waterfalls,
My shallow pools, and deep ravines.
But you rage with a fire that cannot be extinguished.
It is a marvel when we collide,
And together we make steam.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
While I gaze in your eyes, cool cerulean blue,
Sifting night, straining stars through morning’s sweet dew,
I can fathom the depths of empyreal skies,
Angels fluttering by, riding wild butterflies
While I gaze in your eyes, changing, aqua-blue greening,
I’m ****** into chasms, cascading, careening,
And yield to enticements which meekly disarm,
Seeping virtuous beauty, sad sensuous charm
While I gaze in your eyes, bleeding fiery blue
Ever tempting with treasures, with pleasures for two,
Being caught at the core of a blazing sapphire
Possessing, enthralling, aflame with desire
While I gaze in your eyes, misty emeralds, deep green,
Veiling laughter and banter, and echoes between,
Then I dream, so it seems, in whatever the place,
Of your scent, of your breath, of your radiant face
While I gaze in your eyes, at times placidly blue,
Near’ as calm as the weirs in the woods all bedewed,
Forty winks relegate to a shimmering lake,
Gently floating on lilies, while waiting to wake
While I gaze in your eyes, caught engulfed in the greens
And consigning my fate unto verdant ravines,
My reactions, at length, become shyer and shyer
Reminiscent of ravens at risk in the briar
While I gaze in your eyes, restless, hesitant blues
Overwhelming sensations with turbulent hues,
I’m succumbing to waves of a storm battered sea,
Being cast like a plank, never meant to be free
While I gaze in your eyes, shadowed, Midnight Lake green
Glowing hazy with dreams, misty thoughts so serene,
Sudden silence befalls me, a fast sinking stone,
Looming lost in your eyes, I am never alone
While I gaze in your eyes, saddened, lachrymal blue,
Spilling trickles of rain, pearls obscuring your view,
I’ll attend to your anguish and feelings morose,
Lightly kissing your tears, touching, holding you close
While I gaze in your eyes, pulsing infinite green
Of the earth and of heaven and all in between,
It is simple to see that my hands can hold all
Of the treasures I find which so humbly enthral
While I gaze in your eyes, when they’re bountifully blue,
I’m reminded, love’s lightning is granted to few...
While I gaze in your eyes, when they’re blindingly green,
I’m reminded, love’s lightning cannot be foreseen...
Yet I hope... and I wait...
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
Wizened, like the mountain ridges in the west,
you gazed across the desk at me, rheumy eyes unblinking,
and asked me what I wanted from life
When I answered, the blue opacity of your gaze seemed to sharpen
and pierce my soul
you clasped your hands comfortably, and rolled your ancient shoulders back
- trees rippled in the ridges of your crisply pressed shirt -
and you told me, with your well-worn voice, that you would exert every effort
to give me all the tools I needed to succeed
as you blinked, our conference ended, like the sun had gone down
I was free to leave, but lingered
your short white hair crested your brow like a fresh snowcap, you
had ravines beside your eyes, and smiled like a canyon
so I turned to go
And it occurred to me, as I left the inclines of your presence for
the flat horizons of my daily life, that I
would like to have the same peace that flowed
through your being,
it would be a healthy rain to the desert of my soul.
I longed to have the verdancy that you had - you,
forty years my senior; you put my youth to shame
but soon you would be my teacher, and
you would not let me go to waste
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
The first love for me
It was always the sea.
Being lovingly caressed
Being slowly undressed
By the deep oceans call.
Being caught as I fall
Into Kingdoms below.
Where I flow
Into gleaming ravines
Into Davy Jones dreams.
And on the network of tides
I slide into rides
And slip into waves
Of mermaids and slaves.
I glide upon stallions
Sail in lost galleons
And float in with the breath
Of those swallowing death.
As the seafarers are pounded
As schooners are grounded.
And sink into the deep
In silence they keep
The first love for me
It was always the sea.
John Smallshaw 2011.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC