"telegraph" poems
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green
field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs
creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent
through a failed ground rock)
brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail
12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)
lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
32.3k
Thomas Alva Edison,
A most unusual boy,
Never really bothered much
With any childish toy.
His teacher thought he couldn't learn
And sent him home from school,
But tommy's mother knew for sure
He wasn't any fool.
He worked as a news boy on train,
He learnt to telegraph
In a way he concentrated
Made some people laugh.
Thomas alva Edison
had inventions by the score.
In his laboratory
he kept inventing more.
the phonograph,electric light
(with fuses sockets too),
a super storage battery,
and movies ,were a few.
If not for Mr.Edison
How dull our lives would be!
We might not have the radio,
The X-ray,or TV
-almighty emperor (premanand)
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
And when I met that girl in San Francisco
Off a dusty little pier
with rotting wood
and squawking seals
And screaming bayside wind
She caught me off-tropics
and danced with the grace
of a palm tree
lines between the quaked
concrete
off telegraph avenue
On an obscuring Sunday morning
and no
she didn't go
to church or any silly thing
like a temple or synagogue
She said those were no places
for god
God was the trees
We smoked cigarettes and got off to each other's
carcinogenic practices
oxidizing a little faster in conjunction with hopeful
Formaldehyde
Deriding the formalities
of small talk and trivialities
She liked her guitars with nickel-wound strings
I with nylon
But I couldn't play songs
that sounded any good with them
while she could
and did.
and girl did it ever sound good
She'd laugh at the contests on the radio
while we drove on a half-moon
to half-moon
full and whole of ourselves
We'd stopped in the lobby of a cheap motel
And waltzed to background
muzak
wacked out of our minds
Sniffing in deep huffs of subliminal
divinity
Understanding
loving
that mind-numbing
monotony
muzak...
ppsh.
Who ever really listened to that?
And then she left
at the end of one fine winter day
in a cloudless sky I waved
watched her plane
skip off
towards the edge of a pale blue horizon
back south
to warmer climes
to wherever she truly stayed
The tugging on my heartstrings
chimed grotesque in
precise
D minor.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC
* * *
Absorbing dust and Golden heat,
living more openly than I do,
he shimmies to Billie Holiday
The year is not 1957, though
he lives in a San Francisco fog
longing to play the piano
The time in not 11:57pm, though
he orders a ***** martini & swims
in the fishbowl bay
Escaping to Telegraph Hill
to drink moonlight jazz & vermouth
he pretends to live
Way back when
* * *
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
"From every wound there is a scar, and every scar tells a story.
A story says, I survived." - Fr. Craig Scott
**... a tribute to a fallen brother ― R.I.P Les
... you were with me every step of the way to the top**
crampon cleats tickle her bedrock
far below the frosty powder dusting;
released from where her majestic peak
parted yester night’s obstinate clouds.
the alpine atmosphere
first chilled and then plummeted
as the starlight glistened;
illuminated ice crystals sparkle
like diamonds in the rough.
I am overwhelmed
by the peaceful aura
surrounding me.
watching how
"these"
footprints
mark the snow
...arousing
a lucid,
stirring awareness
of my existence;
...inciting
a conscious moment,
extraordinarily deepening
the realization of being.
harlon rivers ... May 24th, 2013
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
#***" Don't walk behind me; I may not lead.
Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow.
Just walk beside me and be my friend." - Albert Camus***
~ ~ ~
The telegraph road circled through the foothills,
rising towards the majestic mountain high
It’s been a long and twisting passage soon forgotten,
with the pavement abruptly dead ending,
just below the timberline
The dawning blue heavens look so much closer now
Just a step away from standing within reach
The birds uplifted on the telegraph wire rest atop me;
perched on the final material traces
disregarded by a digital world
My awakening soul is ascending beyond
the distant alpine meadow horizon
At the threshold of an untrodden wilderness wonderland,
climbing up above the meandering clouds
It’s exhilarating to look back and know
there is no turning back around;
I’ve never been higher
and can never get back down
What unknown frontier lies in wait before me now?
Just on the other side of the impossible dream?
The last step forward to find the next step beyond the bounds
There is not that much that changes,
when we just repeat the same old song
The atmosphere’s thin air leaves me gasping for wings
Like dust and ashes free to soar with the tempest breeze
If only time would sever these loathsome ties that bind
The ones that enchain the weight of this load unto me
While understanding the pace to a long journey’s rhythm
The only barometer you have to trust is in your heart
Adaptation is at the core of freedom's survival
But it feels almost like running away
I have felt the fear of falling with nothing left to lose
I’ve climbed as far as flesh and bones can reach
I've come this far always feeling subtly afraid
It has been a great distance back from the beginning;
knowing I must take these last steps alone.
Understanding it was love that brought me here
Naturally tugs at the spirit in my soul encouraging me on
I'll keep searching for the shining light of guidance
Listening for a voice that softly beckons me home...
written by: harlon rivers ... May 24th, 2013
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
1 I came from Alabama
2 wid my ban jo on my knee,
3 I'm g'wan to Louisiana,
4 My true love for to see,
6 It raind all night the day I left
7 The weather it was dry,
8 The sun so hot I frose to death
9 Susanna dont you cry.
10 [Chorus] Oh! Susanna Oh! dont you cry for me
11 I've come from Alabama wid mi ban jo on my knee.
12 [Solo] I jumped aboard de telegraph,
13 And trabbelled down de riber,
14 De Lectric fluid magnified,
15 And Killed five Hundred ******
16 De bullgine buste, de horse run off,
17 I realy thought I'd die;
18 I shut my eyes to hold my breath,
19 Susana, dont you cry.
20 [Chorus] Oh! Susana Oh! dont you cry for me
21 I've come from Alabama wid mi ban jo on my knee.
22 [Solo] I had a dream de odder night,
23 When ebery ting was still;
24 I thought I saw Susana,
25 A coming down de hill.
26 The buckwheat cake war in her mouth,
27 The tear was in her eye,
28 Says I, im coming from de South,
29 Susana, dont you cry.
30 [Chorus] Oh! Susana Oh! dont you cry for me
31 I've come from Alabama wid mi ban jo on my knee.
32 [Solo] I soon will be in New Orleans,
33 And den I'll look all round,
34 And when I find Susana,
35 I'll fall upon the ground.
36 But if I do not find her,
37 Dis ****** 'l surely die,
38 And when I'm dead and buried,
39 Susana, dont you cry.
40 [Chorus] Oh! Susana Oh! dont you cry for me
41 I've come from Alabama wid mi ban jo on my knee.
3.4k
The Intersection
of Interruption and Intermission.
Act 2 has been delayed.
We will come right back
After a word from our sponsors.
Remember when
Remember when meant
More than just a week ago?
When the hill was only
30 years high,
And still,
nothing held the urgency
that seems to permeate
our every desperate action.
I swear we had time, then,
It seems,
So much more than
Aging naturally eats away.
But the multitudes
have multiplied,
as they are want to,
And as the telegraph cables
Come down for corridors of Light,
The speed of time Grows,
Relatively accordingly.
And so, the second part
Of this two part play
Starts 10 years later,
while we dash madder than ever,
racing each other,
to first summit the Crisis Peak.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
Trying to spread the word?
Reach as many as possible?
Get your point across?
The twentieth century
Has provided the means
With
Telecommunications
Telstar
Telegraph (really the 19thc)
Telegram
Telephone
Television
Telethons
And coming soon,
Teleporting.
And yet,
With all our tele-technology,
If you really want world-wide attention,
Tell-a-friend
A secret.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
...---...
...---.... ...---...
...---... ...---... ...---...
my frantic fingers tap the telegraph
tapping tentatively , taking time
to repeat the single word
...dot, dot, dot, dash, dash , dash, dot, dot, dot...
---
tapping away like a cricket with arthritis
sending my signals and sounds into the night...
...dot, dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot , dot , dot...
---
but the neighbourhood sleeps quietly
and no one cares for an arthritic cricket
singing its song into the endless radio silence...
because dots and dashes are nothing more than
humble beginnings in 96.09.21
and the life dashes by and flat-lines on
a marble stone
1996 - (pretty soon)
...---...
...---... ...---...
...---... ...---... ...---...
dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot, dot, dot
dot, dot, dot, Dash, Dash, Dash, DOT, DOT, DOT
dot, dot, Dot, DASH, DASH, DASH, DOT, DOT, DOT
DOT, DOT, DOT, DASH, DASH, DASH, DOT, DOT, DOT
DOT, DOT, DOT, DASH...-------------------------------------------------------
the drummers pack away their drums, the beat forever fades
the thunder stops to rumble, from now on only clear days
my finger stops its tapping, lies numb across the telegraph
and somewhere outside... and arthritic cricket...
turns silent from its wrath
and the dots and dashes ...
that's been beating all this time...
my hearts stops singing with them...
and ends with one flat line
WvWWvVvv-v-v---------------------------------------------------
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
The only role I ever land is "outcast tortured by the cruelty and pain of his past" I sure didn't choose this path, feels more as though I've been typecast, or maybe I am a ********* holding out for every last ounce of pain before I blast this trader living in my head for the last 30 years off my shoulders, through a window pane, then, just as fast, turn to the vast hole in my chest that once held my heart and press the cold steel to it with the mass of my dread firmly in my grasp, gun fire drowned out by echoing laughs, fulfilling a prophecy of my future while neglecting lessons from my past, the game of life feels less like a game of chance and more like a test that's harder to advance than all the rest and wouldn't you know it, I fell asleep in class and didn't pass, apparently I even tuned out the emergency broadcast. Went and amassed a losing record that'd be impressive if not for the direct contrast the win column presents and the enormous shadow my downfall casts. Harassed by the devil on each shoulder, I thought that maybe once I got older, if I could just stay on task and remain steadfast, I would be able to open a can of whoop a$$ and trespass the evil within this house of glass but alas I must telegraph my every move or they've seen a future telecast because they lambast each strike and I'm not sure I'll outlast these issues, I'm gassed, plus, problems have started showing up in mass from a much higher weight class, they must have bypassed the weigh in process but I've always known who the deck was stacked against, hence why I never win, I only survive and my methods would flabbergast most, the truth finds it's way to the surface and I find myself aghast, crying like I've been teargassed with no gas mask but I've surpassed the point where waterworks will bring forth empathy, gotta own my involvement in the crash, volunteer to take out my own trash and this time I'll throw my pain out with the bath water and be free at last...free at last, free at last, no thanks to god almighty I'll be free at last
©2021
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 5:10 AM UTC
i had dreams of meeting outer space
running laps around the rings
alien murmurs like whispered sweet nothings
snorting cosmic dust
leads to
eyes that grow like eclipses
starlight sticking to my skin
initials carved in moon rocks
hurled through the stars like a telegraph service
it wasn't until i met you
that i felt the gravitational pull
it was you holding me to the earth
i didn't mind
suddenly space felt empty
it was small and you were vast
i pulled my head out of the clouds
and laid it on your chest
your eyes shone with the glitter of the cosmos
putting the twinkling stars to shame
black holes were filled
in me and in the universe
i stopped yearning for the undisturbed quiet
the minute i heard your heartbeat
through thin fabric and skin
and as cold as it was above the atmosphere
it was no comparison to the cold felt
when your body was away from mine
similar to how the moon would feel
should the sun ever cease to shine on it
the chill of unprepared absence
you became the center point
a bouquet of warmth and light
and life on earth
without you
was no longer possible
smndi
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Sa pamamagitan ng kabutihan ng Kanyang Kabutihan
~~~
*the message arrive by private telegraph line,
"write,"
she behests,
more than a mortal's requests,
an authoritative pleading,
an urgent prompting
with an element of divinity attached,
almost a command
by virtue of
her virtue,
who am I to refuse,
though the writing gene/genie,
somnolent, suppressed, quiescent,
melatonined by the pills the
life force feeds us
from a bottle lonely labeled,
"whether you like it or not"
reckless explore the venues
you would prefer to never venture,
so,
this poem becomes her,
this poem be comes her,
this poem be comely
for and because of her
unbare chambers that have rusted shut,
be unafraid,
she seances me telepathically,
in the poet's way,
a crying smile accentuated with
"write of the titles you have confessed
to the body's mind inquisitor
that be stored
in the warehouses
of thy heart"
this irrecusable, willing bidding,
sneaks in the back door,
so easy oiled opened
by virtue
of her virtue
seven years of grain Pharaoh stored
in preparatory for the lean ones that
inevitable
come
yes, have so many would be's
gestated, but not fully formed,
none adequate to honor sufficient
her comely
behest
thus commissioned,
my purposeful mission,
to honor her once more,
with a simple honorific,
her wish, no matter how couched,
t'is my duty to fulfill
so here, full and filled
I grant her wishes,
with impoverished verses inadequate,
for you know her too,
as she full and fills us all*
***by virtue
of her
virtue***
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
Yehudit likes
the new boy
on the bus
she smiled has
he got on and
watched him walk
to the back
of the school bus
and sit in
a side seat
now she sits
at the front
of the bus
thinking about him
now and then
she looks back
over her shoulder
but he's looking out
the window
not at her
so she looks
forward again
musing on
what his name maybe
and whether he'll
be the type
she wants or likes
he looks good
the quiff of brown hair
the hazel eyes
-she gawked him good
as he got on board-
and he had that
Elvis smile
-feels goosebumps-
she thrusts her hands
between her thighs
and smiles to herself
in anticipation
scenery goes by
trees
hedges
fields
cows in the field
telegraph poles
birds in flight
in the sky
but all she
can think on is
what is his name?
and wondering
if he is looking
at her now
but she guesses
not somehow.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
On the coast of the shore
pictures on the page
staring at the ocean
Churning and full of rage
Her jet black hair
waves in the wind
Quiet Jersey girl
Alone commits no sin
Brown eyes stare in line
Gazed along the walk
Finding her only guy
Whispers no loud talk
Waiting in the cold
Shivers in the wind
No sailor coming home
Turn back gone again
Tears fall down her cheek
Sadness settles in
Telegraph wrinkled up
Her heart broken again
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
Be thankful for the rain ,
for when it came parched lands were quenched amugst humid skies ,
as darker clouds gathered at four in the afternoon .
The letter I meant to send you lies unopened on my table .
There was no post today ,
no stamp as the post office was closed ,
no rail road to sent by train to sort out ,
No pigeon post as my bird had died that morning in its cage ,
Or telegraph man with heavy burden of death to knock on your door .
My WiFi off line
E mails down ,
My paper plane would not take to flight ,
If I could have walked to your house and mailed it by candel light ,
Or sent a sonet ,
Or a chorister of chamber singers at dusk .
By quil and ink I would have written
‘ I love you ‘
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
Because when I see it
I wanna view it all in 720p;
a 360 window to the world around me.
No grit, grain, or scratch-sand photographs,
no bullet-pointed drafts of what there is around,
but instead something clear cut and defined,
like the cut throat lines of the rail track heading north,
the tarmac black railings decorating the edge of the port,
telegraph poles and fly fish line linking
your telephone call to my telephone call; and
if you're ringing from a mobile there are still
lines connecting the call, it's just you can't see them
as they're kept within a box somewhere above us
waiting to be decommissioned, waiting to fall back to Earth.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Scholastic escapades of theft and the smearing of stools are a sure janitorial surprise in suburban utopia.
I have scraped dinner off my plate, onto the floor.
So, pick the tar which slowly drools down the shaft of wooden telegraph poles in the height of mid-seventies summers, whilst classic rock resounds her commanding octaves throughout the snow in summer.
I have always respected those who are elderly and have given thanks to solidarity whilst sausages spark in the frying pan.
Look at the crows as they maintain circular flight above the stony church steeple, and rebel against authority whilst you wet your bed.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
I am on the highway
To hell's bells
And I'm pregnant
With devil's anger child
Taking a walk in solipsism park
Smoking some remedy
Breathing from asylum air
And where is he?
He is looking straight through me
And his soul is revealing
Its the cold fire
That is misleading
He is fighting in his sleep again
Hugging his skeletons again
Helpless child
Going for a rage war
Solus
Walking towards the kitchen
On this toes
Taking out all the knives
Counting them
And i know he likes numbers
He looks towards the sky
And the clouds confuses him
He pours out his blood
Drawing the letter A
Repeatedly
Not even obsessively
Justified in his judgement
Him and his vanity
In an alternate reality
Out of proportion
Full of distortion
This ******
And his bluejackets
Anchored me with his diaries
Walking on embers now
In a state of trance now
Makes me wonder
Are monsters born or created?
Mortem predestination
He keeps giving me this psychic vibe
From a foreign tribe
I can't just put a lid on it
I can't just turn my back on it
Run, everybody begged me
But with the beast clothed in human skin tonight
Outside the television Screen
We are wired the same tonight
Dancing to Electro Swing by his side
Tying his tie
And I like it
He reaches out for his wooden telegraph
Can't help but listen
To Maria
And all her chants
Makes him gaze into the same tall building
From that retro piano bench
He gets up
With his hands covered in blood
Summons me by the edge
Two A's drawn on a sketch
Standing by the line
The choice is all mine
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
Clear as a bell I caught sight of my image on a wanted poster "way out west" as a former president of the USA claimed, " dead or alive"
and in that moment Mankind took a big step backwards to the Old Testament" eye for an eye" and all our faces merged into one on a poster nailed to every telegraph pole the further West we travelled.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
spamming your email inbox
with messages that harass
none of them do you wish
to have on your receipt's pass
these sorts of communications
you haven't requested
though the pushy sender thinks
of them you'll be invested
do you ever recall asking
for bedeviling telegraph cables
to be jammed into your
receiving stables
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
STOP
We don’t need Science. STOP.
We already have all the answers.
STOP.
Stop all inquiry and research.
ALL ANSWERS IN OUR HOLY BOOK. STOP.
We have all the visions and the dreams and the formulae
in our Holy Books and in our religions
and in all that is Revealed by the ALMIGHTY.
Stop! Stop Science! STOP! God has spoken to us
And the BOOK says BOO! to Science.
STOP! STOP!
God has appointed the Few to teach the Many.
Listen to the BLESSED and the HOLY ONES.
STOP.
IGNORE SCIENCE. Be ignorant of Science.
Silence SCIENCE. STOP.
STOP SCIENCE. We know all there is to be known
in our Holy Book. STOP. We will explain it to you.
Trust God and listen to those appointed by GOD.
Everything you’ve always wanted
to know is all in here. STOP. In the Holy Book.
Our Places of Worship have got it all. STOP SCIENCE.
STOP INQUIRY. Inquiry is sin. STOP. Science is against the Holy.
STOP. God does not like Science. God gave us a mind to obey
and to think only of God.
Think mindlessly about GOD. In Mindlessness is Salvation.
LET your MIND be ALWAYS of GOD. Think NOTHING ELSE.
STOP. STOP Science.
Science is endless questions. STOP. Religion is Pure.
Religion is the word of God. Science is the ACT of the Devil. STOP.
Listen to the priest and those who are holy. STOP. Obey Religion.
STOP. Obey God. STOP SCIENCE. Obey God. STOP.
Stop inquiring and research.
ALL ANSWERS IN OUR HOLY BOOK. STOP.
LISTEN. DO NOT INQUIRE. OBEY. STOP SCIENCE. STOP.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
I think about Shane in the middle of the night,
For no apparent reason.
No telegraph arrives to remind me.
Just immediately caught unawares,
By the timeline of months days and hours,
Since he left.
There is substance to his departure.
He doesn’t park in my spot anymore,
His seat on the couch is empty,
His opinion is not heard,
He doesn’t come with us to the matches,
He doesn’t eat hotdogs at half time,
He doesn’t buy his round anymore.
There were many beginnings to his departure.
Some noticed and some dismissed,
The shaved head,
The weight gain,
The staying in bed,
The tiredness,
The missed team practice,
His soft quietness rather than his razor wit.
There was a documented record to his departure.
The consultant’s diagnosis.
The recorded return of the tumor like a badly made film sequel,
Chemo 1, Chemo 2, Chemo3.
The morphine drip beating out the measuring of the waiting.
The finite final breath.
Our hearts stopped with his as he departed the room,
Dressed in a suit and Despicable me Socks ….Only you Shane!
The Final notice in the paper recording the date and time of departure.
There were things left behind after his departure.
Mainly my daughter’s young heart.
As I lie awake in the darkness where death accompanies me till the dawn,
And then as one bright day follows the next,
I dismiss my own departure,
Until I think of Shane again.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 3:39 AM UTC