"thrums" poems
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter
invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near
the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence
from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart
now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed
an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within, lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes
a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul
there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,
squandered time
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years
invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet
for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...
befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...
a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
#
*Laying in bed all day
with silky thoughts
in a champagne haze
**An empty glass of water
rests barren on the floor
her eyes light up
as he enters
through the door**
With every stride
across the room
whispered lyrics
begin to bloom
In an encore
from the night before
in her memories
now begins
a brand new score
**Thrums echo
as the rythmn keeps
time inside each beat
slight murmurs crescendo
and a long symphonic
overture erupts**
He draws his notes
in the cream of her curves
Dismantling her inhibitions
soothing her nerves
Tongues in a waltz
senerading to thunderous beats
in a rhythm more shattering
than the rolling waves of the Sea
**Lights flicker
as his eyes roll
visions of grandeur
in tow breathless
they gasp for air
not wanting this moment
to soon disappear**
Driving urgency tenderly drizzle
ending one where the other begins
melting in the stillness
of tangled bodies and limp limbs*
#
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
It thrums.
In my head.
On my skin.
Vibrating meekly within.
The beat hath weakened,
Over many in an age.
Only providing those the need.
Vibration,
Sensation.
The will to sleep.
Everlasting eternity,
With you it seems insane.
Beating constantly.
You bring me pain..
Beat on me,
Bring my self-esteem to a pulp.
I will not back down.
I will stand my ground.
End your everlasting tyranny,
You blackened heart.
Cease your beating,
Save your skin.
Anger boils in my veins,
I hate you.
Perfection is insane,
No one is perfect.
Cease your yell,
Your beat.
You to,
Are not worthy.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
Thrums the bee waggle-dance in a haunt of Indian horsepaths,
Or the shaking leaf one second past the strike of galloping rain
/ Parsimonious lightning, thrifty in its jagged stalks
Against this night of heavy-hearted oaks /
Then the hay-fringed bale of sleep, rolled into a valley of slowed breathing,
Through parting cloud-diabolique, poison-peers the wet toadback of Autumn,
Glowing moon-gristle in the bosky wolf’s beard with its wireframe of teeth.
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC
under the sludge of this depression, I am awake. it’s morning outside but that doesn’t change a thing.
tiredness takes me to quiet places. I follow like I’m devout.
this forest is new. there’s a drumming of a heartbeat within the trunks of these trees.
it thrums under my fingertips. blood rushes forward to touch this rhythm.
songbirds nest, plume against plume for love and for rest. the birdsong is sweet as saccharine.
I taste the sap on my lips, its nectar, thick with agape. a salve for myriad laments under the roof of a single bell jar.
the indigo sky convulses, telling of fortunes. the clouds retch gilded roses.
blades of grass fence the circumferences of leaves in gypsy winds. the forest warms like a flame.
my body sways in solipsistic wonder. the crescents of my nails are crusted with lichen.
my limbs are drawn into its boughs, like gravity. like the bark is starved.
my mind is foliage and my crown is littered with inflorescence. my sky is finally cerulean and lilac.
each gall is an ancient hurt. each wound is a knot.
I breathe my mourning. I wait to bloom.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 3:07 AM UTC
The voice calling me from the dark
Is quiet
Sensuous
Its melody thrums through my bones and tongue
And curls, purring in my heart
Like wine it flushes my cheek with uninhibited warmth
It calls me to action
Reckless self endangering action
Not all voices from the dark are kind.
This one glows like a black sun.
Biting back the fear of warmth and contact
In my touch starved living canvas
The voice has teeth
Teeth that set in my spine and inject courage into my marrow
That scrape ever so slightly down my neck
In wanton display
Of seductive darkness.
Its call is haunting
Sleepworn it sends me running
Through a silver forest of dusky light
Upon an unbroken path
Marked only by whispers that linger in Its wake.
I know not what I’m following
I know its power and magnitude brings summer to my throat and winter to my veins
Spring blooming warm upon my cheeks along the shivering pines
That voice of silk sheets and twisted limbs
A weight in the chest like a secondary heart’s phantom thumping
Throbbing its call of life back to that voice in the dark
Inviting it in for a taste.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
Winding down the alleyways,
Climbing up the walls,
Delivering their urgent schemes,
Yelling down the halls,
Hammering on all the drums,
And pounding on the gongs,
Calling out my burning thrums,
And writing all my songs,
Small things- all things,
These cause my ways.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
There is a cage around my heart
Made of rose thorns
They do not touch the muscle
That thrums fearfully in my chest
But only because the proximity of the thorns
Make it too frightened to swell as large as it could
Or should
I am afraid to breathe
Or feel
Too deeply
For fear the thorns will lodge themselves inside my heart
And never let go.
My daily life is a practice in moderation
And careful measuring
Of how much I can breathe
Feel
Speak
My existence is a study in control
And management
How many breaths of ten does it take
To slow the frantic beating of my anxious heart
How many tapping fingers does it take
To quell the urge to drive my nails into the soft skin of my arms
Like the thorns that threaten the exhausted muscle I call my heart.
I am the product of war
Waged on my home soil
The forest has been burned to the ground
Leaving nothing but stumps
And burnt top soil
And thorns
There might be rosebuds somewhere
Among the thorns
But I am afraid to prune them away
They dig into the bones of my ribs
The top of my lungs
It would hurt if I cut them away.
It is said that burnt soil is the most fertile
But I don’t feel like I’m being re-born
I feel like I am nothing but burnt branches and scarred flesh and thorns
If I clean and trim and prune them away
There will be nothing left of me
Nothing of who I once was
Or who I might have become
Sometimes I cannot feel my heart beat
Beneath the cage of thorns
I am afraid I might have died
That my heart may have ceased to beat
While I was too busy being afraid.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
Its funny, as I am sitting here in the back of the auditorium, listening to all my friends on stage. The song is The Nutcracker, and suddenly it all comes back. As the bass thrums in my ear and the trupet blares loudly across the audience, I remember those winter day where She would take me to The Nutcracker. Two young girls in tow, She would cart us around, another venue every year. It was grand, the high light of my season. I could watch women with long limber legs and men in their toy soilder costumes, prance gracfully across the stage in time with th music. As I sat in that darkened auditorium it all came back to me. She used to take me to see this, to listen to this music. I had the urge to laugh madly, and cry out in anguish. Its a funny thing how precious things become long after they have ended. When the memory still stands while the erson fades. In that darkened auditorium I felt a pang of sickening nostaligia and longing. For She is dead and I am still here, and now I have no one to take me to the Nutcracker
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
As Thursday dawns and traffic thrums,
the pulse of life is rising.
The temperature is mild for now,
but highs I am despising.
I'll enjoy the ride and abide
within my domain bettin',
That if you're out by noon today,
you really will be sweatin'.
So I'll drink my fluids and try
to keep myself away from trouble,
'Cause when the sun is high today,
the tar will start to bubble.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Your expert fingers gently
strum and pluck at my strings
Making every inch of me sing.
My body thrums
With each staccato beat
And goosebumps ***** my skin as we race towards the crescendo.
The music peaks
And beautifully tuned notes entwine
In heart-stopping harmony.
Your bass blends
With my soprano
In a perfect balance of tone and pitch.
In the stillness that follows
The music fades
Into a duet of breathy sighs.
And then we :||
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
your skin is pale silk, my white hart, my Sol heart,
your blood as it thrums is red Eucharist wine,
your hair all the sun's godly glory and gold:
so Gloriana, lonely amora, who'd not call you the one and the only?
you speak of the sweet whispers that the waves could-- could!-- bring,
you, all fragrant with frankincense and rosehips and thyme,
you, avournine, flow to and away with the moon's ebb and sway,
and who'd not shiver and tremble before you, loreley!
you claim castle and crown with your easy warm grace,
you claim thrones of ice then complain of the cold,
and to touch your lips to petals is to touch her face:
but Titania, appassionata nostra,
caprice and impermanence, grace and countenance,
our lady of the lake!
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
Strobe lights
Flashing different colors
Every which way I look
They catch the texture of my dress
As I shimmy beside you
We are a strange couple
You with your pale skin
Me with my sweet caramel twist shade
The song changes
This more upbeat
The florescent lights flash faster
The bass thrums in my heart
My body starts to feel the music.
I let go and allow my body to do the rest
I feel a tap on my shoulder
Him.
This boy
I declined
Because of an age difference
He bows and asks for a dance..
I consider
I look at my date
With a stern look upon his child-like face he nods his head at me
He doesn't like this newcomer
Yet
He let's go of my hand as if to say
"It'll be okay for one dace"
I go take this newcomers hand
And dance a slow dance during a fast paced song
Odd...
The song is over as fast as it started
The guest thanks me
and sends me back on my way
back to the boy awkwardly waiting for his mistress to return
A smile immediately illuminates his face
"We are just friends," I think
"We must be..."
As the night progresses it is soon time to leave
He kisses me on the cheek as another once once did and goes off on his way
As I do mine
I see the visitor once more but I decide to evade him
For he is not worth my time
He does not notice me
Good.
I am off
Off to sleep
Now safe in my bed
Homecoming?
Perfect way
To end my night.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
you are chaotic, and beautifully broken
standing stoic and silent
but the earth thrums with your screams
there is no romance to be found in pain
fret not about idealism and misconception;
i know how you suffer
but there's so much love in you,
you could make the soulless feel again
too much passion for you to know what to do with
never shown enough compassion to understand
that your mind, ill as it may be, is gorgeous
you are not awful, but awe-inspiring
hard work wears you down
but your hands are still so soft;
they were meant to be held, and kissed
you were born to be adored
and feared and wanted, to confuse with your complexity
so that only the best of people will stand with you
side by side with you, with open eyes
and open arms and open hearts
there is war in your chest and these friends will bring you peace
the world has, since birth, shown you destruction
volleyed hatred and scorn in your direction
but here is its reconciliation:
these people that love you are soldiers
ready to help you win the wars that explode in the spaces between your ribs
they will help you breathe, and smile, and sleep
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 6:37 AM UTC
A discordant gain
moves through the hall
echoes off every wall
and reverberates again
through my chest cavity.
my ribcage thrums
obstinate, hopeful
it is a clear fullness
it is the water that I carry.
The cistern is broken
but
it has been sealed in gold
that reflects the light of
things that have been, are, or will be
and it is the lightning fracture
that appeals to Him now
more than the gold itself.
I know your
heavy lead-heart, lead-limbed
sorrow.
I know the iron nails
your mind would drive
up into your own veins.
You crucify yourself not every three days
but every day
every night
every hour.
It is the lightning-fracture
that reminds you of this place
moreso than the gold ever could.
The high, dissonant clattering
in the world
drives into your dryness.
I will give you water
but to hold it, you must seal
your cracks, yourself.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
As the light made islands on the water,
ethereal bubbles frozen with warmth,
tucking tired beaks beneath wings, pigeons saunter,
into sleep, on tesselated petals, going forth.
That summer aura which sparks from you and thrums
moving dials to a sanguine solstace in me.
Hitting cold skin, the blood rush is autumn;
cathartic capillary trees with loose fingers and red leaves
and in these veins speeds my guttural london estuaries,
to syncopate their tide beats with yours.
Those mediterranean wine filled arteries
will encompass my imperfections to pearls.
From my idealist sonnets hearts you come
fixed on air, a changeable paint that can't run.
Like newborn fern fronds you unfolded your words
cut with castanet syllables peppered in.
Sentences ushered on as pacified herds
breathed out plumes, rippled fire, wind-thinned.
I then learned a beauty untamed, is a beauty rare.
Those eyes indeed are coffee dewdrops pierced by sun.
Those lips are pronounced like unbroken waves that tear,
on the cusp of unspoken words braced for freedom.
Core bright, i see the rose through the street's ornaments.
From the slight rise of your nose to those angular cheekbones,
further a picture of stunning complex arrangement;
identity of locked cogs, in you, are the pieces of home.
Islands on the canal of time; forever moments un-faded.
We aren't seen in a new light without becoming more illuminated.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
When Moonlight wens upon the moore
And Starlight knocks upon your door.
When thrums the hum of Faerie Wings
And the Harpen sound of Elfen strings.
Accompanied by dark Dwarven drums
The music of the night doth come.
A Shaman tends with Force of Night
A Silver Sword of fierce Light.
The wounds flow. The battle bounds
Thunder of Hooves upon the ground.
Tirelessly on the battles fight
But fades away in Mornings light.
And now that morning light is near
I arise from sleep with vision clear.
And the webs of tiredness
Fall from my eyes.
My new day begins
Under the skies…...JMF 11/9/14
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
The girl in the room beneath
Before going to bed
Strums on a mandolin
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels!
When she has finished them several times
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.
1.5k
City trees, weak and stunted,
bear relentless mockery by
country and wild cousins,
though everyone agrees that
suburban trees are least
esteemed, paltry excuses
overcompensating for their
deficits in diversity (of size or
shape) with excess pageantry
The enlightened ones, city and
suburban, wave manicured
tips, speaking in whispered
thrums - how relieved they are
not to be unprotected forest
trees, in constant danger of the
ravages of capitalism and neglect
The forest trees laugh at their
ignorant cousins - they know
the freedom of the wild places
where true peace can be found;
they will gladly face the danger
proudly rooted, in wild ground
The older trees, between naps,
wheeze of many, many
springtimes ago, of cleaner air
and bigger trees, of simpler
lives and clearer skies and
creatures long since gone;
they know change will come,
And change will go, and
Still they will root on
NCL July 2019
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 8:06 PM UTC
feral as the untamed passion
of the soul
Unrestrained murmurs
seep out into ether vastness
pleas of an abandoned heart
A howling silence bears a merciless ache
heedless to the rampant storm
This silent reverie --
but muted amends.
For in shameless longing,
the furor a deserted heart,
thrums onward, unrequited,
wafting in the wind song’s serendipity
Wild as the winged wanton breeze
Oh chilling winter winds of change !
Come lay me down ;
as if I were the windblown
golden fields of summer
down to the ground … down to the ground
cast aside some unnoticed countryside
Smugly indifferent,
restless to rise up untouched,
where seeds of wild hope
once thrived
defy gravity
in the wind swept aftermath
a thwarted sweet surrender
© wild is the wind
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
Coyote’s mournful cries echo across
the bitter frozen wintry darkness
A deepening silence thrums as loudly
as the echoes the unanswered bays
Snowflakes mute the fading wails
coyote’s softly questioning appeals
An eerie answerless hush echoes
through the boughs,
writhing in the piercing frigid
wildwood blackness
The howling east wind gathers in
the throes of the lonely bespoken pleas
Carrying the weight borne a bone chilling
silent ache, beyond with the frozen autumn leaves
wild is the wind ... December 8th, 2016
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
I love the low-hanging clouds over the mouth
Of the Amazon, that whisper to its banks stories
Of the low and high seasons, accompanied
By boat thrums and the kiddish squeals of pink dolphins
Playing in pairs near their wakes.
How the humidity carries a tropical air
Which floats through broad-leafed palms
To your senses as the water laughs in loose rolls –
Unfurling like an easy smile and revealing
Twenty-foot banks that disappear with the rain.
I’m not sure what’s more beautiful –
The entirety of it all or the glasslike meridian beads of water
That run away from the boat, warning dragonflies
And beetles that it doesn’t belong,
While from above a hawk screams to bedside reeds
And with a birdsong choir makes music of wind chimes
With the whistling of grasses and leaning trees,
Begging the mud to hold and refuse to succumb to the glean
Of two-legged greed and caustic tourism that turns
The river into a hungry swell.
A song about life and the nature of things --
Pleading for blind eyes to change what they refuse to see,
To let the jungle alone to wild certainty,
Before humans tried to take what they cannot tame.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
1.
And so, I clamber up the heavy slope
and sit alone upon a wide, flat rock.
I still the voices clamouring hard within
and try to listen to the air settle and breathe . . .
The eagle swoops low, whirring loud beside the rocky outcrop
likening its talons to sustain the hold of life . . . (this line to be amended ...sounds odd)
Leaves quiver silent on massive trees
obedient to nature, yet roots bold outgrown . . .
Shade reaches and stretches genial arms
while feel of dark and moist, fertile ground pervades . . .
Air thick with teeming life the eye can't see
thrums with invisible threads, linking slow tendrils . . .
Quiet sky looms dignified and peers squinted
while sun rays slant into pores, kiss my cheek.
Beetles scamper light along the soft, red sand
and not unlike them, I seek still the answer within . . .
2.
Fierce fire takes up dry tinder, consumes into heated coils
destroying with relish, yet offer cleansing balm . . .
3.
Sudden rains refresh, glance off surprised face, upturned
sweet deluge leaves all sodden to delighted heart . . .
4.
I turn not away
I look up
to receive . . . gladly.
I give such thanks
fall on knees to see . . .
No red sky (as in my nightmares)
No lost sun
No smoky horizon
No grey trees
No dead leaves.
Only yellow sunshine
Only blue sky
Only green leaves
Only clear horizon
as far as the eye can see.
S T, 8 May 2013
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC