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"vista" poems
1 It was one of those clear,sharp.mustless days That summer and man delight in. Never had Heaven seemed quite so high, Never had earth seemed quite so green, Never had the world seemed quite so clean Or sky so nigh. And I heard the Deity’s voice in The sun’s warm rays, And the white cloud’s intricate maze, And the blue sky’s beautiful sheen. 2 I looked to the heavens and saw him there,— A black speck downward drifting, Nearer and nearer he steadily sailed, Nearer and nearer he slid through space, In an unending aerial race, This sailor who hailed From the Clime of the Clouds.—Ever shifting, On billows of air And the blue sky seemed never so fair, And the rest of the world kept pace. 3 On the white of his head the sun flashed bright; And he battled the wind with wide pinions, Clearer and clearer the gale whistled loud, Clearer and clearer he came into view,— Bigger and blacker against the blue. Then a dragon of cloud Gathering all its minions Rushed to the fight, And swallowed him up in a bite; And the sky lay empty clear through. 4 Long I watched. And at last afar Caught sight of a speck in the vastness; Ever smaller,ever decreasing, Ever drifting,drifting awayInto the endless realms of day; Finally ceasing. So into Heaven’s vast fastness Vanished that bar Of black,as a fluttering star Goes out while still on its way. 5 So I lost him. But I shall always see In my mind The warm,yellow sun,and the ether free; The vista’s sky,and the white cloud trailing, Trailing behind,— And below the young earth’s summer-green arbors, And on high the eagle,—sailing,sailing Into far skies and unknown harbors
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40.4k
The Eagle
1 It was one of those clear,sharp.mustless days That summer and man delight in. Never had Heaven seemed quite so high, Never had earth seemed quite so green, Never had the world seemed quite so clean Or sky so nigh. And I heard the Deity’s voice in The sun’s warm rays, And the white cloud’s intricate maze, And the blue sky’s beautiful sheen. 2 I looked to the heavens and saw him there,— A black speck downward drifting, Nearer and nearer he steadily sailed, Nearer and nearer he slid through space, In an unending aerial race, This sailor who hailed From the Clime of the Clouds.—Ever shifting, On billows of air And the blue sky seemed never so fair, And the rest of the world kept pace. 3 On the white of his head the sun flashed bright; And he battled the wind with wide pinions, Clearer and clearer the gale whistled loud, Clearer and clearer he came into view,— Bigger and blacker against the blue. Then a dragon of cloud Gathering all its minions Rushed to the fight, And swallowed him up in a bite; And the sky lay empty clear through. 4 Long I watched. And at last afar Caught sight of a speck in the vastness; Ever smaller,ever decreasing, Ever drifting,drifting awayInto the endless realms of day; Finally ceasing. So into Heaven’s vast fastness Vanished that bar Of black,as a fluttering star Goes out while still on its way. 5 So I lost him. But I shall always see In my mind The warm,yellow sun,and the ether free; The vista’s sky,and the white cloud trailing, Trailing behind,— And below the young earth’s summer-green arbors, And on high the eagle,—sailing,sailing Into far skies and unknown harbors
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52
I am hungry and it is reflected in the contours of every inch                   of skin every cell a-flutter tiny wings and heartbeats activated within right down to the ribosomes and kidney-shaped mitochondria right up through epidermis woven as threads of softness penetrating your inner hard, dark parts causing them to melt into                 my light I am craving to feel your absolute heart's raging core my aching flesh burning, my heart, wrapped in a love               so pure My need to be devoured surfaces in smoothness, at a glance You feel it acutely, no room for doubt or subtle chance                I am ravenous for muscle-worked arms (arms that could easily try to break) to be supremely gentle as you part my thighs like the ocean and sacredly partake the slickness of your tongue in my feminine grace the stains of my love drenching                 your noble face your eyes on mine as I sharply breathe          need to hold your head stroke your            hair know that for me               the king takes off that garland of gold breaking free of all symbols of status the only real treasure the queen who gives to him, and who he now pleasures      and I let myself be consumed with the reverence of a psalm my love pouring into you healing your hurts,                like a balm in this private landscape we are the most ferocious of tender estuaries in an eternal vista in this hour of somewhere, the sea hauls us in like ancient creatures,      bringing the fossils back to life in lustrous foam as they          inch their way into the spirals     that we feel we could call      home‎
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May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Tender Estuaries
I am hungry and it is reflected in the contours of every inch                   of skin every cell a-flutter tiny wings and heartbeats activated within right down to the ribosomes and kidney-shaped mitochondria right up through epidermis woven as threads of softness penetrating your inner hard, dark parts causing them to melt into                 my light I am craving to feel your absolute heart's raging core my aching flesh burning, my heart, wrapped in a love               so pure My need to be devoured surfaces in smoothness, at a glance You feel it acutely, no room for doubt or subtle chance                I am ravenous for muscle-worked arms (arms that could easily try to break) to be supremely gentle as you part my thighs like the ocean and sacredly partake the slickness of your tongue in my feminine grace the stains of my love drenching                 your noble face your eyes on mine as I sharply breathe          need to hold your head stroke your            hair know that for me               the king takes off that garland of gold breaking free of all symbols of status the only real treasure the queen who gives to him, and who he now pleasures      and I let myself be consumed with the reverence of a psalm my love pouring into you healing your hurts,                like a balm in this private landscape we are the most ferocious of tender estuaries in an eternal vista in this hour of somewhere, the sea hauls us in like ancient creatures,      bringing the fossils back to life in lustrous foam as they          inch their way into the spirals     that we feel we could call      home‎
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He thwack no metronome to kick oneself Thwack his **** sucker With his monolithic flaccid trunk rubber Me and my Dalek doped And my excrement unsweetened Copulate in the open without my jockstrap You shat encrusted to what you deflowered So at arm’s length ****** from all that we excreted in the wind’s eye And I bounce a bedevilled backwash My incredibles are shafted I’ll **** **** to Arab We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones I croaked a hundredweight arsonists You **** posterior to her And I **** **** to… I **** **** to myself I ****** you powerfully The body beautiful’s not enough to go round You enjoy spanking and I wallow in ********* And ***** is like a tobacco teabag And I’m a bijou **** coming the corsets in custody We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones I croaked a hundredweight arsonists You **** posterior to her And I **** **** to… Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab I **** **** to… I **** **** to… We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones I croaked a hundredweight arsonists You **** **** to her And I **** **** to Arab
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Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
**** To Arab
Robert Frost once talked of taking the ‘road less travelled’. Well, I didn’t. When the time came, I blindly went and took the safest road. A very long path where the pitfalls were plenty. I stumbled in the bracken. Stymied by the darkness that fell quickly as I ambled along. The soul bruised, battered and exhausted at every infrequent stop. It was not apparent then that in this venture there was a bleak dead end ahead. I plowed on even though something inside was telling me again and again to turn back. But, slowly, a gleaming light of hope crossed my vista beckoning me home. I crawled. My strength regained as the light intensified. Then the end was in sight - the portal was within grasp. And so, yes, I now take that road less travelled. Standing tall and proud as I gleefully stride down its glowing thoroughfare.   Smiling at the diverse and playful changes that cross my pathway. All told, it’s never too late to trust your instincts and make a difference. Just ask me. And Robert Frost.
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Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
The Road Less Travelled
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor With the great black piano appassionato. The glamor Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past
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Piano
# *Souls embroidered with sweet sighs of passion Musing of nights in lace & white satin On a vista of flesh, flushed with desire Riding the flames on a passage of fire The beating of drums, commanding the night To the rhythm of hearts, passion ignites Wrapped in immortal flames of the sun Burning together, two become one Flesh upon flesh, a spirited dance Welded by whispers of love, of romance Temperatures rise in a fever of lust Stoking the flames, ****** after ****** Riding the swell, in a race to the shore Try to repress, but needing it more Virtue be ****** in the rage of desire Flames rise in hunger, higher n' higher Charging the crest, temperance slips Drawing the reins in a white knuckle grip Crashing of waves unleashes the flood Quaking the heart, and searing the blood Spewing of flames in the crash of the tide In a warm sheen of sweat, fervor subsides Energy spent in the throes of release Collapsing together, the story complete* #
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Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
In Lace & White Satin
Your beauty radiates like a flower in the moonlight For to me that is the loveliest atmosphere And you are the loveliest vista Be my midnight flower Let us count the years
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Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Midnight Flower
1603 The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery And everything unknown, But will the secret compensate For climbing it alone?
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The going from a world we know
Now the dead past seems vividly alive, And in this shining moment I can trace, Down through the vista of the vanished years, Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face. And suddenly some secret spring's released, And unawares a riddle is revealed, And I can read like large, black-lettered print, What seemed before a thing forever sealed. I know the magic word, the graceful thought, The song that fills me in my lucid hours, The spirit's wine that thrills my body through, And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours. I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise, I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true; But I can feel and I can write the word; The best of me is but the least of you.
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Heritage
1483 The Robin is a Gabriel In humble circumstances— His Dress denotes him socially, Of Transport’s Working Classes— He has the punctuality Of the New England Farmer— The same oblique integrity, A Vista vastly warmer— A small but sturdy Residence A self denying Household, The Guests of Perspicacity Are all that cross his Threshold— As covert as a Fugitive, Cajoling Consternation By Ditties to the Enemy And Sylvan Punctuation—
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The Robin is a Gabriel
A View from a Valley Well As I drew from your valley well .......waters sweet last night My eyes were transfixed on your ******* ***** and tight Your fingers like the harpist lost in song Were dancing upon these pink peaks so long Beyond these matching minarets My eyes espied your round ruby lips These labials lisped that eternal sacred love song of the bed Captivating is the view from your valley to your head
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Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
*** Vista Amoris
As poppies drip blood red petals Among the fields where souls do roam A silenced voice, away from home Buried deep with twisted metals Khaki men, are dead and rotting As poppies drip blood red petals Overgrown with rats and nettles Men and women stood reflecting A resting place to end the fight In peaceful slumber they settle As poppies drip blood red petals Weathered cadavers all bleached white Depressions fade, vista settles Bodies and branches both stripped bare Once passionate men, showed they care As poppies drip blood red petals. © 27/6/2012
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Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
Poppies
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap, sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again, unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to, the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain, for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of: buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter, no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of denial,  and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen, the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness, the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved, coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art  of spectacular breathing of another dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors, and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition, and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades, nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal… composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five Silver Beach
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Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
the moment of sanctity...the sanctity of the moment
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap, sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again, unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to, the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain, for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of: buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter, no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of denial,  and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen, the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness, the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved, coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art  of spectacular breathing of another dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors, and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition, and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades, nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal… composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five Silver Beach
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Nascimento, vida e existência…      Nascemos de uma forma sublime que parecendo uma banalidade natural é segundo o meu ponto de vista um milagre em todos os sentidos. Parece que o ventre da mulher foi feito e eleito o local divino para mostrar ao mundo a beleza do nascimento, vida e existência, comprometida com todos aqueles que tiveram o privilégio de um dia nascerem. Nascemos, vivemos e existimos num planeta que procura respostas que não acha para uma imortalidade pedida a preceito em orações, congressos, ou aglomerações de seres que procuram nesta vida um culto a Deus que parece estar para caprichos e devaneios de tantos seres humanos que existem por existir. Nascimento é vida e ao mesmo tempo uma existência comprometida com o universo que é gratuito para todos aqueles que conseguem perceber a magnitude da abundância que nos é dada com o nascimento, vida e existência.      Nascemos nus sem nada para oferecer naquele preciso momento alegria a todos aqueles que parecem esperar um Messias salvador e apaziguador de corações por vezes divididos e adulterados com vivências da  sua própria vida.   - Que recompensa teremos nós depois de deixarmos de existir sob esta forma material que parece ser digna e ao mesmo tempo real? -Será o nascimento o elo principal na vida, na existência e na morte? - Será que Deus através da beleza e complexidade do nascimento quer mostrar ao homem através da sua existência a possibilidade de aspirar com a morte à ressurreição ou melhor a outra forma espiritual de continuar a existir? - Será que não será mais fácil e rápida a morte do que o próprio nascimento?      Nascemos, vivemos e existimos num planeta terra maravilhoso regido com mestria por um sábio infinito e Criador que sempre com precisão consegue dar ao ser humano deleites que irão perdurar na nossa vida até ao dia que depois de nascer, viver e existir morremos para ressuscitar no Amor Sublime de Deus nosso Pai. Victor Marques
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Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
Nascimento, vida e existência
Nascimento, vida e existência…      Nascemos de uma forma sublime que parecendo uma banalidade natural é segundo o meu ponto de vista um milagre em todos os sentidos. Parece que o ventre da mulher foi feito e eleito o local divino para mostrar ao mundo a beleza do nascimento, vida e existência, comprometida com todos aqueles que tiveram o privilégio de um dia nascerem. Nascemos, vivemos e existimos num planeta que procura respostas que não acha para uma imortalidade pedida a preceito em orações, congressos, ou aglomerações de seres que procuram nesta vida um culto a Deus que parece estar para caprichos e devaneios de tantos seres humanos que existem por existir. Nascimento é vida e ao mesmo tempo uma existência comprometida com o universo que é gratuito para todos aqueles que conseguem perceber a magnitude da abundância que nos é dada com o nascimento, vida e existência.      Nascemos nus sem nada para oferecer naquele preciso momento alegria a todos aqueles que parecem esperar um Messias salvador e apaziguador de corações por vezes divididos e adulterados com vivências da  sua própria vida.   - Que recompensa teremos nós depois de deixarmos de existir sob esta forma material que parece ser digna e ao mesmo tempo real? -Será o nascimento o elo principal na vida, na existência e na morte? - Será que Deus através da beleza e complexidade do nascimento quer mostrar ao homem através da sua existência a possibilidade de aspirar com a morte à ressurreição ou melhor a outra forma espiritual de continuar a existir? - Será que não será mais fácil e rápida a morte do que o próprio nascimento?      Nascemos, vivemos e existimos num planeta terra maravilhoso regido com mestria por um sábio infinito e Criador que sempre com precisão consegue dar ao ser humano deleites que irão perdurar na nossa vida até ao dia que depois de nascer, viver e existir morremos para ressuscitar no Amor Sublime de Deus nosso Pai. Victor Marques
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Breathtaking beauty settles before my eye’s Palpable is this peace in a land where air is thin While beaming brilliance, lights the skies Rage is visible in the irate tides Of the Rocky Mountain rapids crashing by Breathtaking beauty settles, before my eyes With a scent of bristlecone pines Drifting on wistful winds While beaming brilliance, lights the skies Over the ridge valleys rest in dark disguise As shade is thrown down from heavens above Breathtaking beauty settles, before my eyes Eager for this moment to last, time I do despise As stars align in a language read by gods While beaming brilliance, lights the skies Omnipotent powers string these patterns That rest above great valleys in masterpiece Breathtaking beauty settles, before my eyes While beaming brilliance, lights the skies
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Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
A Night in Buena Vista
There is a tendency among those poets who may be very young frequently to put in verse those foreign phrases, or much worse the now dead words of oh so ****** Latin to boast of classrooms that they’ve sat in. And just in case you’ve never heard ‘em, Let’s reduce a few to ad absurdum. It was amore a prima vista until he left her for her younger sister for, after all, who could resist her, so moving on to secunda vista he took that step and boldly kissed her, behaviour that is hardly utopista. The trouble with modus vivendi is that it sometime rhymes with eye but there are those who don’t agree and think that it must rhyme with tea. Who cares? It’s all the same to I. Or should that be the same to me? You may say it is not de rigueur that I defend with so much vigour what surely is no more than hubris that I attribute to Confucius for he surely ha detto tutto albeit un po convoluto. And everyone’s heard of carpe diem. If not, then I have yet to see ‘em. But I prefer to seize a waist which may be thought somewhat unchaste though far more likely to have shocked ‘em would be to carpe in the noctem. Perhaps you think it’s ipso facto that I’m intolerant of lacto unless it comes directly from the breast. I think it’s better that the rest of this is left to your own opinatus for which I offer no blank cartus. Then there’s the modus of my own vivendi that I indulge in cacoethes scribendi the itch to write for which I daily scratch myself or play my ukulele which is my form of modus operandi before I pour myself a king-size brandy. And thus we leave this boring dull citare, by this time you have certainly grown quite weary of any further venture into tedium Or as ***** Harry might say, fac ut gaudeam For after all a day senza sunlight Might altrettante facilmente be night
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Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
Pig Latin
There is a tendency among those poets who may be very young frequently to put in verse those foreign phrases, or much worse the now dead words of oh so ****** Latin to boast of classrooms that they’ve sat in. And just in case you’ve never heard ‘em, Let’s reduce a few to ad absurdum. It was amore a prima vista until he left her for her younger sister for, after all, who could resist her, so moving on to secunda vista he took that step and boldly kissed her, behaviour that is hardly utopista. The trouble with modus vivendi is that it sometime rhymes with eye but there are those who don’t agree and think that it must rhyme with tea. Who cares? It’s all the same to I. Or should that be the same to me? You may say it is not de rigueur that I defend with so much vigour what surely is no more than hubris that I attribute to Confucius for he surely ha detto tutto albeit un po convoluto. And everyone’s heard of carpe diem. If not, then I have yet to see ‘em. But I prefer to seize a waist which may be thought somewhat unchaste though far more likely to have shocked ‘em would be to carpe in the noctem. Perhaps you think it’s ipso facto that I’m intolerant of lacto unless it comes directly from the breast. I think it’s better that the rest of this is left to your own opinatus for which I offer no blank cartus. Then there’s the modus of my own vivendi that I indulge in cacoethes scribendi the itch to write for which I daily scratch myself or play my ukulele which is my form of modus operandi before I pour myself a king-size brandy. And thus we leave this boring dull citare, by this time you have certainly grown quite weary of any further venture into tedium Or as ***** Harry might say, fac ut gaudeam For after all a day senza sunlight Might altrettante facilmente be night
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50
Arriving in Japan the clouds were Sparse and peaceful, all resting on the invisible flat barrier that divides earthy from divine, The sun set in a deep orange glow, changing the white peaceful clouds to powerful black shadows, Behind the vista of Tokyo city lay a pristine, lone peak, one that evokes a specific wonder in the simple form of Triangle
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Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
Arriving in Japan
A spark lit up a thousand skies And the world stopped in its tracks to watch by It sprang up and leaped to freedom A king was born and with it a kingdom Some hopes were born and some dreams came true And some pureness crafted to fill the ethereal soul that brew An idolization of an impeccable being Was moulded with the best of abilities one could see A utopia was created for her to dwell And for her victory came out of its shell Life greeted her with high spirits and charm And discovering insight, in a vista she ran But little did she know that the bitter truth would come to light The dark times would lurk around and everything fade away from her sight She was thrown around And her soul fragmented when a stranger was crowned Some blood was smeared and life hated upon When defeat was tasted and a loss great inflicted upon Some comrades dearest to her left But innocent was she to realize that in her heart they did rest She was trampled upon And with abomination with life was created a deep, strong bond And with a vengeance she came back To make life repent for the defeat she had But soon she realized it was not life's fault But it was the hardwork that had proved short in her vault She worked hard and victory she did see She matured into the impeccable being one had seen In determination and perseverance she now believes And now finally the waters of her mind lay at peace That girl is now so lively Isn't it you who i am referring to Vahini?
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Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
Vahini.
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
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May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
Piano (by D. H. Lawrence)
I skip, across a streaming, upon random~laid flat and comfortable flat flagstone stepping stones, from poet to poet, color to color, poem to poem, Auden to Whitman, Schuyler to myself, a dingaling notion, an errant word, the here to there, all randoms, yet, oval chain linked all, a question posed, an answer unknown, a reference to an old Italian myth, and there, and here, a body, comes to rest, & also, comes to rest… <> led not by the nose, but the single fingered tip that guides across a landscape patterned painting, lost but never a loser, each implants, each imbibes, and the H&H^ alternatively rumbles, pounds, vibrato burns erratically, and the difference between a life in love, and a life in poetry, is not a line dividing, but a path combining, and the only sign upon the road, is never a reddened "stop!" always just a soft lavender, so tender, inquiring, requiring, deep thoughts and reckless abandonment, the only guide inspired when ecstatic adrift in a season, a sea, any one of nature's designed unlimited schemata's of vista creations, is this, simply stated: What? <> postscript 6:27 Sabbath Sep 27 nyc after a sunrise glorious, where the windows eastern facing make an irresistible irrational pattern of golden yellow reflecting, mirrors, and after reading much, and so I too, reflect, vista, vista, what do you see, I see…What? after reading a poem by James Schuyler, entitled (yes, we are) "What"^^
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Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 7:47 AM UTC
adrift, but not drifting...
The Picture Window The vista view never changes but daily. The naked eye, registers the same distances, resting objects unmoved, modest alterations by wind and water are noted, but for intent, for purpose, the watercolor one would paint be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp. The  subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing, from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know. Alive & Awake? Yes. Breathing steady? Yes. Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro. My soul? Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry, yet intact, making discernible the changes in light, temperature  and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments.. The picture window internalized, much the same,as the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated, are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy. Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster and uncertainty is it’s own principle. But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter, that more than less, where less is more, this picture window, ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy,  where disorder minimal. My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow, what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill, new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different. Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the endogenous. 5:50 AM P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging, then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
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Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
The Picture Window
The Picture Window The vista view never changes but daily. The naked eye, registers the same distances, resting objects unmoved, modest alterations by wind and water are noted, but for intent, for purpose, the watercolor one would paint be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp. The  subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing, from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know. Alive & Awake? Yes. Breathing steady? Yes. Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro. My soul? Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry, yet intact, making discernible the changes in light, temperature  and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments.. The picture window internalized, much the same,as the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated, are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy. Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster and uncertainty is it’s own principle. But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter, that more than less, where less is more, this picture window, ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy,  where disorder minimal. My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow, what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill, new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different. Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the endogenous. 5:50 AM P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging, then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
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en la hora de monet tus ojos me arrullan mi cabeza despejada me da un sorbo de realidad mientras tus ojos me acarician en la hora de monet los ojos me duelen, pero veo mas claro que nunca absorbo la luz, y los olores de las damas hermosas que se cruzan en mi camino, busco en sus ojos un rastro de los tuyos. mientras el sueño me acorrala, otro dia de pesadillas y llamadas funestas pero todo brilla aun en un cielo de monet, con tu hermosa mirada en el rabillo de mi ojo. asi en la hora de monet, tus ojos brillan mas, y la soledad pesa menos quel corazon funesto de algun creep en esta hora la cobardia del mundo pesa menos, todo es menos ****** tu actitud de pato feo contraste con tu belleza de cisne en un cielo de monet, con la vista hermosa en mi cabeza, todo se aclara la realidad ya no es funesta, en un dia claro la realidad me golpea el pasado ya no pesa. LA CALIDEZ PERDIDA EN LOS OJOS EQUIVOCADOS ENTRE PERDIDA Y DESEO ME FUI DISOLVIENDO, COMO LA LUZ DEL ALBA FRENTE AL SOL DE LA TARDE QUE GANA FUERZA EN UN CIELO OBSCURO, EL PASADO VOLVIO, ROMPIO EN DOS EL DESEO HERMOSO. asi en un cielo de monet la realidad me golpea la cara, tus ofenzas y el desden borraron el deseo, que se deshizo como arena entre mis dedos. EN UN CIELO OSCURO VOLVIO LA FARZA Y EL CAPRICHO, LO QUISIERON TODO, Y OTRA VEZ CON TRAMPAS BORRARON TODO RASTRO DE BELLEZA. EN UN CIELO DE MONET EL DESEO SE VOLVIO UN PESAR, Y TU MUNDO FUNESTO SE VOLVIO A METER EN MI CAMINO. PERO AHORA LA REALIDAD NO ME PESA, SE VUELVE HERMOSA. EN UN CIELO DE MONET ENCONTRAR UNA MUJER HERMOSA DARLE PLACER Y DELEITES MIENTRAS EL MUNDO MIRA, Y LA CALLE RUGE, LA DROIT   MIRA Y LADRA POR ALGUIEN QUE PERDIO POR DEFENDER BASURA . BAJO LA BOVEDA ESTRELLADA , TODO BRILLA AHORA EN LIBERTAD , CAMINANDO ENTRE LA GENTE COMO UN LEON QUE CAMINA ENTRE CORDEROS OBSERVANDO A LOS OJOS , ESPERANDO A MI LEONA O MI TIGREZA.
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Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
TUS OJOS YOUR EYES
en la hora de monet tus ojos me arrullan mi cabeza despejada me da un sorbo de realidad mientras tus ojos me acarician en la hora de monet los ojos me duelen, pero veo mas claro que nunca absorbo la luz, y los olores de las damas hermosas que se cruzan en mi camino, busco en sus ojos un rastro de los tuyos. mientras el sueño me acorrala, otro dia de pesadillas y llamadas funestas pero todo brilla aun en un cielo de monet, con tu hermosa mirada en el rabillo de mi ojo. asi en la hora de monet, tus ojos brillan mas, y la soledad pesa menos quel corazon funesto de algun creep en esta hora la cobardia del mundo pesa menos, todo es menos ****** tu actitud de pato feo contraste con tu belleza de cisne en un cielo de monet, con la vista hermosa en mi cabeza, todo se aclara la realidad ya no es funesta, en un dia claro la realidad me golpea el pasado ya no pesa. LA CALIDEZ PERDIDA EN LOS OJOS EQUIVOCADOS ENTRE PERDIDA Y DESEO ME FUI DISOLVIENDO, COMO LA LUZ DEL ALBA FRENTE AL SOL DE LA TARDE QUE GANA FUERZA EN UN CIELO OBSCURO, EL PASADO VOLVIO, ROMPIO EN DOS EL DESEO HERMOSO. asi en un cielo de monet la realidad me golpea la cara, tus ofenzas y el desden borraron el deseo, que se deshizo como arena entre mis dedos. EN UN CIELO OSCURO VOLVIO LA FARZA Y EL CAPRICHO, LO QUISIERON TODO, Y OTRA VEZ CON TRAMPAS BORRARON TODO RASTRO DE BELLEZA. EN UN CIELO DE MONET EL DESEO SE VOLVIO UN PESAR, Y TU MUNDO FUNESTO SE VOLVIO A METER EN MI CAMINO. PERO AHORA LA REALIDAD NO ME PESA, SE VUELVE HERMOSA. EN UN CIELO DE MONET ENCONTRAR UNA MUJER HERMOSA DARLE PLACER Y DELEITES MIENTRAS EL MUNDO MIRA, Y LA CALLE RUGE, LA DROIT   MIRA Y LADRA POR ALGUIEN QUE PERDIO POR DEFENDER BASURA . BAJO LA BOVEDA ESTRELLADA , TODO BRILLA AHORA EN LIBERTAD , CAMINANDO ENTRE LA GENTE COMO UN LEON QUE CAMINA ENTRE CORDEROS OBSERVANDO A LOS OJOS , ESPERANDO A MI LEONA O MI TIGREZA.
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Claustrophilia. Sun and vista, shade and microcosm. Raised as a pup on a field in view of the silty wilderness between towers of eerie still-life took the dream of being pulled there from some child civilization, just out of earshot, for granted. On the breach, still making out the patterns of nature in human skin.
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May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
Claustrophilia
Come walk with me a mile... Walk on without our burden’s weighty shoes, warily trudging over the long rocky pathway a lifetime in my soul. A final edifying voyage to freedom. The winds of change are blowing briskly as we walk charily over the long and narrowing rock-strewn passageway. I shed these boots and skin, no longer fitting my scared, blistered and callused soles. As time slowly passes, this craggy passage has evolved from a two-way trail, into one-way jagged forage… Standing barefooted and naked on rocky ground, dark sunken sleepless eyes scan the rolling vista as the wind blows dust from the halo around the sun, blurring the delicate wispy cirrus clouds. The sun’s radiance paints frozen ice crystal azure into a vivid aura of prisms’ brilliant corona. Kaleidoscope rainbows adorn the closest of solar stars. There's something in the ethereal air that leaves my soul unsettled, grasping for an evocative stability trying to understand the silenced voices crying out within… The pain and suffering has vanished as if the body and soul have separated, numbness from the ache of longing, severed nerves, callused fears ruptured on serrated rocky edges, deadened useless flesh cut to the bone by misjudged obstacles encountered enduringly. The barefooted spirit courses on, suffused in the solar spectrum’s dust; yearning, longing to saunter above and beyond the bloated feathery pillows; cumulus clouds finally resting at peace. Dipping heart's lesions and these benumbed toes into a healing balm from the bowers of bliss.. An unfinished life an open ended dream, reluctantly waking to take the last , surrendering steps  beyond the threshold... A long and winding rocky journey’s destiny draws near The halo around the moon illuminates an understanding firmament; the celestial sphere’s pending imminent soulful rain awaits the metamorphosis at the brink of dawn. A shower of heaven's rain shall mourn the loss of flesh form as the spirit of an untamed soul lives on, barefooted, naked and free like the dust in the wind absorbed eternally... 2011 © harlon rivers all rights reserved
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Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
Standing Barefoot on Rocky Ground
Come walk with me a mile... Walk on without our burden’s weighty shoes, warily trudging over the long rocky pathway a lifetime in my soul. A final edifying voyage to freedom. The winds of change are blowing briskly as we walk charily over the long and narrowing rock-strewn passageway. I shed these boots and skin, no longer fitting my scared, blistered and callused soles. As time slowly passes, this craggy passage has evolved from a two-way trail, into one-way jagged forage… Standing barefooted and naked on rocky ground, dark sunken sleepless eyes scan the rolling vista as the wind blows dust from the halo around the sun, blurring the delicate wispy cirrus clouds. The sun’s radiance paints frozen ice crystal azure into a vivid aura of prisms’ brilliant corona. Kaleidoscope rainbows adorn the closest of solar stars. There's something in the ethereal air that leaves my soul unsettled, grasping for an evocative stability trying to understand the silenced voices crying out within… The pain and suffering has vanished as if the body and soul have separated, numbness from the ache of longing, severed nerves, callused fears ruptured on serrated rocky edges, deadened useless flesh cut to the bone by misjudged obstacles encountered enduringly. The barefooted spirit courses on, suffused in the solar spectrum’s dust; yearning, longing to saunter above and beyond the bloated feathery pillows; cumulus clouds finally resting at peace. Dipping heart's lesions and these benumbed toes into a healing balm from the bowers of bliss.. An unfinished life an open ended dream, reluctantly waking to take the last , surrendering steps  beyond the threshold... A long and winding rocky journey’s destiny draws near The halo around the moon illuminates an understanding firmament; the celestial sphere’s pending imminent soulful rain awaits the metamorphosis at the brink of dawn. A shower of heaven's rain shall mourn the loss of flesh form as the spirit of an untamed soul lives on, barefooted, naked and free like the dust in the wind absorbed eternally... 2011 © harlon rivers all rights reserved
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Tattoo Promises Read these words now inked of a passionate verse From miles away, beneath clouded silver linings Far beyond every enchanted moon glow vista Phrases of undying devotion in eternal fonts Styled by a hand now longing your touch Tattoo promises melodically whispered Breathless devotion in sonnet sighs Forevermore holding tightly your Affectionate kisses dripping Of sweetest pure honey Unto my wanting lips In poetic phrasing Written entirely Upon the walls Of this my Beating Heart
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Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Tattoo Promises