"wellsprings" poems
#***Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains
Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul
Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway
Rooted in boulders***
*scattered within
milestones
and*
***riverbed Cornerstones
Gray
As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn
With intent a higher law's freshet flows
For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue
Rolling currents thickly bestow
A river of simple truth lay bare
A stream of random kindness betides,
Rivulets of unconditional love abounding
Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence
Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests
Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers
Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide
Blossoming undercurrents gushing,
resounding,
rhythmic ebb and flow
Verve undulating wholly alive
Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ―
Wellsprings arise from bedrock
ancient mother earth
A surmounting light leavens abidingly
From imploring water's flowing river song
To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings
divergent from thither and yon
Through which to portage
A way to carry back home in psalm***
h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
In times of solace and even not,
when the world shrinks at the corners
and the all-seeing-eye winks,
the hypnagogic takes over.
I disappear into my unconsciousness, and
I see all the beauty in the world.
I see the galaxies exploding;
impending rebirth in a
pastelar-spectacular combustion of planets.
The mechanical love-boat springs to life
and all the lovers,
with their brave questions and
buoyant expectations,
float, fly, free-fall into the fervour.
I see the promise of the future.
Yet, the desperate preservation of history;
drawing trees on paper (oh, the irony),
searching for the genesis in the fallen.
The black and blue pale moon
bruised by the cosmos
is waiting for something
(other than metal and bones).
I believe the bold hues of my being are
moments passed on the shores of promise,
but I know this is how we were meant to be.
I rest my cheek on Orion’s belt and
sigh at the splendour.
I see the ebb and flow of the heaving ocean
that I fear if I looked long enough into,
Neptune himself might drag me to the
wellsprings of youth and miracle, and
well, I might not want to leave.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
most of my poems come spontaneous,
dare I say even easy, the composition,
tumbling rumbling usually no fumbling,
this one, the prep commences. a month priority plus, with wellsprings of considerations,
in advance…
*’tis Miz Patty’s day of birth,
ah, the feminine mystique
prevents me from revealing
her precessional numerical
decades of decadence,
but adoration of this Magi,
is not so constrained,
so bend my knee to the woman
who writes a
poem’s complexity
as if it were a fine
medieval tapestry,
colors aflaming,
workmanship intricate
intriguing, well deserving
of a place,
in the Metropolitan Museum Cloisters fortress,
that guards
the Hudson River’s Upper Valley’s
verdant stippled wider majesty,
near to where Washington’s
troops fled Manhattan heights
to safety in New Jersey, most
ignominiously
*I’m told that tears arose,
then fell, when first she
read this inattributed essay
on this jubilee day, a clarion
reminder note of her coronation,
to this great green planet,
Missoura Mama as she is
with great affection so known
throughout this glorious land*
*Ah, wax too eloquent,
never my style,
only my favorite sin,
when one begins
to pray tribute,
to a finer poet…and
mine own heroine*
*this aperture of insight,
this scrap of script,
why the papyrus turns
pinkish red, as she demurs
this ode of praise,
while the edges crisp
burnt, brown ~black
by the heat of her outraged
enraged protestation
of “way too much,”
a pretense commenced
by my opportuned
impermissioned reveling
revelation of this
datapoints accidental
dislocating disclosure
as is my sin actuelle,
go on too long says
my devil muse,
so a final thought*
*if this should somehow be,
the first poem you’ve recovered
in this land of words gone mad,
make to hers, and there spend
a day, a lifetime, in a lovely land,
where her words will slip through
your eyes and hands, like fine
grains of sand, each letter,
a pearl in
black and white*…
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 11:00 PM UTC
This poem was only written to
Create a meter and a rhyme
There is no deeper meaning here,
So if you don't like wasting time
On mindless drivel, here's your hat
Because this poem is just that!
No wellsprings of emotion flow
Nor subtle allegories preach
Within these empty, patterned words -
I have no wish to moan or teach
Go somewhere else for love or fear
Because you will not find it here.
Now to apply some filler words
Like catnip, ice cream, roller rink,
Because I have no words to speak
And do not wish to feel or think.
I told you you were wasting time
Upon tetrameter and rhyme.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 11:24 AM UTC
in the hot hot hotbox where the
interlude first dug in its feathered heels
(the ************ now, it being
gone with the wind, the wellsprings
reflexively engage because the wind
is hot and here I'm not unused to you yet
and I sure don't miss you but here
I nearly want to
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
Amid the rubble of crumbling concrete
a seed
unwittingly sown
sends its tender shoots
pushing toward love’s light.
Ever so gently
but with iron purpose
does it break up the stones of a hardening heart
on a journey to greet the sun.
Fragile roots probe the source of being
to draw nourishment from wellsprings
that lie hidden from self awareness.
Until finally....
a single triumphant bud
unfurls its petals in full beauty
to herald a new season.
The first sign of spring has arrived
after the fruitless winter of my selfish youth…..
My daughter
My wildflower!
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 4:52 PM UTC
Like the shade of a great tree in summer heat
I sit beneath your love like a weary traveler
As a man tired and panting in humid weather
Waiting for the storm to move in outside
My window and let the raindrops fall like the tears
That no longer flow from my eyes as wellsprings
Or from yours in your pain... I rest beneath the tree
Of your love like a groundskeeper in autumn;
Watering and tending you for now, in my love
Watching you begin to bloom again.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC
~~~
"is it just me?"
this habitual guest,
nay, by now, alien resident,
this panting ponderous puzzlement,
so habitual, it has founded a room of its own
in a secluded space
upon mine own, contested Temple Mount
oft it strolls about the premises of me,
arm-in-arm with his pernicious cousin,
a fellow imploding interrogatory,
"what if?"
these thigh-slapping cacklers both, living off in the hollows
of the doubtful spaces they create,
cozy, corner-bounded criers, walk-abouters in thine recesses hidden
today, just one more inflection point in this man's life,
of which your are a welcomed observer,
and if but ******
then let it be of thy own self,
for well imagine we, this pesky pairing,
that never venture far or away from their companionship
of any of us
friends of friends
I have no answer for either torturous query,
this answer, unsurprising and well expected,
for these visitors from a planet pernicious,
are astronomer-logged in your own constellation,
the dimmed light they shed, sheds no light at all,
having arrived light years after they were first posed
how can I counsel thee, that their risky business
should be routine dispatched fast away to another galaxy,
for here I am failing and flailing, well into my ending years,
yet waking once more in bed,
with this uncouth pair today,
haunting mine well worn, well trod paths
*have you no guidance, no solvable words to defer
the solvable drip of doubt with which they tint our souls?*
the only defense I am aware,
is to answer-deflect them with
yet another half-inquiry, half-commandment
that resides in the wellsprings
of thine best, supplanting them,
a goal to be,
by asking a twice-harder supposition
***how can I,
this new morning glory,
this new clean babe borning,
be a better human?***
~~~
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
it was a kiss with coyote’s embouchure, with the river’s casket, with gelified venom, with the apron’s appetite, with compact distortion around portable lip cuffs, with trite lies liquified, with mud clumps in mercury clasps, with spit woven theses, with unwound ovoid wellsprings, with sun-hidden shadows, with the frayed nighttime squish, with closeted hand dice tossed, with chance in the fistfuls, with detuned static and bellyaching bramble, with losing yourself, with entropic dissociation, with fleeting tokens, with sayonara stamps, with honey pumping nozzles, with inside out stratus veins, with the pain of history tucked in the trail fringe, in the pebbles kicked outward, with fried abandon, with seatless balconies, with the touch of an insect unexpected while straddling a brick wall with electric grout, with eyelashes trimed by the wind, with patterns passed, with breathless shapes and shaping dimensions, without the taste of lavender or the mosquito’s lonely thirst, with time passing, with time passing, with time passing, without passing time, with the sky dumping elected dead bodies, with spoonfuls of miracles, with starvation kicking, with moon swells forgetting the fomite sea, with weather inside, with dry mouth drawer memories, with omens and herrings with teeth and tongue.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 12:03 PM UTC
If you knock on our door
While me and my woman are making love,
Won't invite you in,
Even tho that delicious sin,
Crosses my mind frequently.
But this poem is my way of thanking you,
For a vision that makes life just a little
Spicier.
Do I fee guilty? Don't be silly
Desire is a compliment,
It forms deep deep, cored within
The prehistoric part of each of us.
But when it surfaces on the shallow pools
Of our eyes, it feels shallow, only because it's
Tired from its journey from the wellsprings.
But every pool has a distinct outlines,
Boundaries that cannot be exceeded.
My mind is not a pool.
Now, I am sated, but still hunger.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
The rude clip of Spring and it's gaggle of chirping frogs
gloat in the amiable parish of poesies and greening lawns.
Yawning daylight; scrapes away at the bleak -
features of Evening ... and coursing through the veins -
of every swan... a Ballet.
At night, the fog is lifted ironically. by two numb hands.
as two eyes peer into the heavenly
to hear it speak it's astronomy... down
Down where we crawl
for stars of our own... dredging hope
from dead wellsprings.
and plundering
moons...
All Day.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC
I am searching past these dunes
and dune song
It was easier then,
easier then.
ghost-like come
echoing in the winds,
drenched in the sands,
wrapped in the folds of time
comeuppances
coming undead
appearances
there go flying past,
those petals, dried,
fragrant still after these years
that with eyes moist,
I cannot say.
few them petals,
uncut rhyme
on the knees
but you know, I know
codwelling
through alleyways of life.
that was all, that was all
Saying, I don't say.
It is all an intention
in percussion.
Feelings
from those wellsprings
we know not
but are aware of.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
Let water fall
forlorn down,
cascade sorrowful
past perpetual loss
sourced from wellsprings
that saturate pinnate lines
and sustain interstitial spaces
of silent missensed mourning.
Let sensate streams buoy
and suffuse afresh to rise
fertile, fecund, fulfilled.
Now wash the withered
and woeful
past away.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 10:41 AM UTC
Oh, I have opened
the wellsprings of my soul to you
all that I am!
Oh, how my life and eternal soul
are forever tied to you.
Oh, my longing for you
has become such a hot burning fever.
Oh, my tears flow hot from my face
and pour from the depths of my soul.
You are my eternal longing.
Oh, to hold you in my arms
and tell you of all my love for you
Unspeakable paradise without end!
Oh, you haunt the deep parts of my soul
with a longing that will never end.
You are a precious jewel enshrined
at the center of my heart.
Oh, you are a love song sung by my heart
in its darkest hour
you brighten my way
through this dark and heavy world.
Oh, to hold you and caress your lips
is my greatest longing
the sole purpose of my life.
Oh, from now to the end of all the days of eternity
you are the one song at the heart of my soul
a song to last to the end of all days.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC
He came into the country
With wellsprings of living joy
The people wondered on him,
Isn't that Joseph's boy?
"Physician heal thyself!
Thy words are heresy
You're just a man as I am
What do you mean, 'set free' ?
I know who thou art
And from whence thou art come
You profit me nothing
You're the carpenter's son
You blaspheme the holy prophets
Who do you think you are?
Get down from my holy temple
You're not the Morning Star, you're not the Holy One
I know you, you're Joseph's son.
What does he say? ... be 'born again'?
Go into my mother's womb?
He is a fool! He is insane!
His mind is an empty tomb.
He eats and drinks with harlots
And publicans give him stay
How dare he come against us!
Send him on his way!
Lay hold! Take him from the city
And cast him from the ledge!"
He passed among them unnoticed
He left them on the edge.
Not much was done
few seeds were sown
A prophet is not accepted by his own
He travelled down through Galilee
He spread the news
He set men free
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
Little thoughts and dreams
tickling, trickling from the void
wellsprings of our minds
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
The seasons south west
Are predictably reliable
When it's winter, it is as cold to behold
The east coasts' persisting twisters
Or the northern snows and lights
But our summers are best
In California at night
Spring has blown in
This seventeenth year, two thousand
And the weather has turned
Cruel the natives fear climactic
Warmer burns the sun
Overcrowding natural wellsprings
Truth deflecting beach volleyball fun
I think we're almost done...
*(And I have yet to experience
The joy of creation
By the earth I stand on
By traveling some)*
And the universe must be balanced
I fear that justice must do harm
To rectify our crimes
Lo and behold...
What wicked this way comes
Our times
Wasted to have undone...
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC
blue stones aligned to be a sign of fictive
internalisation, distanced, wellsprings polluted of genuineness
and consanguinity, remaining true means being incestuous as to acquiesce
to intense reflections of puzzling mechanical motions, predictable
cycles, cluttering, stuttering, dysmorphophobia, beating
being a habit of recommendation, pica, a craving, pleasing finesse
of those at stake, hope and sufferings, scenes of the sun's successive ingress
into Capricorn that are pernicious, indiscriminately
observed, related in a sentiment of losing, a burnoose draping
and draperies, an absence of fear and reverence
for blue light because of an acute awareness
of passing consisting of fits of modesty, escaping
no one's lips, of poshlost or cruelty told with reticence
generously, generous earthly names, unkind fairness
Oct 3, 2020
Oct 3, 2020 at 4:09 AM UTC
1.
In the minds of global leaders
$20 million is all it takes
To restore a world
Assaulted by negligence,
Grown by kneecapping the world,
All the while, spending
$1.71 trillion to ensure the worst offenders
Pay for their dreams of global dominance,
$20 million is all it takes
To undo two hundred years
Of the colonialist mentality
To aright wayward ******** of harlot empires
Who could only learn from neoliberals
In the bordello of the Western Hemisphere—
$20 million is all that it takes
To restore a world, a space far too big
For the imperial mind to encapsulate,
For they are too worried about
What is beyond space, what is in heaven
In glorious economic **********
There is no peace, no trumpeting
Communal values under whose auspice
The world over will achieve
The neoliberal dream:
The arena, the coliseum,
Where the sword, the tariff, the trade war
Are the proper lingua franca
Of the entrepreneurial class,
Suppressing popular uprisings
Is the front-line infantry
Of the entrepreneurial class—
2.
We are the Global West
Subsumed under the rancher,
The cowboy capitalist,
On the wilds of his destiny.
He’s tried his best,
To drag the whole herd with him,
Handed enough bootstraps
To hang itself with
As it ***** up water and rest,
At such a premium in the hard desert of
The industrialist’s heart, putting a stop
To what the herd wants—
It needs to make it beyond the pass
Into the uncertain future of
Coyotes and hazards aplenty;
The only certainty is, though,
Inequities between the rancher
And his livelihood,—
But, ah! That’s what makes
The Wild, Wild, Global West
So tempting to those whose numbers have been
Decimated by it in the early years,
Its growing pains; it’s simple, really:
War makes money, suffering is
The only commodity that defies the laws
Of supply and demand,
Its value rises as we tap more wells,
More wellsprings, as it bubbles to the surface
Of every sweating, stress-sickened face
Whether migrating or on the assembly line.
Our ranches must become bigger,
More accommodating to the cattle,
And, if possible, to make ranchhands
Of our rival ranchers at any cost,
If even the only subordinate is the earth itself.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
I need to find a way of celebrating every breath.
The train of day will leave my bedroom soon.
I will board, and, walking up the aisle
Watch fields and starlings fly.
And will forget my breath.
Not so. No more could I forget my breath
Than I could you. Comingled
With the depths of self
Of life wellsprings and watery cells.
The grace and faith of the synapse
Being, binding blind in blood,
Test at any level
Oh would I could prove positive for you.
And so like Gods of battlefields remembering soldiers prayers
When they in cannon's mouth are blank with fear.
Do I not forget.
Do I not forget..
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 1:32 AM UTC