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 May 2018
harlon rivers
...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
it is an enigma how poetry evolves in meaning over time
― like a self-fulfilled prophecy, some become transformational, some become new beginnings or some become a finality of a metamorphosis of peaceful endings or deleted attempts at understanding the misunderstood...

... all to be determined and allowed to let be

― THE END ―
 May 2018
Mary-Eliz
Speak your words
Speak them loud

write them down strong

scatter your thoughts on the page

write till your fingers are numb

drain your heart of the blood
so filled with pain

unlock the chains
on your soul

take an axe to the tree
that's diseased inside

giving only
fruit that's no good

its roots won't hold
its limbs will split
in the very least wind
rising up

finding its grim branches
comfortless

even birds
have flown
taking with them their song

let it fall
let it compost
create fertile loam

say goodbye

cry
as you must
water this place

this place
that you've cleared

scatter fresh seeds
allow them to sprout
unspoiled green

then
let your light shine
on
new growth
 Apr 2018
Dr Peter Lim
In my face, some sorrow you might not see
but every bit of it is observed by poetry
 Apr 2018
saige
we met
tiptoeing down our hallway
the one wallpapered with photographs of
faces we never knew
but would rather not forget
i smiled at you, you nodded at me
pick guards shone through
the quiet house
i let you lead
the way out

a guitar a piece
a dozen strings between us
except, nothing was between us
not then, not when
we wailed our darkest hours
away
like alley cats at first
slinking past the back door,
how it swelled through the seasons
how you pried it with that chisel
while i kept watch
because it was late
and mama loved to
tap her foot along, but she never did
understand the needs of musicians,
how
every blue moon or so,
the starless skies called us home
to serenade them
and how homemade melodies
were maps to our
hedonisms

how we couldn't sleep until we
clung to those mahogany curves and
lullabied ourselves into dreams and beyond
and how sometimes,
playing solo in our lamplit rooms
was like scratching an inch from the itch
for, we were weaved in the same womb
raised to unravel without eachother
surely mothers understand this

so we
swung our barefeet
off the concrete stoop
as cashmere moonlight
rode on wisps of fog
spread and swept across the yard
that seemed endless barely yesterday
where the treehouse crumbled
a decade prior
where the shingles on the barn
caved in for the final time
where our beloved dog
returned to dust
where our childhoods died
the songs don't
songs played before we breathed
in the atmosphere
songs that will play once we leave it,
as well
they must

til morning,
my fingers followed yours
reverse order of our
younger days
your harmonies ellicited chills
made my voice quiver through the indigo around us
and my subconscious
time capsule of lyrics
made for no fretting, nothing but serenity

sincerity
soared beneath the pines on the
back porch
one more whispered tune
too deep for two fools like us, but
i strummed like dad, you sang like him
then, it was time to sneak in
before the dew warped
the cheap wood of our old
instruments

and,
before dawn broke
mama was awake
ear pressed against the back door
took us by surprise
those stars dripping from
her hazel eyes
that lady loved to listen
there was a particular rhythm
which blossomed all along
a trinity of heartbeats
synchronised a moment
and that, will always be my favorite
song
 Apr 2018
eleanor prince
what is a poet
but a stymied wind
stamping the same soil
seen through polished lens

firing the bugle sound
to reach across some
distant mountain pass
not echo the same

ignite fire
stand strong
find north
refresh

for old paths yield
grey packages
more stale
subterfuge

but honed
solidity is found
in structures
built sound

a new song of old notes
rearranged to yield
perspective
deep
at times we all need to see what is to be kept and what will be discarded, to reinvent ourselves, our lives, whilst retaining solid ground
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