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Shoot, I can write poetry, but not bios. If you want to know something about me, you can always just ask. Happy to befriend all. …
Poems
badwords
Jun 10
A Fairytale for Adults.
Prologue
There once was a Farmer who knew the language of soil—how to coax life from seed and silence, how to listen for rain in the hush of the wind, how to feed a village with patience.
There was also a Minstrel, a restless figure whose boots wore down faster than his songs. He carried tales like coins, spending them freely wherever wonder was poor.
The Farmer had never left her valley. The Minstrel had never learned to stay. Each was devoted—to the people they served, and to the unseen forces that called them.
They were not seeking one another. But sometimes, when the earth leans close to the stars, paths cross without permission. Just long enough to matter. Just long enough to change everything.
Act I – The Meeting
The Minstrel came with the spring—not summoned, just carried on the season like pollen or rumor. His coat was worn at the edges, his instrument patched with loving scars. But his eyes held stories, and the stories held fire.
The Farmer saw him first at the village square. He stood beneath the old olive tree, strings humming beneath his fingers, a half-circle of children wide-eyed around him, and a few elders who’d forgotten they could still be curious.
She listened from a distance. Not for lack of interest—but because something in her chest had shifted. Like soil breaking just before the sprout.
That night, when the others had gone, she brought him bread, and a balm for his hands. He asked if she played. She said, "Not I. But my father once made the fiddle wept with joy."
He smiled in the way only travelers do—as if he’d just found a story waiting to be told.
She asked of deserts, cities, oceans, stars. He asked of roots, of weather, of what it meant to tend to things that couldn’t walk away.
They spoke for hours, beneath a sky too full to be ignored, until the silence between them felt like a home.
Act II – The Pact
The Minstrel stayed longer than intended. One night became three. Three became ten. He was not idle—he played, he repaired, he listened. But mostly, he lingered in conversation with the Farmer.
She showed him the hidden paths in the hills where mugwort and mullein whispered their uses. She ground roots, steeped leaves, measured oils with reverent care. "You carry too much weight in your joints," she said. "You walk like the earth is starting to argue back."
He laughed. But he drank the tea she made.
In return, he asked to see the fiddle—her father’s. It had slept in a corner for years, beneath dust and folded grief. He cleaned the strings, re-set the bridge, tightened the pegs. When he played, it didn’t sing—it sighed, as if waking from a dream. "He must have played well," he said. "He did," she answered. "But I never learned. I was too busy learning the world beneath our feet."
So he taught her. Slowly. Not with lessons, but with shared songs. Half his, half remembered. Some days her hands ached from the plow. Other days his knees refused to bend. But they met each dusk in the quiet barn, two kinds of laborers, trading music and medicine like scripture.
In time, she could play without thinking .And he could walk without wincing. Neither owed the other anything. But they gave, and gave again.
Act III – The Choice
By midsummer, the Minstrel was healed. His joints moved like they once did—slow, sure, and without song in every step. The Farmer’s music, too, had ripened. She could play every song her father once did, and many more the Minstrel had carried from elsewhere. The fiddle no longer mourned. It danced.
They had become something of a mystery to the village. The restless man who stayed. The quiet woman who sang.
In the hush between song and harvest, they fell in love. Not loudly, but with certainty—like rain sinking into roots. Without asking, without fanfare.
And so came the question neither dared ask aloud. But they asked it anyway.
The Farmer, standing barefoot in her field, fiddle in hand: "Stay with me. Help tend these rows. There is joy in staying put. We could feed a world together."
The Minstrel, sitting beneath the same olive tree where they met: "Come with me. Play by my side. Let’s carry this music across every border. There is joy in never settling."
She considered the road. She imagined applause, unknown cities, tales waiting to be born. But then she thought of her seeds, her neighbors, and the children who now danced when she played.
He imagined the soil. He thought of warm hands and quiet mornings. But then he thought of the silence in faraway places, and how it begged for music.
They said nothing for a long time. Sometimes silence answers best.
Act IV – The Parting
They woke before dawn on the day he was to leave. Not because they had to. But because farewells deserve the quiet.
He packed slowly. She watched, hands folded, fiddle by her side. Neither made promises they couldn’t keep.
She handed him a small satchel—inside were dried herbs, a jar of balm, and a folded note. "In case the road grows unkind," she said.
He gave her a new bow for the fiddle, crafted from horsehair and a branch he’d found near her stream. "In case the music forgets to come easily."
They embraced without ceremony. No kiss, no vows. Just warmth, and weight, and a long, steady breath. Like two parts of the same song, finally letting the other resolve.
As he walked past the edge of her fields, he turned once—just once—and saw her standing there, still.
She did not wave. She did not cry. She was the earth: rooted, resolute, generous.
And he—he became the wind again, carrying seeds of their time together to places that would never know her name, but might one day hum a melody she taught him.
Epilogue – The Yield
Seasons passed. The road unfurled and folded. The Minstrel played to countless faces. Some laughed. Some wept. None knew the origin of the song that always came last—a wordless melody played softly, as if in prayer. He never named it. But it always began with a fiddle’s sigh.
In the village, the Farmer’s fields grew rich. She played while planting, while weeding, while harvesting. Children sang with her. Old men tapped their canes in time. The village thrived—not because she stayed, but because she stayed true.
Neither waited for the other. Neither was ever forgotten.
Sometimes, when the wind turned a certain way, the Farmer would pause in her work and swear she heard laughter on the breeze. And sometimes, in a city far from any field, the Minstrel would sip tea that tasted like home.
Prologue
There once was a Farmer who knew the language of soil—how to coax life from seed and silence, how to listen for rain in the hush of the wind, how to feed a village with patience.
There was also a Minstrel, a restless figure whose boots wore down faster than his songs. He carried tales like coins, spending them freely wherever wonder was poor.
The Farmer had never left her valley. The Minstrel had never learned to stay. Each was devoted—to the people they served, and to the unseen forces that called them.
They were not seeking one another. But sometimes, when the earth leans close to the stars, paths cross without permission. Just long enough to matter. Just long enough to change everything.
Act I – The Meeting
The Minstrel came with the spring—not summoned, just carried on the season like pollen or rumor. His coat was worn at the edges, his instrument patched with loving scars. But his eyes held stories, and the stories held fire.
The Farmer saw him first at the village square. He stood beneath the old olive tree, strings humming beneath his fingers, a half-circle of children wide-eyed around him, and a few elders who’d forgotten they could still be curious.
She listened from a distance. Not for lack of interest—but because something in her chest had shifted. Like soil breaking just before the sprout.
That night, when the others had gone, she brought him bread, and a balm for his hands. He asked if she played. She said, "Not I. But my father once made the fiddle wept with joy."
He smiled in the way only travelers do—as if he’d just found a story waiting to be told.
She asked of deserts, cities, oceans, stars. He asked of roots, of weather, of what it meant to tend to things that couldn’t walk away.
They spoke for hours, beneath a sky too full to be ignored, until the silence between them felt like a home.
Act II – The Pact
The Minstrel stayed longer than intended. One night became three. Three became ten. He was not idle—he played, he repaired, he listened. But mostly, he lingered in conversation with the Farmer.
She showed him the hidden paths in the hills where mugwort and mullein whispered their uses. She ground roots, steeped leaves, measured oils with reverent care. "You carry too much weight in your joints," she said. "You walk like the earth is starting to argue back."
He laughed. But he drank the tea she made.
In return, he asked to see the fiddle—her father’s. It had slept in a corner for years, beneath dust and folded grief. He cleaned the strings, re-set the bridge, tightened the pegs. When he played, it didn’t sing—it sighed, as if waking from a dream. "He must have played well," he said. "He did," she answered. "But I never learned. I was too busy learning the world beneath our feet."
So he taught her. Slowly. Not with lessons, but with shared songs. Half his, half remembered. Some days her hands ached from the plow. Other days his knees refused to bend. But they met each dusk in the quiet barn, two kinds of laborers, trading music and medicine like scripture.
In time, she could play without thinking .And he could walk without wincing. Neither owed the other anything. But they gave, and gave again.
Act III – The Choice
By midsummer, the Minstrel was healed. His joints moved like they once did—slow, sure, and without song in every step. The Farmer’s music, too, had ripened. She could play every song her father once did, and many more the Minstrel had carried from elsewhere. The fiddle no longer mourned. It danced.
They had become something of a mystery to the village. The restless man who stayed. The quiet woman who sang.
In the hush between song and harvest, they fell in love. Not loudly, but with certainty—like rain sinking into roots. Without asking, without fanfare.
And so came the question neither dared ask aloud. But they asked it anyway.
The Farmer, standing barefoot in her field, fiddle in hand: "Stay with me. Help tend these rows. There is joy in staying put. We could feed a world together."
The Minstrel, sitting beneath the same olive tree where they met: "Come with me. Play by my side. Let’s carry this music across every border. There is joy in never settling."
She considered the road. She imagined applause, unknown cities, tales waiting to be born. But then she thought of her seeds, her neighbors, and the children who now danced when she played.
He imagined the soil. He thought of warm hands and quiet mornings. But then he thought of the silence in faraway places, and how it begged for music.
They said nothing for a long time. Sometimes silence answers best.
Act IV – The Parting
They woke before dawn on the day he was to leave. Not because they had to. But because farewells deserve the quiet.
He packed slowly. She watched, hands folded, fiddle by her side. Neither made promises they couldn’t keep.
She handed him a small satchel—inside were dried herbs, a jar of balm, and a folded note. "In case the road grows unkind," she said.
He gave her a new bow for the fiddle, crafted from horsehair and a branch he’d found near her stream. "In case the music forgets to come easily."
They embraced without ceremony. No kiss, no vows. Just warmth, and weight, and a long, steady breath. Like two parts of the same song, finally letting the other resolve.
As he walked past the edge of her fields, he turned once—just once—and saw her standing there, still.
She did not wave. She did not cry. She was the earth: rooted, resolute, generous.
And he—he became the wind again, carrying seeds of their time together to places that would never know her name, but might one day hum a melody she taught him.
Epilogue – The Yield
Seasons passed. The road unfurled and folded. The Minstrel played to countless faces. Some laughed. Some wept. None knew the origin of the song that always came last—a wordless melody played softly, as if in prayer. He never named it. But it always began with a fiddle’s sigh.
In the village, the Farmer’s fields grew rich. She played while planting, while weeding, while harvesting. Children sang with her. Old men tapped their canes in time. The village thrived—not because she stayed, but because she stayed true.
Neither waited for the other. Neither was ever forgotten.
Sometimes, when the wind turned a certain way, the Farmer would pause in her work and swear she heard laughter on the breeze. And sometimes, in a city far from any field, the Minstrel would sip tea that tasted like home.
Some loves are not meant to last—but to change the shape of the path. To be a point of intersection, where stillness meets motion, where roots touch wings.
And in that meeting, the world grows a little wider.
And in that meeting, the world grows a little wider.
harlon rivers
Oct 2017
Penned on watermarked cotton paper
Cursive letters script the words
of a surrendering rhythmic rhyme.
The ardent sonata was written
by the light of a Blue Moon’s shine.
The blood red ink bled through
the white wrinkled cotton pages;
musical notes dried by the warmth
of glowing Moon Beams radiance
in the subtle pollination breeze...
The maestro Coyote’s howl cried out!
Instinctively rousing the stillness of the night;
a feral essence echoed
through the eerie silence
of the distant horizon,
bringing helpless lovers to their knees.
The words to the Cabernet Sauvignon
stained midnight lullaby,
were emotions quilled,
blending an aura accenting
organic warmth of tones...
The native maple trees'
flowering canopies of Spring
released a dusty yellow pollen
onto the watermarked cotton sheets.
In a moment of rapturous intimacy,
an elixir of intoxicating bliss
illumined the achingly euphoric moments.
A natural untamed wildness was exhaled;
savored ecstasy released
into a passionate song of love …
That poignant melody forever lingers,
like hieroglyphics on the walls
of some long lost abandoned cave.
Engraved, etched, brushed and stroked
onto the brattice canvas
of a musical Minstrel’s
melodic montage ...
Watch the artiste’s fingers
prancing graceful ballet
Worn down catgut strings
*moan
weep
purr**
crying out lustfully.
as if it were
enraptured lovers'
breathless sighs
the rhythm’s cadence
whispers a masterpiece
in an infinite
harmonious time...
The tempo’s lines
Phrasing…
...hush...!
♪♫♪ ~ ♫ ♪♪
Listen to the pictures flow...
Listen to the weeping guitar strings
of the passionate troubadour
stroking the metaphorical canvas scene.
The ebb and flow
of the musical rhythm's throb
arouse the Blue Moon’s hypnotic allure,
throwing incandescent shadows
that dance around Moonbeams.
Joyfully twirling, blissfully embracing
in the blossoming Forget-me-not fields;
Bluebonnet Lupine
swirl and tango
with the moonlit breeze.
Lilacs fragrant aroma drifts
with spring’s churning romantic haze;
rekindling this fleeting memories recital.
The Minstrel and the Minstrel’s song
now yearn to be set free ~
Timbre without reverberation …
The twilight serenade was never penned
to be hidden from the Nightingale
A romantic moment’s sorrowful lament
to be abandoned like a broken dream;
fading unnoticed into forevermore ―
Unsung, unsaid, unreleased,
unrequited
through eternity…
The maestro Coyote
is a wilderness troubadour
illumined under the gloaming
full moon’s spell.
Howling soulfully...
wailing impulsively ~
... crying hopefully
pleading mournfully
lamenting
the Minstrel’s breathless cadenza ...
A bitter sweet musical embryo of love
found and lost
below
the full Blue Moon’s
glistening light…
© H. Rivers ... 2012, 2013
all rights reserved
Cursive letters script the words
of a surrendering rhythmic rhyme.
The ardent sonata was written
by the light of a Blue Moon’s shine.
The blood red ink bled through
the white wrinkled cotton pages;
musical notes dried by the warmth
of glowing Moon Beams radiance
in the subtle pollination breeze...
The maestro Coyote’s howl cried out!
Instinctively rousing the stillness of the night;
a feral essence echoed
through the eerie silence
of the distant horizon,
bringing helpless lovers to their knees.
The words to the Cabernet Sauvignon
stained midnight lullaby,
were emotions quilled,
blending an aura accenting
organic warmth of tones...
The native maple trees'
flowering canopies of Spring
released a dusty yellow pollen
onto the watermarked cotton sheets.
In a moment of rapturous intimacy,
an elixir of intoxicating bliss
illumined the achingly euphoric moments.
A natural untamed wildness was exhaled;
savored ecstasy released
into a passionate song of love …
That poignant melody forever lingers,
like hieroglyphics on the walls
of some long lost abandoned cave.
Engraved, etched, brushed and stroked
onto the brattice canvas
of a musical Minstrel’s
melodic montage ...
Watch the artiste’s fingers
prancing graceful ballet
Worn down catgut strings
*moan
weep
purr**
crying out lustfully.
as if it were
enraptured lovers'
breathless sighs
the rhythm’s cadence
whispers a masterpiece
in an infinite
harmonious time...
The tempo’s lines
Phrasing…
...hush...!
♪♫♪ ~ ♫ ♪♪
Listen to the pictures flow...
Listen to the weeping guitar strings
of the passionate troubadour
stroking the metaphorical canvas scene.
The ebb and flow
of the musical rhythm's throb
arouse the Blue Moon’s hypnotic allure,
throwing incandescent shadows
that dance around Moonbeams.
Joyfully twirling, blissfully embracing
in the blossoming Forget-me-not fields;
Bluebonnet Lupine
swirl and tango
with the moonlit breeze.
Lilacs fragrant aroma drifts
with spring’s churning romantic haze;
rekindling this fleeting memories recital.
The Minstrel and the Minstrel’s song
now yearn to be set free ~
Timbre without reverberation …
The twilight serenade was never penned
to be hidden from the Nightingale
A romantic moment’s sorrowful lament
to be abandoned like a broken dream;
fading unnoticed into forevermore ―
Unsung, unsaid, unreleased,
unrequited
through eternity…
The maestro Coyote
is a wilderness troubadour
illumined under the gloaming
full moon’s spell.
Howling soulfully...
wailing impulsively ~
... crying hopefully
pleading mournfully
lamenting
the Minstrel’s breathless cadenza ...
A bitter sweet musical embryo of love
found and lost
below
the full Blue Moon’s
glistening light…
© H. Rivers ... 2012, 2013
all rights reserved
Notes (optional)
"It's a marvelous night for a moon dance"
from the written pages of a hopeless romantic
Post Script:
An attempt to blow the dust off the hidden archives and the aging tomes to bring my unpublished writing portfolio back into the light.
A friend from my musical past ask me to publish this once again and LEAVE IT published...how could I say no to one who uplifts the low (?)!
"It's a marvelous night for a moon dance"
from the written pages of a hopeless romantic
Post Script:
An attempt to blow the dust off the hidden archives and the aging tomes to bring my unpublished writing portfolio back into the light.
A friend from my musical past ask me to publish this once again and LEAVE IT published...how could I say no to one who uplifts the low (?)!
brandon nagley
Jan 2016
i.
Every poet here, every poet here is a breathing soul,
Every poet here, O', every poet here, is a living whole.
Every poet here, every poet here is that fine grained gold;
O' every poet here, every poet here is an ancient mold.
ii.
Every prophet here, every prophet here prophecieth,
Every prophet here, speaketh love pain and fear;
We all liveth, and thus we dieth.
iii.
Every minstrel here, O' every minstrel here, hath shed tear's,
Every minstrel here, verily every minstrel here, ageth in year's;
Every minstrel here, O' every minstrel here hath felt anger,
Every minstrel here, verily every minstrel here, hath seen danger.
iv.
Every writer here, O' every writer here,
Shouldst put away, the hate, anger, and
Fear's, and conjoin into one, a poetic dream,
Coming apart at the string's, by hatred under
Ourn sun. As we only hath one life, to maketh
Purpose of a smile toward's another one.
Puttest away the poetic gun.
Every poet here, O' every poet-
Doth thou heareth?
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Every poet here, every poet here is a breathing soul,
Every poet here, O', every poet here, is a living whole.
Every poet here, every poet here is that fine grained gold;
O' every poet here, every poet here is an ancient mold.
ii.
Every prophet here, every prophet here prophecieth,
Every prophet here, speaketh love pain and fear;
We all liveth, and thus we dieth.
iii.
Every minstrel here, O' every minstrel here, hath shed tear's,
Every minstrel here, verily every minstrel here, ageth in year's;
Every minstrel here, O' every minstrel here hath felt anger,
Every minstrel here, verily every minstrel here, hath seen danger.
iv.
Every writer here, O' every writer here,
Shouldst put away, the hate, anger, and
Fear's, and conjoin into one, a poetic dream,
Coming apart at the string's, by hatred under
Ourn sun. As we only hath one life, to maketh
Purpose of a smile toward's another one.
Puttest away the poetic gun.
Every poet here, O' every poet-
Doth thou heareth?
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
This is just a reminder to all poets... To support one another... Love another. Cherish another despite views, ideologies, idea's.. Beliefs... Writing is the souls expression. A freedom of any one man or womans words... Not to be tainted by others... As this place has become one of hatred... Name calling. A place rather of clownishness, not poetry. A place of hatred. Not friendship... As noone not one single soul here. Should have to worry about being attacked by others who want to inflict misery, and fear. and hatred onto the web. Because it's easiest to hide behind the screen to attack others.. When in reality... They'd know better to not do it in person to the people they are attacking... So as poets.. We must ignore the hatred that is going on. as I've seen many poems on trolls lately. Hatred. People getting made fun of so on and bullied... The biggest gift to those who are doing this stuff we can give is to love them. Forgive them. Not talk bad behind their backs as they do us... And to show them ( what real love is) because in actuality... As case shows throughout history!!! True love always ALWAYS conquers over evil... As Ephesians 6:12 said.. In the bible I read. Yes glad to say I'm a Christian an improving one, as noone is a flawless being. It reads.
12For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
And this is truth! Satan is very real. As are his demons. I know personally being attacked emotionally spiritually and more than that ( physically by them) with physical proof. They do exist. As this world shows an example of them working on people right now. Swaying many. But me. They will not sway. I will overcome the hatred and darkness that hates the light. One problem.. God is of light. And darkness cannot be the light of God... So as one not just because I believe in Christ and God. But as how I was made to be. One who knows not hate. And can't fathom ever hating anyone mineself personally! I choose love.. Forgiveness... And letting things be. And hoping the hatred stops and certain others may just find love, and overcome very real demons overcoming them... As we must overcome darkness with light..
Thanks for reading followers. And if ones talk behind your back or call you names. *** at you. Spew out hatred towards you. Our goal as human beings is forgiving and loving another... For we shall all be judged one day. And have no right judging others.. For when we ourselves aren't perfect beings... Though God wants his creation to love another. Now will you love all beings? And forgive?? Choice is your own...
Thanks for reading poets...
12For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
And this is truth! Satan is very real. As are his demons. I know personally being attacked emotionally spiritually and more than that ( physically by them) with physical proof. They do exist. As this world shows an example of them working on people right now. Swaying many. But me. They will not sway. I will overcome the hatred and darkness that hates the light. One problem.. God is of light. And darkness cannot be the light of God... So as one not just because I believe in Christ and God. But as how I was made to be. One who knows not hate. And can't fathom ever hating anyone mineself personally! I choose love.. Forgiveness... And letting things be. And hoping the hatred stops and certain others may just find love, and overcome very real demons overcoming them... As we must overcome darkness with light..
Thanks for reading followers. And if ones talk behind your back or call you names. *** at you. Spew out hatred towards you. Our goal as human beings is forgiving and loving another... For we shall all be judged one day. And have no right judging others.. For when we ourselves aren't perfect beings... Though God wants his creation to love another. Now will you love all beings? And forgive?? Choice is your own...
Thanks for reading poets...