C.M. Rivers
~Now Flowing~
Tag: Poetry
Refuge
By day, a daydream ponderer who never gets her fill – by night, a barefoot wanderer who’s wandering still. With the bamboo wind and a golden rain-tree, what a lucky pilgrim she shall be.
These Particular Blues
It was one of those days when the movie of your life should have won an Academy award for best screenplay. The twists and turns knocked everyone out, the plot was as tight as high-end waterproof luggage, and the soundtrack matched how everyone felt… Continue Reading “These Particular Blues”
Dear Diary
You must not complain about dust. Dust becomes cloud becomes rain becomes forest becomes life, so you must not complain about dust as you wipe it from a table, books, shelves. May there be an empty space in the palm of my hand, where… Continue Reading “Dear Diary”
Many Rivers
You have known many takers, known many givers, walked many pathways, crossed many rivers. Maybe you’ve known a husband or two, some lovers or wives. You’ve died a few deaths, lived a few lives. You have been a seeker, you have been a finder, you have found… Continue Reading “Many Rivers”
“Gratitude To Old Teachers” by Robert Bly
“Gratitude To Old Teachers” – Robert Bly When we stride or stroll across the frozen lake, We place our feet where they have never been. We walk upon the unwalked. But we are uneasy. Who is down there but our old teachers? Water that… Continue Reading ““Gratitude To Old Teachers” by Robert Bly”
Winter Things
The cardinal, for one, content to go about his business. The fox, for another, at ease for the moment in his auburn jacket. The groundhog, wisely putting off her errands until March, depending on the weather. The soft gaze of the doe regarding me,… Continue Reading “Winter Things”
Circles
If I didn’t have to go to work today, I’d write a clever turn-of-phrase or a cryptic suggestion only you would understand the meaning of. I’d spend my time among the dead, paying my respects with a few well-put-together lines destined to become a… Continue Reading “Circles”
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“Who has not felt the urge to throw a loaf of bread and a pound of tea in an old sack and jump over the back fence.” John Muir
