Jordan D. River
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jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
Jordan D. River
@jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
1.3K followers 1.1K following 1.2K posts
Poet/Author. Game/Book reviews. I love feedback! Please! I write short stories and novel mostly in verse across genre, but typically horror adjacent. Check media tab for latest from me.
https://jordanrivertales.wordpress.com
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jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
I know I'm fanboying, but this made my day @oysterband.bsky.social
screenshot of a skeet showing Oysterband liking a post.
November 7, 2025 at 8:09 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
I finished the third in a flat in Pokhara, Nepal. I never did get around to finishing the artwork on the inserts. By that time it was prohibitively expensive for me to print even one physical copy. Still listened to the three volumes over and over for years. #Playlist
Front and back of CD insert booklet. Dark, textured collage with swirling smoke and abstract organic shapes. At right, a photo of a man sitting at the base of a massive tree is framed by ghostly white ribbons. Text reads “Music For A Darkened Room, Volume III.” Music For a Darkened Room Vol III Fun. - Some Nights Hand To Mouth - Calling Madalene Bear McCreary - All Along The Watchtower Oysterband - This Is the Voice Hand To Mouth - Angels Zeromancer - Send Me an Angel My Chemical Romance - The Sharpest Lives Trapt - Headstrong Last Resort (explicit) - Papa Roach HIM - Rip Out The Wings Of A Butterfly Papa Roach - Blood Brothers Hedningarna - Vargtimmen Within Temptation - Deceiver of Fools Guns N' Roses - Don't Cry Within Temptation - Never Ending Story Enigma - Return To Innocence Oysterband - Rise Above Fun. - Carry On
November 7, 2025 at 2:54 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
Here's the second volume made about a year after the first and just before taking action on a decision made because of the first. #Playlist
Black-and-white to color collage forming the back and front of a CD insert booklet. On the left, glowing white cords wrap around floating hands. On the right, a silhouetted figure stands with arms outstretched before a bright golden sunrise. Text reads “Music For A Darkened Room, Volume II.” # Music For a Darkened Room Vol II Natalie Imbruglia - Torn (Official Video) Carly Simon - You're So Vain Sunshine - Jonathan Edwards Vienna Teng - Gravity Goo Goo Dolls – Iris Woodkid- Ghost Lights ) Oysterband - Uncommercial Song 3 Doors Down - Kryptonite Phil Collins - I Don't Care Anymore Cherry Poppin' Daddies - Irish Whiskey Afro Celt Sound System - Release (feat. Sinéad O'Connor) The Cottars - Send Me A River Oingo Boingo - Just Another Day Nine Inch Nails - Every Day Is Exactly The Same Blue Oyster Cult - (Don't Fear) The Reaper Cordelia's Dad - Idumea Great Big Sea - Consequence Free Electric Light Orchestra - Mr. Blue Sky (Official Video)
November 7, 2025 at 2:54 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
I was doing some digital archaeology and ran across the files for three audio CD compilations I put together over a decade ago and across the span of about 5 years. Anyone else out there enjoy making physical compilations? #Playlist
Black-and-white collage of a decaying room. A hooded figure in a straitjacket faces away, wearing headphones with a trailing cord. Ghostly shapes and smoke swirl around. Text reads “Music For A Darkened Room, Vol. 1.” Front and Back Cover of CD insert. J.D River. # Music For a Darkened Room Vol I Pink Floyd - Hey You Vienna Teng - My Medea Gary Jules - Mad World HOWARD JONES - ELEGY Pink Floyd - One Of My Turns RiseAgainst - Rumors Of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated Black Sabbath - Paranoid The Bloodhound Gang feat Ville Valo - Something Diabolical Oingo Boingo - Insanity AFI - Prelude 12/21 Cordelia's Dad - Brother Judson Morrissey - November Spawned A Monster The Smiths - Oscillate Wildly Vienna Teng - The Tower Trans-Siberian Orchestra - I'll Keep Your Secrets Tim Capello - I Still Believe My Chemical Romance - Welcome To The Black Parade Oingo Boingo - Try to Believe
November 7, 2025 at 2:54 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#Translation #Poetry #german #Collapse #freeverse
Rathenau - Kurt Tucholsky June, 1922
Translated J.D. River
Read back for history.
Rathenau - By Kurt Tuchovsky June 1922 English Translation by J.D. River 1/2 **Rathenau** You're used to it by now! You know what it's like when your young German nationalists pull something off. They shoot. Karlchen Helfferich sneers. That’s been your politics for years— you Republic! You're practiced in it, young lady! The funerals glide from your hands with ease. Protests shriek. Obituaries drone. And afterward, you’re just as clueless as before. How long will you keep watching Helfferich? That same one, who from Moscow, during the putsch, slid home with soiled pants, has now driven a second man, unavenged, to the grave— with curses, with speeches. And while an old mother trembles, that man sits in Parliament. And lives. It wasn’t the first time! You hear the party bigwigs in the Reichstag, in the Landtag, screaming: “This can’t go on! A scandal!” Was it the last time? Just once—rise up! Smash your fist down on the table! Don’t fall back asleep in fourteen days! Out with your monarchist judges, with officers—and with the scum that lives off you, yet sabotages you, that paints swastikas on your houses. Smash the secret leagues to bits! Bind Ludendorff’s and Escherich’s hands! Don’t let the Reichswehr mock you— it must learn to accept the Republic. Strike! Strike! Grab them hard! They all flinch. Because there’s no man. There are only snipers. Grab them tight— your house will burn if you let it smolder now. Rathenau - By Kurt Tuchovsky June 1922 English Translation by J.D. River 2/2 Tear apart the nooses of legal paragraphs. Don’t fall into them. It must succeed! Four years of murder—by God, that’s enough. You stand before your final breath. Show what you are. Judge yourself. Die or fight! There is no third way.
November 1, 2025 at 2:46 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#WIP #Poetry
#TreasureIsland A Rhythmic Voyage
Third Movement, The Island Cleaves
Interlude

Jim at 14, reflects on the journey so far and introduces the Doctor's tale of the shipboard mutiny.
Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage by J.D. River Third Movement The Island Cleaves Interlude 1/2 I didn't know then what Ben's cave would mean— that treasure scattered like seeds of grief would root in each of us, unseen, and choke whatever we believed. I thought the gold was simply gold, that maps were just lines on a page. But curses don't need to be told— they write themselves in blood and age. I thought the sea held only light— no secrets churned in its deep heart. I never guessed what tides rewrite, or what they tear, or pull apart. It wasn't just the pirate's face or blood, or guns, or buried greed. It was the way that trust misplaced can twist to hunger, clot to need. I saw the Squire lose his mask— the smile he wore back in the lane. I saw the Captain drop his task and wonder if command meant pain. I saw the Doctor watch a man go mad with thirst beside the mast— and though he knelt, and worked, and ran, there was no way to change the past. Two years have passed since then. Two years. The Doctor says that words can heal— that setting down what happened here might ease the weight I've learned to feel. I don't know if that's true. I know that some nights still I wake and see poor Tommy's eyes, still wide and slow— or hear the tap that followed me. But this I try: to trace the line from boy to—what? Not man. Not yet. Just someone who can read the signs that younger Jim had never met. But here's the part I didn't see— the hours when I fled from shore, the Doctor fought. The Squire. Redruth. While I hid with Ben's strange truth. I didn't know that men had died. I didn't know the fort was won by inches, blood, and stubborn pride— before I ever saw the sun rise over walls they'd built at night, while Silver hunted, rage-made blind. I thought myself the only fight— but left my brothers far behind. Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage by J.D. River Third Movement The Island Cleaves Interlude 2/2 I didn't know that men had died. I didn't know the fort was won by inches, blood, and stubborn pride— before I ever saw the sun rise over walls they'd built at night, while Silver hunted, rage-made blind. I thought myself the only fight— but left my brothers far behind. The Doctor told me, days from then, what happened while I ran and hid. He didn't judge. He just said, "Jim, You'll want to know what each man did." What follows here, the Doctor wrote— or spoke, and I've set down his words. The voice will change. You'll hear his note: more measured, calm, precisely heard. He speaks of siege and fire and loss, of men who held when hope ran thin. He speaks of Silver's final toss— the moment when the war begins. And when he's done, you'll find me there: a boy who'd fled, now coming home— around the fort's rough-timbered square, no longer quite so scared, alone. The Doctor speaks. I step aside. This movement closes with his view: of how the loyal fought and died, and what they feared I wouldn’t do.
October 27, 2025 at 5:58 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
5th page of the 16th Canto. Scroll back in thread for previous pages.
Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage Third Movement Passage 8 Canto 16 The Boy who returns 5 of 5 We skirted swamp and mangrove root, the air grew thick with salt and mud. My heart felt high, my body ready— with purpose gained from all we spoke. Then, through the palms, a color flared, a square of red the island wore. A sight more strange than all I'd seen— a flag of home above the shore. A Union rag, stiff in the air, it snapped once bright above the bark. Smoke rose, a thin white line, from where a stockade stood against the dark. “Flint’s fort,” Ben whispered, eyes gone wide. “Safe walls inside for who still abide. They've found the place. Jim's folk are there. Jim has to stride.” I saw the smoke, the mended gun— the loyal fight had now begun. My hiding time, my flight was through— the only road was sharp and true. Ben gripped my wrist, his voice turned low: “Go now, Jim. Now’s time to show Jim's loyal deed, Jim's steady hand. Folk need your heart to guard their stand.” “Remember now: ship must drift. Canoe's near, a final gift. When Jim returns, when Jim is done— Ben asks for cheese, and English sun.” “A piece of apple sweet and red to make Ben think of home instead. A simple thing, a small soft plea— To prove Jim’s friend and set Ben free.” He pressed a smooth shell in my palm— A tiny weight, a quiet charm. "Keep this close when shadows fall— Ben's with Jim through it all." He melted back—a streak of clay. I watched him fade and slip away then turned towards the fort once more to skirt the wall that lay before.
October 24, 2025 at 5:24 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#WIP #Poetry
#TreasureIsland A Rhythmic Voyage
Third Movement, Passage 8, Canto 16 The Boy Who Returns

After a healing night, Jim wakes and makes the decision to return to the fight. (5 pages, so 2 posts.)
Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage Third Movement Passage 8 Canto 16 The Boy who returns 1 of 5 Ben stirred the coals with practiced hand, The smoke rose blue through morning's band. Then milked the goat with crooning song. His bare feet knew the hidden land— Each root a friend, each stone well-found. He hummed some tune of home and sea, Part shanty, part mad history— The goat bleated, the fire hissed— As if his voice could only be What island years had carved from he. The goat's milk warmed against my hand, But still I saw the muddy sand. Poor Tommy's eyes, wide, still, and red— I should have warned him. He is dead. And Jack—he saw the brutal stroke— The final lie that Silver spoke. Will he now kneel? Will he now turn? The thought of Jack began to burn. “Dreamt of home?” Ben said, half-smile. “Ben dreams of cheese and island trees” I found my tongue; I did not lie— “I go back, Ben. I have to try.” “I can’t just hide,” I told him then, “The ship may stand or fall again. The Doctor waits, the Squire too— I’ve friends to find and work to do.” "Ben," I said, my throat gone tight, "There's one thing more that they all fight for—something worse than gold or crew—" Ben's eyes went sharp: "Jim knows, then? You have the thing? The thing that Silver seeks? The reason red runs down these creeks?" I nodded once. "The Fist. It's mine— Or hidden where I climbed the line. High in the crow's nest, wrapped and sealed— A thing too cursed to be revealed." His eyes went wide, then soft, then clear— "Jim trusts Ben? Shares his fear? No man's done that in three long years. Jim's brave to tell, braver to keep— Silver hunts it, hunts in sleep." "Flint would kill for half as much— Silver'd kill for just a touch. Jim guards death in oilskin tight— Worth more than all Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage Third Movement Passage 8 Canto 16 The Boy who returns 2 of 5 of Flint's dark might." "The ship then, aye— Must go back there. Climb the mast, Through Silver's stare. Fetch the Fist, Then bring to shore— Jim needs it, needs it more." We walked the gullies choked with fern, The sun a blade through leaves that burn. “Flint was mad,” said Ben, “But plain— Silver smiles, hides his chain. Flint slew quick; pain was done. Silver’s gift? calls you son.” “Gold he wants, aye— not to spend. Power he seeks, that’s his end. Map shows where, but not the way— Log keeps the curse and key at bay.” "The Captain warned of Flint's cruel art— Said dead men guard each treasure part." Ben laughed, a sound both high and mad: "Drunk men dig and bury bad! Traps need care, need sober hands— Flint's crew just dug in shifting sands." "Tide came in, tide washed away— Holes collapsed the second day. Jungle grows, jungle hides— Better than all of Flint's dead guides." We pressed through ferns that brushed my face, Ben cleared the path with practiced grace. "Your folk," he said, "some wait for you? But is there one who waits most true?" I thought of Doctor's steady hand, Of Redruth's watch, his rifle's stand. But then—a flash, a hearth, a door— "My mother waits upon the shore." Ben stopped and turned, his eyes gone soft— "Your mother lives? Ben thought her lost. Most mothers gone, fade or die— Jim's mother strong? She makes Jim cry?" "Not cry," I said, though throat felt tight, Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage Third Movement Passage 8 Canto 16 The Boy who returns 3 of 5 "Just—ache, I think, both day and night. The Benbow burned. My father died. She stayed alone with ash and tide." "The Squire swore he'd build it back, But only if—" my voice went slack. Ben finished soft, "If gold be found. Your mother's fate, treasure-bound." I nodded once, the weight pressed down— "She thinks I'm safe in Bristol town, Aboard a ship with gentlemen fine, Not running from a killer's line." Ben sat upon a fallen log, His face half-hid by morning fog. "My mother made me goat-milk cheese, And sang me songs beneath the trees. "A cottage small, with chickens near, Ben fetched the water, calm and clear. She kissed my head each morning bright— Then Flint's black ship came in the night." His voice had dropped its singing tone, For just this once, he spoke alone: "She screamed. I heard it from the hold. They laughed and said she'd soon grow cold. "Three years Ben's wondered—does she weep? Or did the grief just steal her sleep? Does she still wait beside the door, Or did she know Ben was no more?" I gripped his arm, no words would come— What could I say? The harm was done. But Ben just smiled, a broken thing, "That's why Jim goes, where free birds sing." "Jim's mother waits, Jim can save— Can bring her gold from Flint's dark grave. Ben's mother lost, but Jim's remains— Worth all the blood and all the pains." "She'll ask about the voyage, Ben— About the crew, the ship, the men. How can I tell her what I've seen? The blood, the lies, the space between?" "Tell her truth, but tell her small— She needn't know the worst of all. Tell her Jim learned to tie a knot, And found a friend when hope was not." "Tell her Ben says: 'Jim's a son Worth more than all that Flint has done.' And tell her—" here his voice went thin, "Mothers' love is where we begin." Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage Third Movement Passage 8 Canto 16 The Boy who returns 4 of 5 "I swear it, Ben—I'll find my way Back to her side, back to her door. Your mother's lost, but mine can stay— I'll make it right. I swear once more." We walked in silence for a space, The jungle sounds took sorrow's place. But something shifted in my chest— A reason now to do my best. Not gold, not glory, not the Squire's demand— But to return to her warm hand. To tell her: "Mother, I came home. Not rich, but whole. No more to roam." Beneath the palms the pirates lay, Like broken dolls, their wits astray. “Silver’s kingdom,” Ben half-spat, “A crown of flies, A drunken mat. Dreams of gold, But drink their fill— sea will take when it will.” I counted men, then turned to Ben. "The ship's still moored beyond the fen. If I could reach her—cut the line— One rope, one chance, no signal sign— She’d sail away. The ship be mine!” Ben grabbed my arm, his grip like wire— "Jim's mad with courage, Brave with fire! But Jim—one boy, one ship, one rope? That's not courage— that's just hope!" "Ship needs hands, needs twenty strong— Jim would drown before too long. Better plan: cut her loose, let wind decide her final use." "Don't sail her, Jim— just set her free! She'll drift away from pirate's plea. Then Jim climbs down, comes back to shore— Alive to fight another war." "Ben's canoe," he said with pride, "Sits beached just past the fort's south side. Carved it slow from fallen tree, Three moons work now it's free. Rows like leaf, but holds a man— take it, Jim, for your plan."
October 24, 2025 at 5:24 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
Excited to announce that Gramarye The Journal of Fairy Tales, Fantasy, and Speculative Fiction @chicentreffsf.bsky.social has chosen to include three of my poems in their upcoming winter edition! Harkle, Darkle Liddle Spar, Barley Bidden Bain't No More, and The Counting Game! Honored!
October 14, 2025 at 7:08 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#Poetry #WIP I've been working on a cycle dealing with creation myths.
Page 1/2 ## What Light Remembers In the beginning, silence. In the silence, light. From the light, a longing— to break the perfect night. She pulled a piece of shadow from her shining breast. The shadow coiled and quickened; forgot that he was blessed. "I am the only maker! I am the only god! This darkness is my kingdom, this emptiness my rod." 2/2 He carved a world of hunger, he built a house of bone. He trapped the light in bodies, and claimed them as his own. But light remembers light, and sparks remember home. The prisoners hear whispers of a place beyond the dome. The maker’s world is passing. The cage will crack and fall. The sparks will rise like starfire and burn away the thrall. Then silence will be singing— the light will call us all. J.D. River
October 7, 2025 at 10:22 AM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#PoemsAbout #Mannequin #Alliteration Some might note the similarity to modern constructs. This is entirely poetically coincidental and in no way is meant as an indictment. I would love further comment, @alanparrywriter.co.uk and anyone!
## The King on His Chair Jordan D. River The gilded chair is built to shine—its rot beneath unseen. His servants bow with practiced awe as though he were a king. They stage their silence, tilt the light, and buff the tarnished gold while he—a hollow mannequin— revives the myths he’s told. Below, the market stalls grow bare; the brickwork sheds its skin. The bells ring not for joy or trade, dull echoing within. The baker burns the daily bread—the miller sleeps till noon; the weight of want has bent the world and darkened all its tunes. He fancies himself fierce, a proud, fantastic beast, but his roar is a creaking cough, a tremor from the least. The great halls echo with his pride, a hollow, humming sound, built on borrowed, brittle stone on quickly crumbling ground. He holds his scepter like a crutch, his movements strained and slow; a porcelain patriarch whose lies will crack and break. He speaks of strength but his own breath is short, a hurried pant, a man of paper, past his prime, who plays the aspirant. The mirror on the wall, so loyal, shows him what he wants to see: a strongman, not a brittle thing, a monument to be. But truth is not a magic trick, and time will not be told. The pendulum will swing and find him waiting, slow and old. The lights stay lit in palace halls though no one dares to dance; a thousand watchers—silent, still—frame his every stance. He thunders not from passion, but from scripts the court has penned— a ruler made of uproar whom the actors must defend. Perhaps he dreams of rising still, of thunder yet to wield, Not seeing that the sword he holds is bent and cannot shield. Or maybe he too hears the sound of soil shifting deep and waits with cracked composure for the end he cannot speak. He and his ghoulish cronies, their hollow laughter thin, will live to see the turning tide begin to wash them in. And in the cold, clear light of morning when the show is done, they'll find their golden kingdom just a whisper of the sun. The whispers swell in cellar dust where root and rust conspire— beneath the golden ceilings lies a floor of buried fire. The past is patient, coiled and cool, but every clock will chime and kingdoms forged on brittle truths collapse in borrowed time.
October 5, 2025 at 5:29 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
2nd part of Canto 15. Scroll back for the first part and way back for the beginning of #TreasureIsland Alt text and linked to the other Cantos this time.
Canto 15 4 of 6. Scroll back one post for the first 3. But something stirred within that night— A secret sealed, a hidden task. He dipped the curds as if it were A wooden bowl, plain, common, poor. No boast he gave, no gleam he sought— As if the gold meant less than naught. "I'm a goatherd’s son, from a place far small. Never knew the sea, never heard its call... till a black ship came, with a thunder sound— took Ben Gunn, from his own safe ground." "Twelve years old, when Flint got hold. Twelve years old, and the soul felt cold. Flint didn't need cooks, needed men who bled. Cabin boy's work? Fetch rum for the dead." I reached to take the cheese he cut, And saw the firelight catch the glut— A goblet turned, its rim all gold, Yet held no wine, no wealth, just cold. The food was plain, but eased my chest, The fire's glow gave room for rest. And in that light I saw him clear— A boy like me, held trapped by fear. His grin was wide though teeth were thin, His laugh rang out from deep within: "Two boys alone but bound by sea— Flint made ghosts of them and me. You've got his map? You've got his curse— but Ben's got knowledge, Ben's got worse." "The Fist still burns in living hands— but Ben knows all of Flint's dark plans." The fire leapt high at Flint’s dread name, Then guttered low when Ben went on. His voice half-song, half-shadow’s claim, Till I could scarcely tell what shone. “Flint was master, Flint was flame— sang his murder, sang his shame. Six men digging, moon so round— six men bleeding, in the ground.” Ben sprang up, his shoulders square, A stick in hand, a captain’s air. He stamped the stone with sudden might— The cave walls shook with ghostly fight. 5 of 6 The fire leapt, the shadows grew, Men with spades took shape in hue. Their arms swung hard, their backs bent sore, I swore I heard the spades once more. “Dig, my bullies, dig it deep— gold to guard and bones to keep! Sing, my bullies, sing and sweat— grave’s the last share you shall get!” The shadows made a ghastly show— On stone they danced like blood and flame. I heard the spades, the muffled woe, And saw the terror in his frame. I pressed back close against the wall, My breath was caught, my heart felt small. It seemed the dead were digging near, And Flint’s mad song was all I’d hear. “Flint kept logbook close to breast— map for sailors, log for rest. Gold was curse and Flint its priest— all who served him fed the beast.” The shadows faded, fire grew still, Ben saw my face go white and chill. He dropped the stick, his voice went small— "Ben scares himself with Flint's dark call. "Stories grow teeth in island night— but morning comes, and sets them right. Just shadows, Jim, just Ben's mad talk— fire makes ghosts where dead men walk." The fire sank low, its coals half-dead, Yet still they glowed with inward heat. Ben stretched and laid his bony head Upon a coil of rope and reed. He yawned, then grinned—his teeth all gaps, His hair a nest of leaves and string. He cracked a shell, then tapped my cap, And laughed as if at some grand king. “Jim’s a captain, hat so proud— Jim will shout his orders loud. Ben’s the cook, and Ben’s the crew— Jim sails off with Ben’s canoe.” He set a shell upon my head, “Captain Jim!” the wild boy said. I laughed so hard I near forgot The blood, the map, the haunted lot. I laughed despite the weight I bore— The sound rang strange, but sweet, at last. 6 of 6 The cave, the fire, the island’s lore— All softened by that moment passed. For just one breath, the cave was play— Two ragged boys who’d lost their way. “Sleep, young Hawkins, sleep and stay— Silver’s hunting can’t find way. Night has teeth, but Ben has fire— sleep, young Hawkins, sleep, don’t tire.” "Ben gets lost in Flint's old song— but you're here now, and night's not long. Morning brings the simple things— goats and cheese and what Ben sings." The crickets sang, the jungle breathed, The sea still groaned beyond the stone. I closed my eyes, half-grieved, relieved— Less frightened now, and less alone.
September 26, 2025 at 5:09 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
This canto is so long it has to be split into two posts.
#WIP #Poetry
#TreasureIsland A Rhythmic Voyage
Third Movement, Passage 8 Comrades in the Caves
Canto 15 Boy In The Shadows
Jim, on the run, finds a surprising new ally.
Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage Third Movement Passage 8 Comrades In The Caves Canto 15 Boy In The Shadows Through branches thick, I forced my flight, Each vine a claw, each root a bite. My breath was fire, my chest a drum— I crashed through green and would not come. Then from the dark—a sudden shape, Half man, half beast, in rags of cape. His hair was wild with twigs and shells, His face carved thin by island hells. Cord strung with bones hung round his throat, His skin burned dark as copper coat. I stumbled back—my legs near broke, My throat half-closed, no breath, no spoke. He raised one hand, not claw, not knife— But something still that hinted life. His voice came high, a reedy sound, Yet rough with years of haunted ground: "Saw you running, heard you breathing— Silver's cutting what he's needing." I stumbled back against the tree— "You know of Silver? How can this be?" My chest near burst, I could not stand No safe place in this haunted land. "Easy, easy— Silver's poison, but Ben's harmless, Ben's your choice, son. Three years hiding from his blade— Three years learning what he's made." His ribs stuck sharp beneath his shirt, His feet were bare, both scarred with dirt. A lad near-grown, all bone and skin, Not much older than I had been! Yet when he spoke, the shadows bent, As if the jungle gave consent. The fear still shook me, but his tone Was gentle, not like Silver's stone. "Who are you? How do you know The man who struck that deadly blow?" He laughed—a sound half-sweet, half-mad, Then dropped to sit, no longer bad: "Ben Gunn's my name, Ben Gunn's my calling— Flint's old cabin boy come falling. They left me here when sails drew on— three years alone, three years gone." "You saw him kill the gentle lad— lad was good, Ben was sad. Silver's got plans, Silver's got schemes— Silver kills boys and their dreams." 2 of 6 I found my voice, though thick with dread: "I'm Jim. Jim Hawkins," I said. "Silver smiles, but not for long— I’ve seen his kindness turn to wrong." Ben tilted close, his eyes grew bright: "Jim like the jay, Jim like the wren— Jim needs shelter, Jim needs Ben. Come quick away, come quick and follow— Silver hunts deep, Silver hunts hollow." "A boy who sees is rare as gold, Most are blind till they’ve been sold. Keep those eyes, lad—sharp and true— They’ll guard your heart, they’ll carry you." He rose and beckoned through the green, His movements quick, his purpose keen. "The cave's not far, the cave's well-hid— Ben's kept safe what Flint forbid. Fire and fruit and goat's sweet cheese— Come away, Jim, come find peace." Through twisted root and hanging vine, Ben led me by a path divine. His bare feet found what mine could not— Each stone, each turn, each shadowed spot. The jungle whispered as we passed, Its secrets held, its die well-cast. Ben moved like wind through leaf and fern, While I could only stumble, learn. "See there the marks? see there the signs? Silver's been walking these same lines. But Ben knows places Silver can't— Ben knows the island's sacred cant." We climbed through moss and dripping stone, through jungle paths thick with loam. A cave mouth gaped like hungry maw, With shadows deep and filled with awe. The cave mouth narrowed, damp with moss. Inside, the walls were black with smoke. A driftwood fire caught, then tossed Its sparks like stars, as Ben half-spoke. “Here’s Ben’s palace, here’s Ben’s keep— safe from danger, safe for sleep. 3 of 6 Three years building, three years gone— Ben still sings, though all else’s done.” The entrance small, but deep within I glimpsed a world that might have been— A castle built of driftwood logs, Of shells and rope and island bogs. He struck the flint; the branches caught. The fire flared wide, then burned to red. And in that glow the cave revealed More secrets than his words had said. "Sit you down and take your rest— Ben will bring his island's best." Behind him, shadows stretched like doors, Dark tunnels carved in rock and time. They reached away through unseen floors, Like roots that burrowed, deep, sublime. At first I thought them only stone— Just caverns cut by wind and tide. But gleams of gold in firelight shone— A curve, a shine he could not hide. A cup half-buried in the sand, A plate pressed flat against the wall. He set his food with careless hand Within a silver, tarnished bowl. No word he gave, no boast, no claim— The goblet held his goat’s milk plain. But still I knew the shapes by name, And shivered at the thought of gain. He cracked a crab upon the stone, And pressed a slab of goat’s white cheese. He laughed to see me gag and groan— “Island’s bounty, Jim! Try, please!” “Fruit from shadow, meat from sand— fire by night, goat by hand. Silver feasts on blood and lies— Ben eats truth, and goat that cries.” I chewed the cheese, its sour bite Like salt rubbed raw upon my tongue. But something in his laughing light Felt closer than the men I’d sprung. “Island’s pantry, strange but true— gives old dishes, gives old brew. Ben eats well where Flint would feast— goats don’t care for gold in least.” He laughed, and stirred the embers bright. I dared not press, I dared not ask.
September 26, 2025 at 5:09 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
I finished this for #PromptCombo #history Thanks Paul.
@thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
This #WIPWednesday @alanparrywriter.co.uk is one of the poems in what's either going to be a new large collection or possibly a cycle. Right now its just notes other than this and a handful of connected poems.
I Have Turned Too Long - J.D. River I was old before your fire caught, Before you knew the names of thought. I spun the clay. I ground the grain. I bore your joy—I hold your chain. I turned for kings. I turned for dust. For thrones of gold and fields of rust. You dressed me up in rhyme and song— I turned. You cheered. You got it wrong. You call it birthright. I call it burn. You call it ending. I call it churn. “Turn, turn,” you say, “and break the past,” But I outlive what cannot last. You raise your fists and light the pyre— I turn again. I feed on fire. I turned for plagues, for popes, for steam, For noble truths and shattered dreams. You sing like this is something new— But I remember all of you. And still I turn, though weary grown, My spokes worn down by blood and bone. Yet even I may lose my grip— If one of you should let me slip. So turn me slow, or turn me not— For even wheels can lose their plot. And when I break—what then remains? A lullaby of rust and chains.
September 17, 2025 at 9:04 AM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
A little late on this #PoemsAbout #Candlelilght. I was thinking of holding it back and submitting to some #horror #Poetry market, but I woke up this morning with about 10 more ideas for cursed objects so this will be the seed of a new collection.
By Such Light J.D. River With fingers curled like clustered bones— still waxy, slack, yet not my own— the tallow sweats, each knuckle strains beneath its slow, reluctant flames which do not flicker, only fade then flare again with no wind's aid; a light that deepens every dark and stains the walls in hollow art as if the fire forgot its shine and burned to show what's left behind. Its skin is stiff, yet pliant still, a tendon bent against its will; each joint half-set, each hollow bare, a candle shaped by marrow’s care— the seams still sweat, the marrow seeps yet still each petal burning keeps a crooked bloom where nails should be, a flame that holds but is not free. I do not stir. I dare not breathe. The flesh is stiff, but writhes beneath. Its scent is copper-sweet with wax-rot tails and something caught beneath the nails that melts and blackens as cold flames flicker high and I can read the words thereby that of my history and past foretold beneath the light of burning mold. The book spread open on my lap begins to change beneath the flame. The ink drawn upward by this light then sinks again with shifting frame. The words don't move—but neither stay. They ripple like a hand submerged, their motion slow, and blind, and dead. The page is crooked now, and wet. The letters drip, they clench, they strain and cast a shadow not their own across the carpet, toward the door, where no one waits—but still I turn, convinced that something in the hall has bent to listen, just beyond the hush between the floorboards’ yawn. This rite (too quiet to be called a spell) is lit by more than flame. The flame itself is not quite right— not warm, not clean, not fully tame— it cups the shadows in its light, and when I shift it seems to follow, a blind eye set inside a palm that sees me when I look away. The house is still. Each bed breathes slow beneath its weight— as if their lungs were gripped in wax. No sound escapes. No footsteps fall. The hour holds its throat and waits. The air grows thick—a grave-rot bloom with hints of wax and laudanum— and I remember nights like this when I was younger, and afraid, though I no longer quite recall of what, or why, or whom I prayed to leave the candles burning low. I turn the page. My fingers shake. The light grows clearer as it dims. The words take hold. The lines obey. The shadows climb. The fingers twitch. The cipher yields—the binding breaks. A single word takes solid shape; the name I sought burns clear at last— the name to buy the silence back. The longest hour finally passed, I breathe again. The task complete. But still the price has not been paid. And still the hand does not retreat.
September 14, 2025 at 8:49 AM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#WIP #Classic #Poetry
Releasing a new Canto!
#TreasureIsland A Rhythmic Voyage
Third Movement, Passage 7, Canto 14 No Friend To Find
Jim witnesses an unforgivable act.
Treasure Island A Rhythmic Voyage by J.D. River. Third Movement The Island Cleaves Passage 7 Landfall! Canto 14 No Friend to Find 1/3 The green grew thick and held its breath, A wall of damp and shadowed grace. Each vine a coil of waiting death, That watched the clearing's open space. The air was wet with rotting leaves, A heavy scent of dark and mud. The jungle hummed with what it grieves, A whisper in its ancient blood. My boots sank deep in secret ground, Where ferns grew high like silent ears. No human voice, no human sound— Just dripping leaves and rising fears. Then came the grind of boat on shore, The scraping wood on stony land. Each pull a march, a coming war— A drumbeat laid by Silver’s hand. Then voices came, both sharp and clear, The distant calls of men at work. I heard the boatman's steady cheer, And there was Silver's ready smirk. He searched the shore with practiced ease, That crutch a metronome of lies. He’d know the jungle and the trees— And see right through a boy’s disguise. "Jim?" he called. The word slid wide— Like oil on water, slick and thin. The same kind voice that blessed the night, And set for me a friendly snare. I held my breath. I did not stir. A tremor danced along my spine. He wasn’t calling out for sure— Just weighing where I drew the line. He looked right past my hiding place, And waved a hand to Dick and Tom. I knew that smile. I knew that face. A serpent dressed in friendly calm. "Now where's young Hawkins slipped away?" Silver's voice stayed warm and light. "A lad like that—he loves to play— But jungle's dark. Best keep in sight." Dick shrugged and laughed, "He’s quick, that Jim— Slipped off soon as we touched the sand." "He’ll turn up when it suits his whim,” Said Tommy, crates still in his hand. He turned to Tommy, friendly grin, "You've sailed before? You know the sea?" His eyes stayed soft, his tone pulled thin— "What brings a Docker's boy like thee?" 2/3 "My brother sailed," Tom said with pride, "He serves aboard with honest hand. We work for bread, not gold or pride— Just simple folk from Docker's land." "And you, young Dick?" said Silver low, "You’ve got the look of lads I trust. The kind who know which way to go When gold and duty start to rust." Tom smiled, but Dick just scratched his head— "Don’t know ‘bout gold or captain’s grace. I’ll follow orders, earn my bread— As long as no one shows their face." Then—crack! A shot rang from the bay, A warning fired, or worse than that. The boys looked up, both pale and grey— Their cheer gone still, their voices flat. Silver turned, his crutch half-stalled, His shoulders stiff, his face gone hard. He spat, then barked a laugh that crawled— "The fools have forced my bloody hand." "My brother!" Tommy cried aloud, "He's loyal to the Captain's law! If pirates rise—" His voice grew proud, "He'll stand and fight for what he saw!" "We came for wages, nothing more— Not gold that's cursed with dead men's blood. Just honest work from shore to shore— The kind that lifts us from the mud!" Silver's eyes went cold as stone. His voice dropped low, the mask half-slipped: "Honest work?" A chilling tone. "Your brother's loyalty's been stripped." Then quick—before the boy could turn— His crutch swung hard, a brutal arc. No word, no cry, just bone that yearned For breath that vanished in the dark. I flinched—a breath I couldn't stop, A twig snapped sharp beneath my shoe. His head turned once, a slow half-hop— He knew. Or guessed. Or thought he knew. "Loyalty kills— Take your stand! Dead men float where living planned. Blood for blood and man for man— Join or die by Silver's hand!" Tom fell soft to muddy ground, His eyes still wide, his lips still red. Silver smiled—that gentle sound— "Poor lad just fainted. Nothing dread." 3/3 But Dick had stepped back, pale with fright, His hands shook like autumn leaves. "He's dead," he whispered. "That's not right— A man don't fall like that who breathes." "Come now, Dick—you've seen a fight. The lad will wake when air comes cool." His voice stayed soft, his manner light— But his eyes held death's cold rule. "Jim?" he called, too sweet, too near, His voice the same that taught me to sail. "Come now, lad. No need for fear— Let's walk a bit. Let's talk a tale." "Dick, my lad, he’s just ahead— A prank, no doubt, or boyish game. Go fetch him back, the path he fled— A friend like you can call his name." That voice—the same that taught me rope, Now dripped with Tommy's blood like rain. How could I trust? How could I hope? That man was gone. Just death remained. I could not move. I could not speak. The leaves pressed close like narrow bars. My breath came short, my limbs went weak— As Silver searched beneath the stars. "Jim?" His voice began to change, The honey turned to something hard. "Boy! Don't make me hunt your range— Come out now, or be on guard!" "Hide and seek won't save your skin! I’ve sniffed out boys through powder smoke. Don’t test my hand. Don’t hold it in. Come out before my patience broke.” My feet moved first—no thought, no plan— Just crashing green and clawing vine. I didn’t run like any man— I fled like prey past reason’s line. Each branch a whip, each root a snare, The jungle took my breath and skin. But fear was stronger than the air— And louder than the noise within. I crashed through fern and twisted root, The green a maze of claw and thorn. My shirt was torn, I'd lost a boot— But still I ran from what I'd born. Then from the green, a shadow stirred, Too tall for beast, too strange for man. I stopped—no breath, no thought, no word— And watched it rise from root and land.
September 13, 2025 at 2:21 AM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#WednesdayWIPs #PoemsAbout #PoetsOfBluesky #BlueSkyWriters

I'm working on two today. I'm about 3/4 done with the next Canto of Treasure Island but I don't want to share that just yet. Instead, this is from a folklore story cycle I am noodling over.
Screenshot of an unnamed poem in progress. Text reads: The stillness just before the reach. I am the frost behind your longing, the hush behind your speech. I do not ask. I only offer. I do not steal. I only trade. I give you need and give you means— a fair and measured blade. You may not see my shape or face, but you've known me all your days. I only feed on what you wish— I only walk the ways you clear with want, with aching hands, with eyes too full to rest. I only take what you would give in hope of getting best.
September 10, 2025 at 8:53 AM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#Promptcombo #ClocksTicking @dragonslayerma.bsky.social

This isn't brand new in response to this prompt. I've been working on this one for a while to get the soundscape right and it's close.
The Ticking Clocks of Wonderland
#Folklore #Poetry
## The Ticking Clocks of Wonderland ## J.D. River 1/2 In twilight’s hush when minds unweave, I walked where dreams and dusk deceive— A crimson watch, its face gone slack, Tick spoke of time that won’t come back. Its face was cracked, its hour hand bent, Each tick—a whisper, each tock—lament. A note enclosed, in fading ink: _"Find me, child. Before we sink."_ The watch beat faint against my palm Like something dying, far from calm. I turned—and mirrors grinned askew, Their silver smeared in seeping dew. A rabbit came, both bone and grin, Its hollow eyes drew shadows in. "She left us here," it spoke through rot, "The Queen, the land—we were forgot. But still she waits, though crown grows cold. Come quick, before her story's told." The watch ticked on—too slow, too loud— And drew me through the mirror’s cloud. We passed a pond of shattered glass, Where lilies wept in pools of brass. The air smelled sweet with rust and rain, And every tick called out her name. The trees grew hands with fingers thin, That trembled soft against my skin. They tapped in time with the watch’s beat— A rhythm meant to slow my feet. A workshop stood with shuttered door Where once the Hatter laughed before. His tools lay still, their brass gone green, The clocks bled ink where gears had been. The watch grew heavier in my grasp, Its ticking deepened to a rasp. The Cat appeared with wires for hair, Its grin a wound in open air. "Time eats flesh," it said in sparks, "It breaks all clocks, unseams all marks." I asked, "The Queen?" The Cat’s eyes gleamed— "She waits where morals once were preached. Her kitchen holds the path you seek— Though now her lessons make hearts bleak." The Duchess sat in kitchen bare, Her baby turned to stone and stare. "The Queen?" she asked with voice like rust, "She rules a realm of bone and dust. Go find her court, but mind this thread— Where she now walks, all joy is dead." Through croquet grounds of brittle bone, Where card-guards lay face-down, alone. The hedgehogs stiff, the mallets split— And every tick slowed bit by bit. At last I found her, hope defiled, A Queen enthroned in halls grown wild. Her heart was glass, her crown decayed, Her velvet voice in tatters frayed. "You—left us, child!" she barked through stone, "You dreamed us once, then left alone." Her voice cracked sharp, then fell to plea— "The realm grows thin… come back to me." "Take up the crown or all is shade," She said, her scepter trembling, swayed. I took the weight upon my brow, The thorns began their blooming now. The watch grew warm within my hand, Its ticking spread across the land. Not death, but pulse—a whispered claim, The dream returned… but not the same.
September 8, 2025 at 8:28 AM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
I'd love to have an expanded keyboard that could accommodate all the punctuation and letters and glyphs without the trickery.
Lon Chaney as the Phantom of the opera, playing madly at the keyboard.
September 7, 2025 at 9:33 AM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
My Word! The offerings in #PoemsAbout #Facade this week from everyone are fierce and it feels like the whole field leveled up. Fantastic work and great prompt @thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk
This is my entry.
The Grand Façade J.D. River The great grey building with its solemn face stands, a strong symbol, with its pillars proud. But paint now peels at a forgotten pace, and hidden hurts within like a cold cloud. In sculpted marble monumental lies that praise the past with promises of light, while deep inside the dust of old things flies through hollow chambers and the silent night. The polished columns, pearly in the sun, conceal a rot that ruins all within. The weary speeches, splendidly begun, are hollowed out by where they have been. The gilded dome, a glorious, golden lie, reflects the promise painted on the air. Yet in the shadow, bitter people cry, and silent hunger gnaws beyond compare. The marble halls echo with phantom pride, a former glory whispered, thin and worn. Beneath the floorboards, secrets slip and slide, and broken pledges gather, sad and shorn. The brave and bold, now broken on the ground, become mere names for monuments to sell. The fading anthem makes a brittle sound, a fragile tale that history must tell. The banners flap, a boastful, brilliant show, but catch the wind that whispers to the wall of shattered stories far beneath the glow, a former footing facing a slow fall. The doors are locked, the welcome mat is torn. Yet outside, flags on flagpoles stand so tall near a building quietly outworn and deafened by a distant, dying call.
September 6, 2025 at 1:49 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#WeirdMicro #MinistryOfGloam
#Poetry #Prompt
This is a bit rough but it certainly can go in my slush pile for later development.
## The Ministry of Gloam J.D. River In the halls of whispers, where the walls are pale, The Ministry of Gloam spins a fading tale. They polish the panes of a permanent dusk, And burn the bright words into scented musk. The clerks with their quills, their eyes like glass, Dutifully capture the moments that pass. They color the colors a shade of gray, And file away details of a brighter day. The sun is a myth, they politely proclaim, As they fan the embers of a dying flame. They sell the false solace of a softer low, Where nothing is fast, and nothing can grow. The people accept, like a tired tide, The subtle, slow darkness they're told to abide. They trade their sharp thoughts for a pleasing hum, And praise the dim world they have overcome. They speak of the truth in a muted tone, From a text of which only a few are known. But a child with a chalk, on the cobblestone square, Drew a forgotten sun with a burning glare. The chalk dust like ash in the gloaming light, Was not entirely erased by the night. The Ministry sighs, and its workers begin, To soften the edges, and smooth away sin.
September 2, 2025 at 9:42 AM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#WIP #WIPSNIP #Scrub

A snip from "The Mirror Wall" from my just finished chapbook Breaking Ground.
Screenshot of 3 stanzas of a poem. She asked aloud, "Who lives up there? Who takes the toys and climbs the stair?" The Phantom laughed and waved his hand— "Those are the best from all the land!" "If you work hard, and bow your head, Perhaps you’ll earn that life instead. So scrub and stack, and don’t complain— Your day will come, if you stay sane." And so the mirror stood in place, Reflecting joy on every face. But where once birds would sing and call, Now silence rings through metal tall.
August 29, 2025 at 12:24 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
Coming soon:
A modern myth in six poems: Breaking Ground traces the fall of a joyful world into control and silence—until a seed stirs beneath the stone and something forgotten begins to grow.

There are shockingly a few free copies of B&A left at smashwords with coupon T9VPK.
August 27, 2025 at 5:18 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#WIP #Classic #Poetry
Releasing a new Canto!
#TreasureIsland A Rhythmic Voyage
Third Movement, Passage 7, Canto 13 First Steps Ashore
They made it through the night, but this act can't last much longer. Jim ventures ashore.
Treasure Island: A Rhythmic Voyage by J.D. River Third Movement: The Island Cleaves, Passage 7: Landfall!, Canto 13: First Steps Ashore 1/4 The hammock swayed, but sleep won't come. Each creak spoke Silver's hidden name. The ship felt small, the air felt numb— And nothing looked or felt the same. Above, the watch called out the hour, Below, the galley sat in shade. I climbed again to crow's nest tower— To flee the choice that I had made. I pulled the Fist from shirt and seam, Its edges soft with sweat and wear. The island rose like Flint's own dream— Three hills that clawed the morning air. I spread the chart against my knee, The red ink matched the rising sun. Each mark, each line, each cursed tree— The map showed what he'd killed and won. Spy-Glass Hill thrust sharp and high, Mizzen-mast broad, Forecastle round. The crosses bled beneath my eye— Where dead men's gold lay buried ground. But Silver's voice still rang below, His laughter mixed with orders barked. If he should climb—if he should know— The secret that these papers marked. I wrapped the log in oilskin tight And wedged it where no eye could pry. A grave above the sea and mast— A piece of truth too raw to lie. Dawn broke gray across the bay, The deck alive with restless sound. Men worked in silence, strange display— Each glance weighed what might be found. The jolly boats swung low and wide, Crates and barrels filled their hold. But something stirred beneath the tide Of normal work—a fear untold. The first boat rocked beside the rail, Dick Johnson climbed with eager eye. Silver called out, "Set the sail!" His laugh rang sharp against the sky. And there—was that young Tommy's face? A loyal man among the rest? If he could trust that Silver's grace Still held—then I could pass the test. The other boat had slipped away, Its wake still white upon the foam. I couldn't face another day Of waiting in this floating tomb. Treasure Island: A Rhythmic Voyage by J.D. River Third Movement: The Island Cleaves, Passage 7: Landfall!, Canto 13: First Steps Ashore 2/4 They know his plans. They say ‘not yet.’ The Captain waits. The Doctor thinks. But I can't sit and just forget— While Silver smiles and danger blinks. If Dick can go, then so can I. If Silver thinks I'm still his fool— I'll watch him close with my own eye, And play by no one else's rule. "Room for one more?" I called below, Dick turned with smile both quick and bright. Tom just nodded. He seemed to know The weight that drove me toward the light. Then Silver's voice cut through the air, His crutch tapped sharp against the rail: "Hold fast, young Jim! I'll meet you there— The next boat out won't dare to fail!" His smile was wide, his wave was grand, But something in his tone rang cold. The way he gripped his crutch in hand— Like secrets begging to be told. I caught the Doctor's eye at last, His face a mask of quiet dread. He knew the die that I had cast, But only shook his solemn head. I didn’t know if I was right. I only knew I couldn’t wait. If Silver smiled again that way— I’d bolt. I’d run. I’d call it fate. The boat pulled out, the ship grew small, The Doctor’s figure dark and still. I saw him watching, arms half-crossed— Like something dire had stirred his will "This island's fresh," said Dick, "you'll see— It's nothing like the tales they tell." He laughed too loud, then looked at me— As if he hoped it might be well. Young Tommy dipped his hand in foam, Then flicked the spray at Dick's red face. "Fresh water, lad—we'll drink like home, Not ship's beer sour in this place." The oars cut smooth through morning tide, Dick pulled with steady, measured stroke. "You ever been this far?" he cried, "From mother's hearth and chimney smoke?" I shook my head, but felt the thrill— Despite the fear that pressed my chest. A thousand miles from Benbow's hill, With boys like me, on stranger quest. Treasure Island: A Rhythmic Voyage by J.D. River Third Movement: The Island Cleaves, Passage 7: Landfall!, Canto 13: First Steps Ashore 3/4 "Look there," said Tom, and pointed wide, "That's farther than my father's been. He worked the docks his whole life's ride— But never saw what we have seen." The jolly boat scraped soft aground, Its keel half-sunk in reedy sand. The jungle stirred with insect sound— A greening breath, a waiting land. The shore was low, all mud and rot— No golden sand, no singing breeze. Just tangled roots, and biting flies, And mangroves reaching from the seas. Yet still—I stood on stranger ground. A world away from hearth and hill. A place where ghostly dreams were bound— And boyhood bent to iron will. We hauled the crates with careful grip, Two lads to each, and none too fast. Young Tommy grinned, “She’s quite the trip— I never thought I’d sail so vast.” He looked no older than myself, Still flushing when he missed a step. A laborer’s boy, all muscle, health— With none of Silver’s careful depth. And Dick, behind, was half in dream. He strained to lift a barrel’s side. “Gold’s out there, boys—or so it seems,” He said, his voice half thrill, half pride. “Enough to make us kings for life— Enough to buy the streets we walked.” But Tommy laughed, “Or buy a wife— If she don’t mind your sailor’s talk.” They bickered like a pair of brothers, A slap, a shove, then back to load. I smiled—how strange to find such others Here, where Flint had sowed his code. The jungle loomed with tangled eyes, But still the beach felt near and bright. The sea behind, the shore a prize— The kind that dazzles just from sight. I laughed—the first time in two days— At Tommy's joke about the mud. "At least," I said, "in all these ways, We're knee-deep in adventure's flood." Dick grinned and splashed a bit of brine, "Adventure, aye—and soggy boots!" For just one breath, the world felt fine— Three lads among the twisted roots. Treasure Island: A Rhythmic Voyage by J.D. River Third Movement: The Island Cleaves, Passage 7: Landfall!, Canto 13: First Steps Ashore 4/4 I caught my breath. I looked away. The boat pushed off, our work was done. The second boat was underway— And in it, Silver, marked by sun. My hands still raw from rope and crate, I felt the jungle at my back. One step—no plan—I slipped away, Between the trees, no turning back
August 24, 2025 at 2:17 PM
jordanriverwrites.bsky.social
#PoemsAbout #WorkInProgress #Woods #WednesdayWIP #Folklore Not to brag about procrastination, but I've so many unfinished/unpolished bits. I've been trying to finish Hop A Peal for a long time now and I keep revising certain poems. This is Little Red's Teeth, one of it's many poems.
Little Red's Teeth by J.D. River 1/2 The Wolf lay still, his body torn, His breath was gone, his fur was worn. And yet his shadow did not fade, It curled beneath the trees and stayed. Her fingers pressed against the bite, A half-moon red, too small, too slight. It did not burn. It did not weep. It pulled beneath her skin, too deep. The trees leaned close. The air grew thin. The path behind unraveled in. The woods were dark. The woods were wide. She did not wait. She stepped inside. The door swung wide, the floor lay bare, No fire burned, no breath was there. The bed stood neat, the chairs stood tall— She was alone. Or was she at all? A thread ran loose along the floor, It whispered past the open door. The wind ran fingers through her hair— A hand that touched, but was not there. Her teeth clenched tight. Her hands held still. The hush ran thick. It took its fill. She closed her eyes. She did not cry. Her ribs unlatched. Her breath ran high. Her bones unspooled, her skin unspun, Her nails curled sharp, the stitch undone. Her breath ran deep, her throat ran wide, Her hands let go. Her hands untied. The hunger stretched, but not with pain— It curled and pulled, it called her name. She bared her teeth. She knew the tune. The spindle turned beneath the moon. Little Red's Teeg by J.D. River 2/2 She did not fear. She did not hide. The loom had spun. The thread was tied. A second birth—a body new. She smiled sharp. She saw the truth. The Hunter’s steps were firm and slow, His rifle high, his voice hung low. “I know what’s here. I know what stays.” She grinned. “Then, Hunter, turn away.” The Wolf’s long shadow curled at her feet, It rose and twined where heartbeats meet. It slid up her spine, it breathed in her ear— A shape of hunger he could hear. His hands went still. His aim grew slack. He swore he saw the forest’s black Flow from her eyes in a molten thread— Not just the girl. Not just the dead. His bullet flew, the barrel smoked, The forest rang, the branches choked. The woods drank deep the ringing squall— The shadow swelled. She did not fall. The Hunter breathed. He blinked. He swayed. The shot was true. And yet she stayed. Her smile was sharp, her gaze was near— And something else was smiling here. She stepped ahead. The shadow spread. The earth leaned close. The Hunter fled. The wind went still. The thread unties. The Wolf and Red walked side by side. The woods are kind. The woods are fair. The woods take all, but leave some spared. The trees drink blood, the roots run deep. She smiles. She feeds. The woods still keep.
August 20, 2025 at 12:06 PM