3 poems by Rickey Rivers Jr. “Sour Cup of Us” “Living in the Past” “The Thing about Us”

white ceramic mug on white table
Sour Cup of Us
Akin to lemons from a seed
The sourness apt
Therefore we are strained

No bond here, only slices of couple
Two halves lay, a quiet yellow

Mince
Mix it all together
A nice cup, both of us entangled

Can't last much longer, this boil soon steams
We go up together, a half sick dream

Living in the Past

If history has taught me anything
It's that you'd be hated for anything
Beyond norm
Beyond complexion

History goes forward
Only bits change

Brutality is the constant

We pretend
We ignore
We move on

What a constant.

The Thing about Us

That's the thing about us
We will never be one again

That story is long gone.
That right is long wrong.

This book of lies divides.
I thought it truth
No title, just dates.

Every chapter opens eyes wider
The vise around my heart tighter

Tears hit the page
Making life blur

Fears into rage
Does the ink fade?


Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Rickey Rivers Jr.

Poems from Fevers of the Mind Anthologies by Rickey Rivers Jr.

Paper, Ream, Stack, Tiered, White, Note
Letter

I found your letter.
I thought you were feeling better.
Had I known you were still down
I would have stuck around.
Had I known you were in pain.
I would have...
I don't know.
How could I force you not to feel low?
I've never been through
What you've gone through.
So how could I know how far you would go?
I'll not worry about blame.
It's not your fault.
It hurts to even say your name.
So, I won't.
I'll leave you in the past.
But some things linger.
The good times and the bad, all the fun we had.
Memories float.
I wish I'd spoke to you before you wrote the letter.
And not say that things would change for the better.

This is Only a Peak

This is only a peak

Trust the owls.
They are binding, as is the liquid that steams in day.

Drink.

Rise above.

Reach the clouds.

See the rain down.

Sweep slowly as the band plays blissfully.

Suit and tie protection futile.

Exploding, yet the way is laid.

Crawl over the couch, a final breath serenade.

The room is the last color seen.

Dance.

Don't simply sit.

Dance.

Compressing Cloud

The cloud comes in many forms.
It makes you ponder what ifs?
It makes you consider regrets.
It makes you unappreciative of the present.
You become a mess of "I should have" and "Why did I...?"

It squeezes you into mush, a crinkled picture of your former self.

The bed is so much safer than the world.
It comforts, suffocates in a different way, coddles.
It could almost be your final resting
if you allowed its privilege.

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Rickey Rivers Jr.

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Rickey Rivers Jr.

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Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. His work has appeared in Sage Cigarettes, Crepe & Penn, Hell Hued Zine (among other publications). Twitter.com/storiesyoumight His third mini collection of 3×3 poems is available here:
https://payhip.com/b/1Z6g

A Poetry Feature for Rickey Rivers Jr

Glassy Houses

Pour yourself a glass of eyes.
See how swiftly you move to dramatics?
Saw how slippery you were and used that to slice you open.
Funny how broken we are.
Even our houses are made up of oddities.

Oh, I know how silly it must seem to be who you are yet still – not be seen.
Perceptions are everything and superficial.
Officially be direct.
Stick it to social expectations.
Then you can see yourself in the shards.

Closed Mouth Thoughts

The truth isn’t wanted.
Some prefer a sweet lie.
It’s easy to die.
It’s much harder to try
and convey
how you feel everyday.
Without sense of doubt
you feed a shut mouth.

You Try Hard to Hurt

I am not shocked.
Your behavior doesn’t surprise.

You are watching me walk
away.
Keep the talk.
I won’t listen.

I move in strange rhythms, steady within chaos.
The back stabs don’t hurt anymore.

No fresh wounds, expected, yet pain rejected.

You thought you were clever yet surprise only yourself.

I laugh a lot loudly.
I laugh a lot proudly.

Baby Bird

A baby bird jumped across the grass.

I came so close.

I couldn’t believe it let me.

In the moment of then I wish to return, so close to nature, the beauty of then.

Simplistic moments are to be cherished, remembered.

A baby bird so young and free, hopping from here to there,

allowance of observation, as if knowing I would not interfere.

I did not.

Simply, I enjoyed the hop: a small bit of peace in a chaotic reality.

Anonymous Somebody

To be anonymous and adored, self-esteem has taken hits.
I’m bored.

A cord cutter yet tied to the net.
Lines to you extended contain lies I haven’t wrote yet.
Forgive.

I wrote a lot about the outfitters, the house sitter.
The kid and the carriage I carry.
I’m pretty pitiful.

Don’t pity me though.
I do that enough, a shell of myself in a shell of myself.
Wait!
Don’t go.

I say that a lot.
I shovel the dirt and lie in the grave.
Surely you can see me peeking out from the cave?

From your standing which do you assume?
Am I the bride?
Am I the groom?

Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Rickey Rivers Jr.

photo by melethril on unsplash