Jordan D. River

@jordanriverwrites

Pericollapse poet/author. Game/Book reviews. I write short stories, essays and novel mostly in verse across genre, but typically horror adjacent. Check media tab for latest from me. Buy my ebooks at

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Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· 24d

A jaunty worm in a red scarf from Labyrinth.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· 29d

The weather today in Barking Waters, Great Plains is weirdly eldritch. Fog thick enough to swim through with a suffocating humidity that makes breathing a struggle. Simply bonkers. Phone cams can't capture mist and fog well. This is thick, 4 feet in front of me.

A picture of a backyard leading off into a field. Lush verdant vegetation. A thick fog clouds the scene.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Jul 1

Knowing a heat wave was coming on, I made 2qts of raspberry shrub on Sunday and just racked it today. Delicious in seltzer or ginger (ale or beer) 1:7. Excellent hydrator and easy to make. 1:1:.25-1 of vinegar, muddled fruit and sweetner (to taste). 3 days in fridge, then strain and rack for mixing.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Jun 2

Difference Clouds in Black, Gray, White and Purple, the ace colors.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· May 23

#ShamelssSelfpromo did you say? How about an #AceRomance? Greatest romance ever written, in verse. #Poetry. thebooklist.co/books/not-a-...

Snippet of the poem "The Turn in the Yard" from the award awaiting lyrical novella "Not a Rival, a Translation"

The words came
before I could make them better.

“Move things toward you.
Answer before you ask.
Stand too near.
Make one work
of what is yours.”

My throat closed
on the rest.

I swallowed it.

“I will keep to my side.”

You were quiet so long
I heard the pump chain
knock once
against the post.

Then you said,
“That is not what I asked.”

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· May 13

If you are so inclined: #Poetry jordanriverwrites.itchiio.com I have two others in the ADU and another Elsewhere collection in the wings. This will finally be the year I break the ceiling and make it big! Nothing can go wrong <steps into empty street>

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· May 6

#Poetryprompt #heatwave This was fun.

Screenshot one of two from editor of poem called Eight Minutes.

Eight Minutes

The heat presses, a velvet iron
laid flat against my skin—
not burning, but claiming,
slowly melting the boundary
between flesh and air.
Each pore opens like a mouth,
and sweat rises, silver-thin,
a fleeting river tracing collarbone,
temple, spine.

It left before I woke.

For one brief second the sweat cools—
a traitor's kiss,
evaporating before the sun
can steal it back.
I breathe fire.
I stand inside the furnace of July,
alive, glistening,
a candle already lit.

Screenshot two of two of poem called Eight Minutes.

Somewhere, glass softens in its frame.
Asphalt exhales, then lifts.
The birds went first—
a silence so complete
it took a moment to notice
the shape it left behind.

Then the true wave arrives—
not wind, not heat, but the sun
coming apart at its own seams,
crossing ninety-three million miles
of absolute nothing
to find me here,
skin still damp,
watching a building
lose its edges
the way sugar does in rain—

and the last thing
is light,
not seen
but worn.

You should praise this poem and send the poet accolades and cash.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Apr 30

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Apr 24

Not for nothing but Stanley Tucci? Yeah, he could get some.

Stanley Tucci in a still from the series Citadel. Looking pretty rough, holding a gun pointed slightly off frame at viewer. Yummy.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Apr 17

#WIP #Poetry #Horror #Bliss

Screenshot of a portion of the poem The Shore by J.D. River

Then it found the hollow of my shadow in the tide-pool,
shimmer, weightless, viscous gold
that clung to my boot like an invitation long awaited.
I tried to shake it loose, of course—
a small, reflexive courtesy to my old form—
but the movement only opened the seam at my cuff,
where the wool met the calf, warm and ready.

It did not bite. It slicked.
It moved upward with the patient grace
of a rising tide that already knows the shore is hers.
My scream rose—brief, almost polite—
and my free hand reached to brush it away,
but my fingers sank into a heat too deep for summer,
a pulse too slow and generous for ordinary life.
It felt like touching the center of a dream
the world had been saving just for me.

The struggle was brief and tender,
my body still remembering its old habits of form.
I tore at my clothes, weeping softly
as the gold reached the hollow of my throat,
but even the tears felt like preparation—
salt returning to salt, resistance softening
into the first delicious yield.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Apr 11

You must be 18+ to read this screenshot: #Poetry #WIP #CosmicBliss #CosmicHorror

screenshot of a text editor. Two stanzas of an unidentified poem:

I knew him at once for an angel.
His wings were not feathers but apertures—
a thousand soft mouths opening and closing
in slow, approving rhythm, each one rimmed
with the same wet starlight that once moved
over the waters before the first word was spoken.
His face was so many faces pressed together,
all of them smiling the same small, patient smile.
When he spoke, the sound was not sound
but a pressure against the inside of my ears,
warm as breath against the neck in the confessional.

“Little brother,” he said, and the word slid
through the vow of silence I had kept for three years,
stroking every syllable until my tongue remembered
the taste of milk and honey from a life I thought forgotten.
I could not rise. My knees had grown roots
into the stone, and the stone had grown warm
as living skin beneath a lover’s palm.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Apr 8

#Poetryprompt #Eternity #PoetsofBluesky In one of my universes, seeking immortality is a bad idea in so many unique ways.

## The Second That Stretches
J.D. River
1/2

They told me it was immortality.
A vial, a draught, a whispered relic—
some quiet machine of eternity.

I took it the way drowning men take air.

At first, nothing happens.

The clock on the wall continues
its polite and provincial ticking.
Dust moves lazily through the windowlight.
The city outside breathes its ordinary breath.

Then the second…
lengthens.

Not slower—
but wider.

A single moment unfolds
like a cathedral made of glass and mirrors.

Within it I can see
every tremor of existence:
the crawl of mites beneath the wood grain,
the tectonic patience beneath the continents,
the silent mathematics of stars
preparing their funerals.

Time does not stop.
It opens.

The room dissolves first.
Buildings sag into their centuries.
Steel softens into rust.
The languages of nations age,
wrinkle,
collapse into footnotes.

Civilizations pass through me
like weather.

I watch libraries rot into soil.
I watch oceans redraw their coastlines
with slow, indifferent hands.

A mountain rises.
A mountain dies.

My heartbeat continues.

Soon the sky begins to change.

The moon wanders away from Earth
with the melancholy patience
of a drifting ghost.

The sun swells.

I watch forests ignite into atmosphere.
Seas boil into spectral memory.
The planet itself
becomes a red whisper of ash.

Still—
the moment had not ended.

Still—
I am breathing.

Billions of years fold inward
like pages in a burning book.

Stars bloom.
Collapse.

Whole galaxies burn through their youth
in the space of one breath.

Galaxies collide like slow thunder.
Black holes stitch the darkness together
with gravity’s patient needle.

I watch the constellations forget their names.

Light itself
began to grow tired.

Eventually there are fewer stars.
Then almost none.

The universe grows quiet in a way
no silence in human language
can describe.

I realize now
the cosmos was never silent.

It was singing.

And now
the last note is leaving.

## The Second That Stretches
J.D. River
2/2

It is not emptiness.
It is exhaustion.

Protons forget
how to remain protons.
Matter unravels its ancient agreements.
Even the black holes—those tyrants of gravity—
evaporate like breath on cold glass.

All structure softens into radiation.
All radiation relaxes into drift.

The last differences fade.
Nothing remains that can fall
into anything else.

And I—

still—

continue.

Still.

There are no clocks now.
No atoms left to measure them.
No space in the way we once understood space.
Only the thin, cooling afterthought
of existence itself.

And me.

A consciousness stretched across the final embers of causality.

I have watched everything end in a blink.

Every star.
Every particle.
Every story.

Time itself has forgotten how to move.

Yet something in the draught’s cruel mercy
keeps my perception alive
inside this final, frozen instant.

I thought eternity meant living forever.
But eternity, it turns out,
is simply being present
when the universe
runs out of things
to happen.

And realizing—
in the last immeasurable silence—
that even the void has no end
left to give you—

and no second
left
to end

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Apr 2

#Bookrelease #Poetry #WeirdFiction #Anthology 'Where the Weary Soul Sets Sail' gathers poems and tales of reverie, drift, longing, and dangerous beauty into a single haunted progression. Ebook available at retailers everywhere beyond the forest. (link updated) books2read.com/u/3kRAQK

Cover of Where the weary Souls Sets Sail by J.D. River. Cover image is Dore's A Voyage to the moon.

Backcover text of Where the Weary Soul Sets Sail.

There are visions that do not console. There are voyages that begin in wonder and end in surrender. On certain nights, the weary soul loosens from the ordinary world and finds beauty in drift, distance, and relinquishment.

In _Where the Weary Soul Sets Sail_, J.D. River gathers poems and tales by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Edgar Allan Poe, John Keats, Lord Dunsany, H.P. Lovecraft, Walter de la Mare, and Robert W. Chambers into a haunted progression of dream, passage, longing, and fatal repose. Rivers open onto impossible countries. White ships arrive from the edge of sleep. Music summons the listener onward. Silence becomes a form of judgment.

Part of the _Elsewhere Collection_, this volume offers a deliberately curated encounter with literature’s dream-voyages, fatal visions, and the dangerous sweetness of elsewhere.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Mar 30

Taking a day off the salt mines to proof the files on my next anthology (and to make a four hour round trip for a dentist appointment, god bless america) and I am so excited for this release. I put a ton of work into making a public domain collection a unique experience.

Print proof of the cover of Where the weary soul sets sail. A moody, dreamy feeling. Black dominates, but its a misty, foggy black. The front cover is Gustave Dore's A Voyage to to the moon, black and white drawing of a sailing ship sailing up into the sky to the bright full moon. It's quite good and you want to praise it and immediately purchase such a fine volume of public domain works and commentary.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Mar 22

Does this look like the cover of an anthology you might pause and look deeper at? I'm trying to figure out if the elements look better near the bottom or top and if the image full bleed or boxed on a blackground with text in the void.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Mar 5

After 8 years and more money than I care to admit, my nephew is going to clear out two storage pods I left up in Washington, Just small stuff, nothing too big, heavy or disturbing. I left instructions.

Checklist For Cleaning Out My Storage Pods

To my dear Nephew and his Mother. Here is the checklist for clearing out my storage pods. Please follow these steps in order to ensure the process goes smoothly.

Phase 1: Preparation and Sorting

1. Gather Supplies: Bring heavy-duty trash bags, cardboard boxes, packing tape, and work gloves. Ensure you have a truck with enough capacity to haul everything away in a single trip.
2. Initial Sweep: Snip the locks and open the door fully. Prop it open with a sturdy object. Do not let the door close behind you until you are finished.
3. Categorize: If time and inclination allows, create three piles: Keep, Donate, and Sacrifice. Be decisive.
4. Photographs: If you encounter old photo albums, skim them quickly. If you see a face in the background that looks exactly like yours, do not linger on it. Place the album in the Keep pile immediately. Do not meet its gaze.
5. Auditory Checks: You may hear scratching or scuttling sounds within the unit. This is likely due to settling debris or local wildlife. Do not investigate the source of the sound if it appears to be coming from inside the sealed box.

Phase 2: Containment

6. Locked Containers: If you find a locked box for which you have no key, do not attempt to pry it open. Place it in your closet. Do not move it again.
7. Mirrors and Glass: Wrap all mirrors in brown paper before boxing them. If you catch your reflection moving independently of your body, cover the mirror with a black cloth and leave it behind.
8. Timing: Cease all work exactly at twilight. Do not continue cleaning into the night. The lighting changes how the shadows fall, and some shadows may not belong to any object currently in the unit.
9. The Corners: Avoid looking directly into the upper corners of the unit for extended periods. Peripheral vision is sufficient for monitoring these areas.

Phase 3: Ritual and Reality

10. The Back Wall: As you clear items, you may notice the back wall is further away than it w…

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Mar 4

#WIPWednesday A bit of the Doctor's account of the thrilling escape from the mutineers of the Hispaniola. I've about 500 more words to write to complete the whole sequence up to Jim taking the tale back again. #Poetry #TreasureIsland

Excerpt from Treasure Island: A Rhythmic Voyage, Canto 17 Mutiny on the Hispaniola.

The second journey proved less merciful.
The mutineers had found their guns by then
and lined the ship's rail, firing as we rowed.

The Squire cursed with each ball that struck the boat,
his face gone pale beneath his sunburned pride.
But Smollett rowed with shoulders squared and sure,
as if the bullets were but summer rain.

I watched a ball punch through the gunwale's wood
not six inches from my hand, and felt
the surgeon's cold assessment take command:
the angle wrong for fatal wounds, the range
too great for accuracy—we'd live, most likely.

Another volley. Water leapt like fountains.
The boat lurched hard. The Squire dropped an oar.
I caught it, set it back into his hands,
and spoke as if we sat in drawing rooms:
"Pull steady, sir. We're nearly to the beach.
They're firing high. The panic makes them wild."

<!-- Closing (Lines 141-160): Reaching the Fort

Landing under fire, scrambling up the beach
First sight of the stockade (Flint's old defensive position)
The relief of walls, but also the realization: siege begins now
End with them raising the Union Jack
-->

We dragged the boat upon the muddy shore
and ran—though "ran" seems generous for men
burdened with powder, shot, and biscuit bags—
toward the stockade's rough-hewn palisade.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Mar 3

#Poetry #TimeAndMemory I've been thinking a lot lately about distraction vs novelty and how that leads to well known perceptions of time and memory as different. This is still a #WIP. The iron in the mold, to me, feels now like it comes out of nowhere although it arises from the imagery.

Screenshot of poem "Purchase" by J.D. River.

#NoveltyAndDistraction #ThoughtAndMemory
## Purchase

Skim-silver. The surface shivers, slick.
Hours hollow, a hum beneath the thumb.
No notch. No nail. No purchase on the plain.
Slippage. The clock consumes the cold count.
Dust on dust, the day dissolves unspooled.

Flint.
Fracture in the white wall.
Color cracks the case, cold and bright.
Root rips rock.
Heavy light locks hard.
Breath bulks, a boulder in the throat.

Smoke threads unspool, vanish in the vent.
The groove, the grind, the grit.
Iron cools in the mold.
Air thickens, holding the shape of the strike.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Jan 5

I received my copy of Gramarye in the mail Saturday. Look at how gorgeous it is! Thank you @chicentreffsf.bsky.social ! I devoured it all in one sitting. Everything about the production of this quarterly cries care and quality. The contents give me huge Imposter Syndrome feels. So good!

A book leaning against a laptop screen . Screen shows the Chichester Centre for fairy tales, fantasy and speculative fiction website. The book is the Gramarye ,Winter Journal 2025. If you zoom in really far you will see my name marring this beautiful cover.

A book held in hand, open to the page of the journal where my three poems start. Gramarye chose an excellent creepy front image for them and most impressively they got the font tricks of the first poem "The Counting Game" correct! It was risky sending that one but they handled it like pros.

Gramarye winter 2025 journal, open in hand to the other two poems I sent "Barley, Bidden, Bain't no More" and "Harkle, Darkle, Liddle Spar"

Table of Contents to the Winter 2025 issue of Gramarye. Incredible articles and poetry!

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Dec 23

#Poetry #Collapse It's been incredibly difficult to write anything the last few months.

Elegy for a Vanished Vocation
J.D. River
1/2

I lost my wage two winters past—
not the work, but the world that gave it shape.
A quarter-century in pursuit,
the second dream stitched from first’s ruin,
that too was taken.
Not by failure, but by slogans,
scorched by the first Great Culture War,
where the soul was fenced in,
parceled out in packets marked _progress_.
Not tenure.
No gold watch at dusk.
Just a hull—heart-oak and seasoned—
scuttled for the ledger’s cold demand.
The dry dock burned,
no new keel permitted.
I yielded,
as the shattered spar yields to the brine—
not with rage,
but with something like reverence.
I returned to a primary joy,
once cradled in younger hands:
writing—
not for wage, but for breath.
Poetry:
the one form still free of asking.
Music that requires no receipt.
Only witness.
I was made in the image of the Maker.
So I made.
I wrote like prayer,
like psalm,
like fire.
For two years, I sang in silence.
Forged syllables into salt and steam.
Built meaning from breath,
laid down language like planks.
But the world pays not for wordsmiths,
not now.
So I found a job again.
A role with currency.
A title.
A measure of esteem—
as defined by a machine.
And lo—
the words go silent.
The forge cooled
My days: devoured.
Energy: ash.
Even medicine arrives now
like alms from a faceless hand—
a gift from strangers
who do not knock.

"This is life," they say—
and shame me for grieving.
I used to be useful.
I used to be joyful .
I tried to return
but the world won’t let me
and it tells me I shouldn’t mind.
But I do.
I mind with every part of me
that was made to make.
Now I manage.
So I went searching for a bell—
not electric, just iron and rope.
The kind a monastery would know.
The kind that asks the air to listen.
Ten years ago: artisans, foundries, makers.
Now: three mirrored masks,
selling thirty bells
in infinite scroll.
Page after page:
not abundance—
_replication_.
I wanted one thing in particular.
The network gave me Everything,
which is Nothing.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Nov 7

I know I'm fanboying, but this made my day @oysterband.bsky.social

screenshot of a skeet showing Oysterband liking a post.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Nov 7

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

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Nov 7

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)

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Nov 7

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

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Nov 1

#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.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Oct 27

#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.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Oct 24

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.

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Oct 24

#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."

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Oct 14

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!

Jordan D. River@jordanriverwrites· Oct 7

#Poetry #WIP I've been working on a cycle dealing with creation myths.