Author: Harlan Didrickson

I first started writing this blog as a way to refocus my thinking after a debilitating mental breakdown in 2008. Having been educated in writing, I had hoped that my love for words would have left a trail for me to follow and, well, here we are.

Maybe? (for Arturo)

~ Harlan Didrickson 
I admit that I 
have been drinking but 
I
have
met a guy 
I
put
him through paces
that
would have rattled
but
him no
he stood
up and now after 
I’m
left to
wonder whether this
or anyone really is
was oh fuck really is
was
a mirage

YouThere

~ Harlan Didrickson 
As I sit and 
smoke my cigar watching 
the sunrise I wonder 
if this is genuinely 
all that there is 
me a cigar and 
a sunrise and then 
I remember that I 
left you there upstairs

PartsOfHearts

~ Harlan Didrickson ~ 2 Comments 
I have found that 
the part of my 
heart that I give 
to friends is different 
than the part I 
give to lovers the
part that I give 
to lovers is attached 
to my eyes and 
my mouth and the 
part of my heart 
that I give to 
friends is connected to 
my ears and arms 
And sometimes only sometimes 
it all just comes 
beautifully and wantonly together 
and I completely disappear

Cliff

~ Harlan Didrickson 
He came and went 
with kisses in between 
but even flesh and 
desire and passion couldn’t 
bridge our gap not 
even sweat and spit
mixing could fill the 
gaping holes of the 
truth we were strangers
climbing the same cliff 
grabbing onto the other 
not to help but 
to ascend to get 
somewhere not near but
above the clouds and 
the ahhh of triumph
and the closing of 
doors and the chill
of the sweat and 
spit and me still 
there on the cliff
alone clinging wondering having 
never reached the top

River

~ Harlan Didrickson 
Oh why oh why 
do I keep going 
back to the same 
river bed knowing that 
for a year the 
water hasn’t flowed there
and what once cold 
and clear and filled 
with waves and serenity 
now lays dry and 
barren what oh what 
do I hope to 
find there as it’s 
now not a river 
but a bridge leading 
nowhere I do remember 
coming here when young
and wading through waxy
reeds into thigh-high water 
to catch a glimpse 
of the life beneath 
and yet and now 
nothing not even my 
youthful reflection nay the 
river still reflects now 
the rocks being me