L.R. Harvey Poetry

November Plastic flowers fill a vase                                                        And wordlessly taunt the blue petunias                                 Scattered throughout the little yard;                                      “It’s oh-so-warm in here!”                                              They face                                   The kitchen window, watching a few of                                The dainty flowers taste the harsh                                        Reality of Winter’s chill                                                          With purplish petals acknowledging                                      The end of warmth and dropping off                                     To meet the earth.                                “A shame!” they trill,                              “A shame to fall from freezing,”                   mocking                             The cobalt flowers flecked with frost.               

Teaching Poetry He says he wants for once to write it right, to find the perfect puzzle piece that completes the incompleteness of his thoughts.                                                             “It’s a feat,” I tell him, “a wondrous work of words to write a poem worthy of the muse; to find the lines that adequately scratch your itch to speak, to find the slipper that fits the dancing feet that whirl around your mind. I motion him to my desk and point along the wall to the wastebasket piled high with crumpled sheets.                                     “If you want to say it right,” I tell him, “you'll need to learn to write it wrong.”

The Charge of the Brown Brigade Like so many lemmings blindly leaping To join a game of follow-the-leader, Every year around October They decide to descend, all sweeping Down on an evening breeze.            The first, The frailest, leads this charge of the brown Brigade with scarce a single sound, And silently, as though rehearsed, They follow, whispering down the wind To scrape the Autumn dirt.          “It’s as if They share a common mind, as if They think as one.”         I notice then The troubled look on the freckled face Beside me.        “But Ms. O’hara says We’re not to follow the crowd. She says To be yourself.”   I gently mess The auburn hair and watch the leaves Come circling down from overhead. “Your teacher’s right.” A burnished red Has blanketed the house’s eaves.      “But still,” I say in a subtler tone,      “We weren’t created to age alone.”