L.R. Harvey Poetry

Lookout Mountain, GA The topmost curve around the crown went first: A patch, and then a lot, and then a lot more Gave way until the great bald head up-thrust Out of the Autumn valley.                                              The forest floor Laid visible, sprinkled about the mountain’s crown Sat huddled houses, nestled here and there In little clumps like freckled age spots around An aging head.                        The mountain's unblinking stare Looks out about the valley below, a grave Patriarchal presence watching his children at play. 

Traveler’s Tension "I know of nothing so lonely as adventure." - Ernesto "Che" Guevara  To wander and wonder: To feel the fierce Magnetic pull of the West and Other, And to hear the nagging call of the Road’s Beckoning yellow lines as they pierce Through life’s complacencies.                                                 I’ve known The strong allure to up and bother The trivialities of life, To pack a truck and drive to find The solace of life lived on the Road; To ignore the sickly safe advice Of plump professionals who drone That fulfillment means affluent lines Of work.               I’ve known this longing to leave. And yet to settle: To dig one’s roots Deep in the earth and build a home, To marry young and father sons And daughters that have her eyes.                                                          To pursue A stable career, and when I’m done, To rock and watch a setting sun Sink down beneath my ho

Waking, but Wondering Where Awakening to a dark and foreign room My eyes adjust, scanning the walls And floor in a desperate search for clues. The seconds fall     And fall     And fall, And for a second I’m convinced I’m in my childhood bed, the ticking Clock the racecar clock I’ve had since The day I turned six.            I hear its ticking, Ticking, ticking, with every tick The fogginess fading from my mind As I begin to wake.          I kick The covers and scan about to find Old Bristly Bear, who used to lay Beside my pillow to guard my head, Or G.I. Joe, waiting to play At war when morning finally dawned. Instead, my eyes find foreign shapes: A desk fan, a little shelf of books, Half of a bag of unwashed grapes I ate the night before.                                     I look While listening to the tick-tick-tock, And then the walls begin to morph As I wake and grasp my bearings.                           The clock