L.R. Harvey Poetry

KINDRED Mimi’s eyes were fine when she was blind.  From what I understood at 12 it was the portion of  her brain responsible for taking  what she saw and reading  it—at least that’s what  the doctor said— which made a lot of sense when I was 12 because  I knew that god was there and that my eyes were just as good   as her’s, but when I looked up  all I saw was blue. This confirmed that I  was sick as well and they  just didn’t know it  yet.

18 & MATCHING TATTOOS I love you, Lord,  in sun or storm,                but keep it sun                 because I’ve seen the way that rain can scour pollen                off a porch               & swiftly wash away a promise such as this,               even one caked-               on summer-thick.

 PLANNING AHEAD If ever I beget a son (or daughter, I suppose,) who one day reappears from university to tell  me how, at last, he’s disill- usioned of the dream of god— is ‘waking up for good’ as I imagine he'll word it— I think I’ll nod my head and parrot Aerosmith, a band  that likely will reside beyond his scope of reasoning (like most  things good & true,) to tell him just the way I wish someone  had counseled me, Dream on .

  ONE-WAY TICKET A fingernail has sliced a rent across the noon, so it’s either judgement  day and soon they’ll peel apart like elevator doors  to finally reveal whatever they store  back there, or it’s just another miracle of aero-engineering roaring silently to any number of places for the holi- days. Either way the principle remains the same, and I really  just want to go home,  and preferably soon.

  APATHEIA° The joke, (correct me if I’m wrong,) is that we’d actually a better chance of flipping inside-out a coconut than  starting clean— man, it’s all so damn  inherited, crusted on ourselves like  a band-aid. Even you, squirrel, look -ing down and laughing at the way I  rock and rock and wrestle with reality,  are victim of environment. It's n uts !,   I know. But surely both of us, I trust,  could one day free ourselves from  what we thought ourselves, glimpse the Absolute, if be it when we look  a lot like that guy over there, tucked  in tight between the yellow lines with little paws entwined across our chests.

FAREWELL First frost, and cannis wilts exactly when  they said it would—                                         that cannis, the one we buried a couple months ago, exactly  when they said we should.                                         Everything  is cycling, then, according to the pre- determined time,                                         and yes, I know they also say that cannis is perennial, so will,  sometime in March,                                         perform a miracle, but that takes time. I guess what I’m  saying is,                                         this doesn’t solve goodbye.

ELECTROCARDIOGRAM Your heartbeat is the snuffling dog,  two squirrels on a branch,  clipped roses in cold water.  It is, today, a diadem of fog  on Lookout Mountain, stench  of chicken factory on Broad, more water for the clipped roses which are fading on my living- room table. Your heartbeat is the metronomic click in our chests as we awake to this our holy Being (and thank You for sharing it) tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump  

WATCHING SPACE VIDEOS This poem—in no way—is meant to contradict the doctrine of Imago Dei , but seeing as earlier this morning I read that “man himself is but a beast,” I imagine from Your point of view we look a lot like yellow labs, laid like doormats on a sunny slab  of porch, chins down to slurp up slow puddles of August heat. Yes, I gather how a passerby could mis-interpret our posture as one of complete content, but You know us better than that— at every sound from behind the veil our heads snap up, our ears go tilting back,  and wordlessly we beg for in

MARANATHA* Here me loudly reaffirm it’s not  that this one isn’t good. The plot  is riveting, the characters relate- able, and hell, the setting alone deserves at least an Oscar. Dawn illuminates a galaxy of dust in  the kitchen, and really who am I  to critique your artistry, your crea- tive license, but the fact remains  there seems to be a missing link— our plot lines tangled in'n'out like  pubic hairs on a dorm-room sink,  almost as if the script were left unfinished. If this is purposeful,   then yes, we're asking a sequel. *Hebrew, "Come, Lord Jesus"

  KABOOM Sadly it happens more than once a semester, when two opposing                 claims are intermixed within the                phial of my mind, and really each is viable, and gradually they begin to bubble like Mentos and Coke in                a plaster-of-paris volcano, but see                the issue is the volcano’s my brain,  and different from the science fair,  at the pink explosion no one cheers.

THE THEOLOGIAN'S HEADSTONE I am one who hoped to unveil  the mystery, who tried to peel  it like a boiled egg but found  my fingers ripping off chunks of flesh with the shell, and to  the point where there was no- thing left to eat. I went to bed, (as you can see), still famished,  but hoping even so to find The Answer in the morning.

  LEARNING TO WALK  Shaky step on marshmallow feet, then a thump, a think, and repeat till holding the truck. We cheer as if he twirled a rumba, or more appropriately as if he finished an   ironman. This, of course, is an un- realistic expectation, so here we’ll celebrate a step, and Lord, I’m well- aware of my own shortcomings, but  please consider this as I pray tonight  for the first time in a minute.

CONSTANT ONE Immovable, you grieve as we  turn our backs                              ( again), proceed to shake our accusatory fists that you have                          abandoned us. No, we'd rather not confront the truth that                             it's us who set.

 THE  LONG WAY Moon rolls out a bridge across the lake like silk ribbon. Yes,  it would be more convenient  to walk across than navigate  the brambles that permeate my path, but I have learned  (if be it soaking wet,) that not all ground is guaranteed to hold  your weight, and getting there necessitates a couple thorns.

THIS PAGE IS NOT a riddle or a treasure map, so do not rip apart the place for clues. Don't expect a metaphor to bend reality like Einstein's theorems warped the universe, and trust me  when I say this poem can never substitute for prayer. No, in fact  this isn’t a poem at all, but just  a thread on which to catch a hang- nail, tug a bit, and maybe begin to pull apart the fabric enclosing      that which pulses underneath.

UNBOXED  I hope you check the estimated date of my delivery at least once a day, have considered and decided it's well- worth the fee to ensure I get there whole. I hope you think about me frequently when at your work, that I am lingering around your mind's periphery like a sun spot, that I am something worth a second  check on that estimated date of delivery.  But most importantly, I hope that you are anxiously waiting on the porch when my box arrives, and that you pry open the lid so eagerly you tear the seam. And please, say something like, finally .

FINAL STRETCH As those accustomed to the road  will testify, it’s when you recognize a Carolina pine beside the road, or windows down you catch the slow molasses of a Chattanooga night  (depending on where is home,)   that suddenly the clock decides to be a silver Buick in the left lane, or mile-markers when you really need to pee. Every drive  can boast such a final stretch,  when really all that’s left to do  is light another cigarette and count reflectors as they disappear beneath balding tires. This is, I must admit,  advice I hope to give to a son one day as he is growing weary of the world. It means, my boy, we're almost Home. 

LOOKING UP AT DARKNESS I’ve grown, with time, accustomed to  Your reticence, Your slow, deliberate decision not to speak— it’s more, I trust, than inability.  We too keep our gaze averted when the dog whimpers, at least  until he sees that yelling doesn’t get him what he wants,  and when he quiets down we funnel him a treat to tell him yes, we still exist. Tonight I saw a comet and greedily nibbled it.

  CONFESSIONS FROM THE WAITING ROOM Not cancer yet, but yesterday I imagined a woman shirtless— no, she wasn’t my wife. No broken bones or muscles tearing from the roots, but yes, I often do congratulate myself  for being more enlightened than the plebians who vote the other way,  regardless of what's at stake.  No need for ibuprofen  or an anti-inflammatory, and seeing as  you ask about my joints they’re working as they ought, but please don’t tell me that I’m good to go  because we both know better,  and maybe this disease is one that requires leeches or a slow  release of blood, mine or another’s.

SLEEPLESS His endless conversation with                 the sky is now the rhythm of                               my dreams, dreams in which the mind unburdens herself of                mysteries. Behold, the origin                               of Being! A comprehension of Divinity! So that's what's going                on behind the curtain! Mr. Dog,                               I too am anxious to articulate my love, but seeing as neither                you nor I can find appropriate                               words, what about a breather?