L.R. Harvey Poetry

On Cleaning a Garage A life well-lived is a Taylor guitar, Dented and scratched from mistimed turns In corner bars On seedy city streets, With errant stomping feet And cigarillo burns From drunken Thursday-nighters; A faded neck from sweaty hands Playing thread-bare strings That buzz and ring in a too-loud downtown band. A race well-run is an old Toyota truck With chipping paint and whining belts And a drive-side window that’s stuck Unless the blinker is on; A truck that has intimately felt The twists and turns of country roads, The steady hum of the freeway’s song, The silence of starry nighttime drives along The empty parkway to home. An annotated book with a story between the lines, A wrinkled smile and crow-foot eyes, A dented wedding ring - The fullest lives are found in broken things.

Collapse “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow! What a Ride!’”- Hunter S. Johnson I’d like to collapse into my oaken bed Exhausted, an all-spent spirit eager to rest At last beneath the earth’s soil duvet. Give me a face-full of wrinkles on which they'll lay My shroud, a pair of thread-bare hands to nestle Across my stagnant chest, A knowing smile tugging my drying lips Into a satisfied smirk. And there I’ll be content to lie, Knowing I earned each furrowed facial line With laughter, tears, and the toil of work; Knowing my resting heart Deserves its rest from years Of loving, laughing, living, and leaving, Of rejoicing with the joyous and hurting with those who hurt; Knowing my lips have known The taste of a lover’s kiss, Have known the inimi...

Angst of April "The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,  but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars." - Jack Kerouac       No time to sleep – There’s sunsets never seen before And rises never to be seen again    No time for sleep – There’s more To touch and taste and hear and see and then To chase along in the next Crazy venture beneath the skies; There's more  Of the fast-expiring ever-fresh  Produce of the world to eat with hungry eyes    So n o time to sleep – While books remain unread And unborn poems sit poised in pens Just waiting for release; While springtime flowers bloom along the riverbeds And darkened stages swarmed with stars begin Their primetime show    No time for ...

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 ...

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.                ...