Serenade
by Jack D. Harvey Root, poet, in the clouds, in the roses, in the dirt, root like a hog; flog the memory for the one forgotten lay, for a flight of fancy, for an open sesame in your empty day. Time flies, a bolt of lightning in the dark, up-ending spike riving mortal mast and ship alike and you are weary, wary; what foam on the waves leaves a trace? Sunk beneath the shimmery sea it's no use; your muse a muddy submarine stuck in the deep, a cold-hearted fish out of favor caught forever in one time and place. In the library the sunshine dies on the western door; little windowpanes frame the snowy fields in little pieces; somewhere a faucet leaks, a beam creaks in the attic. Blank as the breasts of Helen, the white walls seem to look and listen; the poet sits in the gloaming silent as the books around him, brooking defeat. Flighty muse, artful goddess, to your shrine a pilgrim comes calling; your light hurts, your dark too and the burnished sun you gave me burns still, sings in the ruins; an emblem of life, a rebirth, a quickening. Past sweet voices of angels, past red-hot declarations of devotion I go like a shot; striving for simple faith, the intake of a divine breath, my efforts betray me like bad moves in games. Is it enough for now? In the reckoning is it ever enough? Strong hands reach from far away; lead me goddess, in the hours of sleep lean in and listen to my heart; I am your child. |
Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies.
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