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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.

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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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