Long Déjà Poems
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She flickers in the glass—
a glitch of golden déjà vu,
The paint strokes—bright, wild yellow,
but no warmth leak through.
I sometimes reach
for her dimming leaves
that hum against my skin then disappear.
I pull back and smell
ash, when nothing’s charred.
There were twelve petals yesterday,
now, only eleven.
I wake up and count again.
Still eleven,
or maybe
none.
(I’m not sure if I’ve woken,
even though I know
I tasted salt from my tears.)
Mother says we never got a dog.
But I remember—
the texture of his leather collar,
the white fur tickling my nose.
The sky runs—
watercolor pulled too far.
I check the time:
9:42 AM.
Then I open my eyes.
4:08.
She’s still there,
scorched
into my nightstand—
brushing mirage into my vision.
_______________
Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's sunflowers, which I cannot seem to stop thinking about.
Dreamland
People pass on by my mind’s eye,
And then they are gone forever.
I remember friends and lovers, so high!
They took my wings with every smile.
I never want to leave this land,
So now I exist in the never.
Perfectly imperfect describes me.
Although more accurately would be, incomplete.
Situations arise and I am at one with the sky
And Mother Nature guides my every footstep forward.
I travel blind.
I feel as if life is being lived in reverse.
I have no need for curse words.
There is no need to shout, I can hear.
I can even feel, but I cannot cheer.
Déjà vu times two or three.
It’s all the same to me.
Witches brew, potion of healing,
There is no remedy,
For my broken heart.
Leave me to my dreaming.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Sheer sweet delights appear as gossamer nets,
unseen, unheard, not felt with no regrets,
floating on puffs of wind to catch in your hair
before you care to know that they are there.
The warmth of dawn at sunrise.
The laughter of glints in eyes.
The taste you get before you bite.
The jolt of cold feet bare at night.
The déjà vu clicks down memory lane.
The heartbeat lilt before you kiss again.
The wind foreseen in quiver of leaves.
The thunder felt before heard in eaves.
The stings on a cheek as snow flakes land.
The sneaky touch of child's hand-in-hand.
So let the sheer ephemeral delights come,
to see what taste, feel, hear and see, can become
when you set your awareness alertness on high,
to savor the kiss of bliss that floats on by.
(John Day Fossil Beds, 2018)
Revisiting The Same Ground
Over and over again
I find myself returning
to the same thoughts, ideas, histories
but now with years more experience between
and years more depth
behind what were once words
so glibly recited.
Is this how we all learn,
parrots one and all, reciting
lessons, sounds, songs and jingles
until they somehow
take on meaning
filled with the substance of Life
which at every turn
fill again a little more?
Tide-like the mind moves
in cycles of night and day, wake and sleep
building layers which erode
but never really go away
layers which in time harden to stone
sedimentary then metamorphic
each supplanted by the next
in endless waves across endless generations.
And so we go
treading the same old ground
‘round and ‘round
haunted by glimpses of déjà vu
humbled by realization
we have been here before
without a clue
how blind we really are.
(10/19/23)
I feel like I’m just floating through time like every moment exists on some line. déjà vu is just a tear in the thread that’s holding seconds collectively storing lifetimes from the beginning to the present. Like every single thing is accounted for on someone's bulletin board. Each tragedy, catastrophe, blessing, and new planet-finding, was all planned, and marked on a calendar in the office of the ruler of man. Aka the universe’s manager, God likely is his name. In charge of all the unplanned life layoffs constantly but he is always reassuring us to continue worshiping even if no immediate payment is received. In a beautiful building through a man of flesh and bone, he reassures us we have a place in his home when our timelines come to an end, on their own. Not by quitting, but working until life excuses you and your retirement from him is paid 10folds onto you, with a package of deliverance because you ran until the end of a line, that someone laid before you. Hoping and rooting for you, but knowing everything that is going to happen to you, all the sins that will tempt you, he still gave you the power of choice to choose what is the right thing to do during the line of time, he has lent to me and you.
Shadows on the edge,
memories slide out of view
never full focused-
the past lingers like a breath
you turn to catch, but it's gone
Sideways glances sway
moments in periphery
blurs smear the mirror-
déjà vu calls to play its hand
closing again, happenstance
Gazing at the lake
trees melt into reflection
golden rays adrift-
I reach to hold the shimmer
my fingers grasp only air
A leaf in the wind
fluttering in dusk-lit breeze
reminds me of you-
every sideways glance reveals
the weight of recognition
Wharf boards creak beneath
our bare feet press grips
we leap without thought-
each splash resounds in my chest
as time refuses to pass
The late sun hovers
painting ripples in copper
horizon half-formed-
déjà vu hums in waves
whispering, be still, be calm
Beneath the surface
voices travel in bubbles
half-song, half-echo-
rising like our lost laughter
from another life we lived
All glimpses return
lakes, ripples, sunsets, jumps, leaves
sewn multi-threaded
sideways in peripheral
repeats until the love stays
The morning slaps me awake
with a frozen windscreen,
keys in hand, scraping frost like
I’m chiselling through someone else’s mistakes.
My breath hangs in the air,
a ghost of myself
mocking the effort.
The cold flirts cruelly with my cheeks,
leaving them raw,
only for the radiator’s blast
to burn them out of spite.
The heating bill waits in the wings,
a villain in this pantomime.
“Put on another jumper,” I mutter,
as if wool could conquer capitalism.
Blanketed, I surrender to films
where faces blur into
a tinsel-coated déjà vu –
different eyes, same dialogue,
happy endings so loud
they drown out my cynicism.
Stupid Christmas songs screech
their hollow cheer,
and I let them.
They’re easier to hate
than my own thoughts.
But the air is so fresh
it cuts clean through the noise.
For a moment,
the world feels lighter –
even the weight I carry
shrinks to something
I can hold in my hands,
turning it over like snowflakes,
watching it melt
into the brittle calm of this season.
Grandmother Always Encouraged
As I stood in front of the baroque painting
"Old Woman and a Boy with Candles", by Sir Peter Paul Rubens
instantly trigger a warped déjà vu.
An ebullient cacophony of absent voices I used to have with my grandmother.
She would give me carte blanche around her home.
It was an embarrassing anomaly I couldn't explain to my aunts.
By their standards I was a bona fide dilettante and ennui .
Grandmother always encouraged me in the creative avant-garde of arts
by using my imagination and a strong sense of élan
fantasy throughout my muse that I love.
1/18/2018
Poetry Contest: 'Ten words ten lines 2' Contest
Sponsored By: Silent One
Hey there, little Buddha,
Let me join your Mistick Krewe.
Got my jazz hand clapping.
Gonna drop the other shoe.
I strut my yo-yo yoga every doo-da day.
It get me so-so-sober in a drunken way.
Hey there, little Buddha,
Voodoo me some déjà vu.
Those saints are marching in again;
Another Bourbon Street debut.
Hey there, little Buddha,
Save me from my karma’s wrath.
Calculate my blessings;
Maybe you can do the math.
So many numb-numb-numbers,
Couldn’t feel my way.
To get me near Nirvana,
Need a CPA.
Hey there little Buddha,
Lead me down the garden path.
Those saints are here to party, boy.
This Mardi Gras make ‘em laugh.
Hey there, little Buddha,
Send your children out to play.
Pranayama mama,
Laissez les bons temps rouler.
I'll chant my man-oh-mantra
Till my eardrums ache
And clear my cha-cha chakras
With a plumber’s snake.
Hey there little Buddha,
Second line come first today.
Those saints will set your flag on fire.
Jockomo feena nay.
SEEDS OF PERPETUITY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just beneath the surface of our daily lives, a deep current flows, the subtle murmur of a forgotten agreement, the shimmering echo of the original dream held within each soul. This dream is a fragile thing, flickering in and out frequently doused by the clamor of the world, immediate needs, expectations, and urgent distractions. Yet, the soul’s yearning remains, a seedling just beneath the surface of consciousness. It tugs at the edges of our thoughts, whispers of what could be, of what should be.
It's the reason we chase certain passions, feel drawn to specific people, and experience that unsettling sense of déjà vu – a fleeting echo of the life we were meant to lead. When we remember even a small piece of why we came to life, we pull the seeds of perpetuity farther into the world of time. "The inner seed keeps trying to sprout, but often our fate places us at a crossroads or nails us to a cross before we pay proper attention."
seeds sprout from darkness
emerge from remembering
seeds of perpetuity
*Quoted from Michael Meade