Long Dangerous Poems
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I came to you as a stranger.
A shadow in the night air.
Love, let us be true to one other.
For the world wherein we live
Seems to lie fondant before us.
Like a land full of dreams.
Submerged in ecliptic pains.
Imagery, so various, so beautiful
Around voids deeply unexplored,
The force for good is unfulfilled.
A state volatile and the cruel
Create the illustrious fire and fuel.
To be dangerous, to be admired.
For it has neither known the joy
Nor the peace of fortitude to enjoy.
But at night, there is a certitude.
when the luminous sky is bright
We glimpse the heavenly light.
Reaching down from the stars
In the radiance of lives long gone
But their memories still lived on
as helpers for this bow-bent pain.
And how are we surviving now?
Living on a much darker plane.
Swept along with the rugged terrain.
By sorrow and confused emotions
Wearing weariness and worn feelings
Energy clashed with desire in the night.
And into this mind of wishful thinking
The turbid tide of truth ebbs and flow
We find the will to fight the good fight.
With only a beacon flicker of light
The immortal bell of sadness rings.
And bring cold shadows in the night.
Where the new chapter begins
Flowers Emerge
Impose your will on the pretty flowers as you may
Trans-formative wonderment of nature
Entrenched, defiled, they pop up any way in clusters
Vivacious are the colors above the solid stem
Cut cold to death, decay and pain, to follow winters grip
Excellence defined in the ability to survive
Dangerous are the forces that persist to derogate them
Yet they prevail against all odds
Death comes but they regenerate
Grass is their shield. Dirt is their pillow there
Negative winds carry with them ice
Reds and yellows grow on below the sun
Visceral, strangled roots, fragile faces, petal soft, grow cold
Ingenious species, green with envy on the leaf, rise again
A Cacophony of nature’s birds and bees disturbs the peace
Flowers come in abundance, remain, friendly on the green
Distinguished in divine fashion, exquisite, generous to the last
Elevated smiles on pollen grains contain the seed of life
Flowers emerge, aware of life
11/22/14 Poetry Contest - "Encounters With Flowers"
When you love someone.
When you love someone, you have to tell them.
Don’t convince yourself it will never happen.
Their love could become a Godsend.
Don’t let unanswered questions become your end.
Happiness and love are all that matter.
Anything but true love will simply shatter.
Press the accept, or suffer only regrets.
I only regret the words I never said.
I love you. How hard is it?
If you never ask, don’t complain that it’s all a trick.
You get what you deserve.
Do you love him?
Do you love her?
Or are you just in lust?
That game is a bust.
You can’t reroll the loaded dice.
Chances like love don’t come by twice.
Live your life, but don’t complain you got dealt a bad hand.
You took your shot at a chance of romance,
And she wasn’t the woman, or he wasn’t the man for you right now.
Not all rainbows come from the clouds.
Some are just painted. Some just fake it.
If it’s not true love, then why bother to make it?
I want love. I want her.
I will speak. I keep my word.
I break no promise. This I promise.
I was truthful when I said this.
I guess my promises are not worth the paper they are written on.
We could have been magical you and I,
If only you had tried a little harder,
And I was smarter.
I complained the timing wasn’t right,
But the truth is I couldn’t trust in your complete love.
Now you sing to me a sucker punch.
And all because I don’t love myself.
I hate most things about me.
I do truly love her, I tell and I tell,
But for some reason I think this is only temporary.
I let my mind wander down a dangerous path,
And gather excuses, and they destroy any chance.
I got what I got.
A non-believer always loses.
Tell them you love them.
I have no excuses...
(C)2025 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
I have told this story, a long time ago in a different way.
Because its true I would like to tell it again today.
It’s a new poem, the story is old, so tell me what you think.
This time I relate it for a contest by Empress Ink.
It was Summer holidays. Six weeks time off from school,
Nothing much to do. Maybe beach or swim at home in the pool.
I applied for a job, packing Frisbees in a sheltered workshop.
The heat machine was too dangerous, and work had to stop.
The hot wire to cut the shrink-wrap might burn the disabled.
Four of us were hired for 6 weeks to use it, as “fit” we were labelled.
The regular workers considered us a novelty working there,
Some people as they passed, us would just stop and stare.
So many wonderful people all with disabilities they had,
There was a cheery atmosphere, and it didn’t make us feel sad.
The workers seemed to help each other and were kind and giving,
All doing a great job working in spite of difficulties, earning a living.
A young guy managed to ask me if I would sit with him for lunch.
I sat next to him at a big table with all the rest of the bunch,
Such sweet folk, all happy and bright,
Not one of them dwelling on their challenged plight.
He invited me but struggled with words, very hard to know what he said.
He had a very bad limp, and he continually nodded his head.
After that day he beckoned me to lunch with him every chance.
The boss said, “don’t worry He’s simple, his name is Lance,“
We all laughed and had fun those days when lunchtime would start.
Each one of their personalities went straight to my heart
On the last day, when we had finally wrapped the last frisbee,
We were saying goodbye, Lance limped up and gave a card to me.
It read, My sister wrote this for me. I wish you knew what I was like,
Because I wasn’t simple before that accident on my motorbike.
My eyes filled with tears, as I hugged him and simply walked away.
I still think of him, and all the rest of those featherless angels to this day.
Non Fiction.
It was no cosmic coincidence that a persnickety intergalactic wise guy named Hub
with an arrogant swagger morphed into the center of a crowded fast-moving Harlem jazz club
on February 11th, 1933 at dusk, preplanned by an angelic being named Lub.
One jitterbugging dancer named Minx looked up for a second, when he arrived at the club.
But it did not make sense that someone could materialize out of nothing, right?
Minx looked away, but then briefly back, into intelligent eyes that were blue, smart, and bright.
He was a scamp, she knew it immediately, she felt she knew him, at the second sight.
A warning gong went off in his head. A spitfire, he tried to stay away with all of his might.
They danced in close proximity, trying to ignore each other, this earthling and man from space.
Her auburn hair was curly and lush, and seemed to say hello from every corner of this place.
Knowing he was in trouble, feeling she was a big taboo, he attempted to show his poker face.
Glowing emerald eyes held him captive, as he tried to think, and clear his fast-beating heart pace.
You have a mission, his head argued, but his heart was not willing to follow the two-hour-ago plan.
He is a dandy warned a voice inside Minx’s head. Try to act casual, so he will be willing to land.
She opened her eyes wide, smiled at her dancing partner, gave him a laugh, and prettily petted his hand.
She was in Hub’s arms for the next set, and all the ones after that too, and they barely noticed the band.
Hub’s voice was a growl, gnarly, all dangerous, one of those better-stay-away-from-me males.
He was dapper, and dashing, a remedy and soothing balm to every one of Minx’s ales.
Minx was the most glorious being Hub had ever seen, including all earthlings and Stratosphales.
They ended their evening of passion like nomads, sitting on one of those giant hay bales.
Hub was sucked back to his planet by an insistent space ship captain in the spring of 1934.
The lovers met nightly in their dreams and in the day time they remembered each other forevermore.
Minx gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, her last memento from Hub, on Tuesday October 24.
A token of my appreciation Mom, Lub said, as he blew a kiss, from his bird-side seat on heaven’s floor.
A slack rope
Funambulist enchants
Screams my little daughter to delight
Mad as a hatter, risks life to dangerous skills
An idea that lives on for generations
Adventure or poor man's livelihood,
Daring dazzle across,
The River !
Written on 12/6/14
Contest - Choose your favourite body
Sponsor- Andrea Dietrich
Form- Trois par huit - 3/3/2 unrhymed
Ranked 8th
The female world
There is a new low in the Trump hatred
by the political class, a new court case
has turned out to be a titillating show
where a prostitute appears as having
the time of her life, as she tells of her
encounter with Trump
The language appears scripted
Lawyers lie, we know, but judges also
join in, a sorry spectacle that diminishes
the country, making it look stupid
A famous football trainer in Spain kissed
a football girl, in jubilation when his
the team won a vital match
That was wrong; he didn't ask for permission
A misstep that could be solved
but competitive women had the man
arrested
His life is ruined, if lucky he might get a job
down at the docks in Bilbao
A gangster, caught. red-handed, that's good
his mink coated wife played the innocent
card, she had no idea how her husband made
his fortune, dear, pull the other one
There is a dangerous rise in Karen type of women
most of them are sexually frustrated by their husbands
who have grown tired of their nagging prefer
to sleep in the guestroom.
None of them get the sex they deserve
We seem unable to strike a balance between
sexes, it is like a competition of who has
the most rights and quality, and there is little
in the way of love and giving.
(THIS IS THE SECOND POEM DEDICATED TO THE US PRESIDENT IN HIS QUEST FOR A SECOND TERM)
Bit and bit together become whole,
And coin and coin fills the treasure.
Right and wrong never agree;
And little and little satisfies the measure!
Careless mischief is a dangerous thing.
Kenyans do cheerfully sing!
Here is advice for Barack Hussein Obama,
Unbeatable true son of the soil.
Sure and unbending must be your strategy;
See clearly there no chances to spoil!
Earnest and apt must be your plans,
Indefatigable must be your spirit:
Never lacking zeal, and dreaming deeds full of merit!
Our prayers we do say day and night,
By our firesides were rant our supplications,
And plead that you take courage in this fight.
May yours be a full and overflowing cup,
And may the Kenyan flag be always up!
I recently read a politically incorrect prolific poet,
or so I thought at the time,
or more felt than thought,
more truthfully,
integrally,
Who said, If poetry is politically correct,
it cannot be poetry.
So, if he is politically correct
in this statement,
is he thereby also not a poet in good standing?
An enigma to which I respond,
If so, then politically incorrect messages
also cannot be poetic,
but tragically disempowering.
Meaning that poetry has power
to change how we feel,
and sometimes listen
and sometimes speak about our relationships.
What are political relationships
if not correctly co-empowering
and incorrectly fragmenting
and disempowering--
without healthy reason
and without wealthy rhyme.
But, now I see this poet's concern more intentionally.
If a poet's intent is merely political correctness,
orthodox dogma of some monoculturally dangerous variety,
with no faithful participation
in change,
in our ongoing collective integrity,
potentiating,
developing,
shifting
co-relational organic powers for healthy communicating minds
still hoping to feed and feel healthy bodies,
then wealthy empowerment
becoming metaphorically richer
on Earth's universal meaning together,
not accessible by apartheid and absolute supremacy,
with synergetic beauty
become mere utilitarian truth,
LeftBrain propaganda
politically severed from deeper yang and yin-ness,
and thereby RightBrain incorrect.
WinWin bicameral therapeutic intent
is politically correct,
empowering,
as seen in narratives of healing
and epic poetry
of time's co-relational passage
musing into Paradise/Hell
nutritionally/toxically becoming
Where time
celebrates/ignores rhyme
and natural seasons
speak with/without spiritual co-relational reasons.
I hold three magic rocks, in my hand
Rolling them over and over and over
Leaving this reality behind, far behind
Remembering that magical day and time
We were young, care-free and in our childhood
When we snuck out back near the woods
We stopped near the old forbidden well
And went on a journey we would live to tell
We knew the well was a dangerous place
and were forbidden to go near its space
That day we saw a tiny gnome appear peeking out
Wearing a large green hat and sputtering about
He held three rocks in his hand that glowed like gold
He rubbed the rocks as he chanted with a firm hold
He saw us and quickly jumped up and into the well
Leaving behind the magical rocks as he let out a yell
We quickly ran back for help and into our home
Not sure if we should tell anyone about the gnome
We told our parents, and they didn’t believe our tale
The next day we snuck back with a rope and pail
We saw the gold rocks, glowing and laying on top
We grabbed the rocks and then time seemed to stop
We entered a magical place with gnomes and fairies
All singing, chanting and foraging for magical berries
We were told that we now must make a special wish
And asked to taste the magical berries on the dish
We each took a tiny bite and then awoke on the ground
We were near the well and couldn’t believe what we found
The stones were now in our pockets to our surprise
And decided to keep all this a secret and our prize
There were two new bicycles along the well wall
And we realized our wishes were granted after all