Long Impossibly Poems
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My Requiem.
To my witch, my retribution; my inviting audience.
By night fall of this day, I shall have become your Prince.
Your equal in a title, so impossibly imposing.
I implore you to see within yourself;
Let this jester enamour you, with a wickedest of wit.
The scalding maiden of charm and beauty,
I beg for you to allow me to be worthy.
Please encourage my encroachment, for I am simply a roach;
I lament at your yearning, to see my heart burning; and I a ghost.
For as you cast me down, with a demon in your eyes,
The banshee’s cry and wolves howl in the night.
The screams of those in love,
Fill the minds of those with no guide.
The succession of your family’s honour shall be immortalized.
Cast in stone, but never cast aside;
I call on your soul with my requiem.
I have gathered your disciples; the enslaved stand in line.
They are willing to die; they are the sultry condemned.
My genteel, voluptuous, lascivious, constant;
Let us wander into the dark and find our family of opulence.
Let us bring silence to their feast and raise the dead.
Our concerto for the stalwart soldiers,
Grows even louder with the taking of each final breath.
I am your zealot, with the foreboding forecast.
A love like ours shall never last.
For your soul is nomadic; it’s devotion solely to lust;
Your lust would become the ruination of love.
But my lecherous libido, still feeds my ego
And my hearty organ tells my brain what to do.
Such a torrid torment of the needs of the female,
But I deplore you to see I love you.
I wish you to kiss me in the morning light,
As we both climb back into our coffins.
Two coffins as one, we lay hand in hand in the afterlife;
Our eternal love, eternally bound;
Shall never be allowed to go rotten.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Birth Of The Askance
The odor of the cigarette scent lingered in my room
Some silence was even impossibly heard
Though unseen, felt was the vastly eyes of the moon
Seemingly awaiting, for a much awaited word
Times like this, the shadowing walls dances of death
Darkly hidden yet was careful to still be felt
Will the dance begone, shall breathe my last of breath?
Yet I voice not for the aid of help
It becomes a need or rather a desire
Be it shadows or some nightly spirits to just take me away
An urging lust burns with alluring fire
I fear not death, but to live another day
How much longer before the next coming hour
I close my eyes, listening to the ticks… then counting
Yet the clock ticks unevenly with an uneven number
And the time that struck, was an unearthly thirteen
Upon hearing the awakening chants from the fallen angels
Shadows amongst dissolve most immediately into the dark
A pair of green illuminates beyond the children of the devil
And having found was but tranquil in my heart
The lyrical incantations grew increasingly loud
And the fallens cleared a path to welcome their Great One
When finally he emerge, spanning his wings so proud
And a moment more, the unbearable echoing became calm
“Of those who knew, lies a few
A prophecy is proven true
Why yearn for death, if death itself will find its way?
Is death no longer feared as of ancient yesterday?
Yet this hex, bridges one of many reasons we encountered tranquil
Already an ill-fated destine, before even our meeting is fulfill
The only difference is… I now speak without a voice
Yet to you, perhaps fortunate to still be engiven a choice
The time has come for me to reveal the forbidden
An undeniable sin, which is meant entirely to be forgotten”
{It never did occur what fresh air was smelt like
There were only the stains of blood and bones of white
The wasteland bore grounds of ancient tombs
Everywhere the promising of life and death were always soon
Bodies of uncountable thousands lay either wounded or dead
Those dying were not rejuvenated, those living lay low on their heads
Every light only births a new beginning
Every night only promises a new awakening…
The child loves to go to the park
and pick up sticks.
Like a dog,
he will try to bring an impossibly long stick home,
but he is 4 and by 4 o’clock he is getting tired.
He will not let go of one end
but drags it, tottering to the waiting car,
by the time he gets to the lot
he is actually sleepwalking.
I wake up;
a wandering hermit crab slips back into its shell.
That stick I had to abandon was a prototype,
a totem, a measure
of the many things I have had to let go of.
That kind of midnight dancing
is a stick that never ends.
Loss is often only trivial
a vexation,
just something left behind we thought to keep,
then maybe it’s an actual life
that once drained through our hands.
Whatever that stick represents
perhaps like me,
you still want to take an impossible thing home.
The sideburns of the Maples
Turned another color in early October
I look in my Roman bathroom mirror
Person reflected is a stranger to me
The green children
No more than sprouts finding their blossoms
Are impossibly older than me
More ancient than the planet’s lore
Poor last good kids
Hunched over and limping
Faithfully lacing duty to their boots
Strapping chores across their shoulders
They walk the cobblestone Earth
Knowing the truth
As a crown of thorns upon their heads
Anxiously crying
Father
Do not forgive them
For they knew
Exactly what they were doing.
He didn’t come from a shelter
or a cardboard box on someone’s porch.
He came out of the engine of my mother’s truck,
shaking, soot-smudged,
a tiny heartbeat pulled out of a place
no living thing should survive.
I remember holding him—
small, trembling, impossibly warm—
and before I could even think of a name,
my dad looked at him,
looked at me,
and said,
“Call him DC.”
And somehow it fit.
But DC was only the beginning.
Some days he’s Damn Cat,
when he climbs where he shouldn’t
and looks me dead in the eye
as he knocks something over.
Some days he’s Dumb Cat,
when he forgets how doors work
or gets lost in a sunbeam
like it’s the first one he’s ever seen.
Some nights he’s Devil Cat,
all claws and chaos,
running wild like he still remembers
the roar of that engine
and refuses to ever be small again.
But then—
in the quiet moments,
when he curls into my lap
and presses his face into my hand
like he’s choosing me all over again—
he’s just DC,
the name my dad gave him,
the kitten who survived,
the kitten who stayed,
the kitten who turned one terrifying moment
into a story we’ll tell forever.
He has many names,
but every one of them
means he’s mine.
like the gold ring embracing my finger yet
cold and aloof, always more beautiful just beyond my sight
than within it
because illusion is impossibly perfect
a space beyond tangibility and compassion
where perception is a curse word, as we willingly hand over
our judgment for execution
like a gladiator doomed to die, sacrificed for the
amusement of spectators
empty spectators seeking to fill themselves
with the blood-caked sand of the arena
oblivious to the grain they sell across the street
you see
yourself amid the rapacious press and it is beautiful to you
for a moment, look closer
the sleek, glossy pelts of the hunt-dogs will molt into
skeletal mange
you see
that which you crave is an autumn leaf in the wind
doomed to roam until it crumbles to dust
unattainable
perfection is a curse word as we seek to paint meaning
onto the broken remnants of civilization
that which you crave is a lie you have been spoonfed
since you first took breath
you cannot be anything you want
some things are impossible
and you will never fulfill all of your dreams
but this is what they didn't tell you:
the power of dreams is in the act, not the fulfillment
impossibilities are the roadmap to your life
and who you are is beautiful, because
not despite, like you have been told
because of your flaws, your failures, your sorrow
these things do not define you
they make you complete
We went to climb trees
in the jungle gyms of green apple orchards,
bare legs dangled
toes dipped into shady pools of sky.
Secret girlfriends climbed barefooted
onto impossibly roomy branches,
their skirts improbably short,
in the swinging bowers.
Memory plays its tricks
perhaps it was in a golden cornfield
that the apples turned red and tempting
our differences
revealed in circles of sunlight.
That summer spread itself
like buttery new mown hay,
and deep within it we happened
together,
never guessing
that a chained and confused adolescence
was about to steal us away
forever.
A DREAM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A wisp of smoke, a phantom limb,
the dream dissolves, a sugar cube in rain.
Gone.
Morning light bleeds in,
erasing landscapes built of moon-dust.
A fiction, spun in the quiet dark.
But then, a shard remains.
A glint caught in the corner of your eye.
A swan's cry,
impossibly clear,
reverberates,
caught in the hollow of your chest.
It returns, unbidden, unwelcome,
a landscape
of tilted angles and knowing eyes.
You stand there, powerless,
caught in its gaze,
a stranger in a familiar place.
Inclined to wonder,
to dissect and trace,
the questions remain
bewilderment etched upon your face~
What did it mean?
What does it mean?
It’s quite a sight
To be rescued by a garbage truck
Before anyone or anything else with luck
Rises
So early this morning
After the big snow
Schools closed business delayed
Road uncut by any car
Birds sleeping in
The synapse of tree limbs white feathered with fins
Reaching out for one another in an apologetic wind
But those guys
One impossibly young the other impossibly old
Defiant
Or miserable
Is there a difference, these cosmic travelers?
Not making much money
But here they are
Unmoved by all our mythical possibilities
Holding to a relentless backend schedule
Swinging down up and through the drifts
They lift
Our buried bin to the automatic contraption
Right on time no matter what
Emptying again
Another week’s waste from all our lives.
I painted the dance floor with the strongest
smile, because I had no choice but to move.
Close
closer
shoulder to shoulder..
I went a little crazy just to take in your aura,
that energy controlling all of the fire in you.
Shoulder to shoulder
closer
impossibly close..
I channeled that song to capture a spark
and maybe dive in and go for your heart.
Loud
louder
heartbeats slam like a drummer.
Hitting my soul and demanding that I ask
‘Your moves beg me to run your red light.
What the hell is your sign?’