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cool this
finger over
scalp(

             the world)

and beneath
the hair the
slick stuff
of love:


F L O W E R S  .    

Where
between
the quick cloth
of trees a stag

(twining tine)

‘tween root and sea

. And the taste of everything

perhaps is
the last
breath of (almost) Spring

when neck and kissing
each smoothness of skin arrives.

Opening all doors—
fills all hallways:

the laughing of children
and the whispers of mothers
I am adept
In the art of being okay
I have mastered the craft
Of covering my troubles
I use all sorts of fancy facades
Acrylic, oil, watercolor
You name it.

I can paint over nearly anything

You will never know
How late I was up last night
Or why.

My eyes flicker
Like candlelight
But you couldn’t see
You couldn’t possibly see
I’m too good
For that.

I can dance, too
Waltzing away my sorrows
Carefully tip toe-ing the
Pas-de-I-am-fine
I get a standing ovation every time

I’m very talented, you see.

But my all time favorite
Is my disappearing act
I’m still perfecting it
Right now
But one of these days
I’ll show you
How I
Slip
Slip
Slip
Away

Right through your fingers.
Poems on a Mirror

~for Glenn Currier~

you don’t know me
I don’t know you;
poems on a mirror I ken
truly well

poems on the mirror saved, and then,
comme the seasoning of leave-falling,
poems dropping and drained...the post-it glue loosened by
the daily heat of watery tears,
making a space for
this one, for you...

there are poems and they arrive with fresh arrogance,
each an arrow demanding your all as a target regardless  
of what the shooter really thinks or wants, other than
obedient acknowledgment and their self-loving flattery

but some render where no rendering should be allowed

those are the ones affixed - ones you chose to join the chosen,
slapped onto mirrors - so many that they almost
cover complete your image from presentation

almost only because these poems are yours, you,
they’re the truly accurate reflection even if not your words,
indeed especially because they’re not yours

but they start your day as a poem should
and in doing so,
become you

What a Hall of Fame, to be a poem on Glenn’s Hall of Mirrors

go pick the plums...
“Glenn Currier  to Valerie Burroughs

“So true. So beautifully put. This is one I will add to Poems on my Mirror. Literally. I am going to copy and paste it or just write it on a post-it note and put on my mirror as a reminder of what poetry should be. Thank you.”
 Jul 2018 Burning Lilacs
MicMag
You really think
There are honest people left?
Really wanna bet?

Even the good guys
Lie
On the internet
 Jul 2018 Burning Lilacs
MicMag
Looking round, the world's changing too fast,
But there's something reassuring about the night sky.
Same moon, same planets, all the same old stars
Just as I saw with my eight year old eyes.

How far away is that one twinkling at me?
How long ago did it send its light this way?
Has the universe changed or has it stayed the same?
Maybe some planet back then was just like Earth today.

Don't look down, you won't recognize the world:
Center of aimless progress and innovation's mindless hub.
Instead, turn your gaze and your thoughts to the infinite.
When you feel lost, just look up.
Often I wonder,
Is it just me?
Or is gazing at stars
A glimpse of eternity?
Poetry is my drug.


Poetry is my drug of choice;
It gives me a buzz, it gives me a voice.
It keeps me awake, when I really should be sleeping;
Poetry is my drug and it keeps me dreaming.


Fantastic images within my mind,
Help me to find the correct line.
Who was I before I taught myself how to rhyme?
I may not understand why,
But I am becoming a better man, with time.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
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