Harlan never ever died. His words still burn like ******, Scalding minds that revel in their rut.
He saw behind the curtain long before The Tin Man or the scarecrow did And he shouted out the travesties That everyone refused to see.
His acid pen made pages boil And much of it splashed over him Creating scars that in my gentle fingers I could never heal.
He created mountains where none were And scaled them to the accolades He made it known that he deserved.
I rode the wind with him for just a while Though he offered me forever It seemed too shiny for my eyes And I blinked and turned aside To stand and watch his comet soar.
He one day met a flameproof soul And lept into the multiverse With sound and fury as his steed And her his tether to civility.
I loved to share his meteor As it began itβs wild ascent I thrilled to watch it blaze the years And see him tear the strictures down. And even as his comet died It took a bit of me along To the place World-beaters go When it is time to take a rest. LJM
In 1965, when I was still Lori Spring, I wrote this:
HARLAN The stars wiggle into his grasp And beg to become a part of his tiara. The better things creep close about his feet And nestle in his shadow. The muses stand poised and ready, Eager to be of service to him. Immortality sits on a distant someplace And waits for his arrival As do I. LS
Sometimes I think I should have gone ahead and married him. And then I think again.