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 it’s 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.