Sacred Wood

A light fir bell
sprung green,
a tree full-grown,
green, green as ever
its coat ever green
in this forest of hope.

A special worshipful tree,
its needles, its cunning cones
with stiff prickled scales
welcoming, bristling,
in the morning breeze.

This one tree waiting
in the forest’s heart
for the consequence of
our arrival; the forest
parting itself only
to fold itself
over and over;
the traveler’s footsteps,
the hunter’s hut,
the remains of seasons
leave no trace.

The wood creaks in the cold
and we wonder why we came
on a cold day to this forest,
the two of us, all this way,
wandering far from home,
wondering how we found
this special tree.

The tree, that light
fir bell sprung green,
a shield, a queen, an upright
altar, growing towards heaven,
taking us, two among many,
opening our hearts,
making us one,
making us see
in exaltation and terror
its standing transient splendor,
its sacred stance and place,
then changing us
to one certain form,
making us open to all,
making us sound no separation,
no sound at all,
silent and joyous
in the open air,
like bells made of water.

 

 

About the Author: Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, The Comstock Review, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years. 

The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. 

Deborah

You are old now, Deborah,
the sun that would not set,
the small rare face
that brought forth
many a suitor's tear
is gone

a dream.

You stir the pulse
no longer in the long
nights of sleep;
you wake the heart's
surge no more.

I see you now,
elegant and old,
queen of autumn,
a queen bereft,
your kingdom abandoned,
a forgotten name, a dead leaf.

Powerless and desolate,
retiring, withdrawing, retreating,
queen of a season only,
tiny
among the massive shadows
of the west
like a rose at evening

you shut.   

 

 

About the Author: Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, The Comstock Review, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years. 

The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. 

To Donald Crowhurst

(Lost at sea while perpetrating
a fraud in the 1968 single-handed
"Round the World" yacht race.)

The only sin of God
is concealment?
Mad Crowhurst wrote
                                     ream on ream
and then stepped off
his rust-streaked boat
posthaste;
the golden sun struck
mercilessly at the waves
exploding over his head,
and he saw as he
sank

under the keel
                            the faint fish
outlined
against the red paint.

Foolish man!
The only son of God
is concealed forever,
deep as the greystream
of Cipango.

 

And deeper still the
herald of the dawn,
Lucifer, reveals his
sheep's clothing
only
to the aghast inmates
of Hell.

The farthest sailor,
the old man in the park
whistle up gulls
and pigeons to keep them
company, and yet
His silence
strikes all dumb
at last;
not even
a bell rings
through the empty sky.

Crowhurst morsing,
bound to the radio:
the false cheery messages
pile up an indictment
heavy as the moon
                                  sinking
in the trackless sea,
and the triune boat,
one-in-three, rides
to the antipodes.

Teeth blackened,
become the skeleton
of his adventure and deceit,
Crowhurst found himself
face to face
with human and
heavenly concealment.

Like a bird of passage,
he flies on alone,
beyond our ken
hidden from us
and we from him.

 

 

About the Author: Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, Slow Dancer, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Piedmont Journal of Poetry and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years, many of which are probably kaput by now, given the high mortality rate of poetry magazines.

The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.

As Above, So Below

Ding, dong,
Bell's theorem;
a stop on the bus;
pussy's well-connected
paws hold fast
her grid
the narcotics in
dad's pipe
explode the baleful sun,
somehow,
now and then.

Could it be,
caught in the field,
tomorrow
is locked and bolted,
delivered ready-made today?
Unchanged, we strut out the door,
make our schemes while
Einstein's ghost
in patterns
comes and goes,
whispering chaos
triumphant;
tomorrow
come and gone,
like distant thunder.

Leave the gates open:
back and forth
across the field,
like an ox,
the shuttling flux
gives an answer.
No question:
if the mini-maxi bits
of the world
travel fast and alone,
zipping down
unpredestined grooves,
then the bible's right;
then
all is a watch in the night,
the night gang
watching for the

swing of chance
to show a way,
make a map to somewhere,
accurate as random waves
or the gods' good will.


The dance is dancing;
the spiders and horses
prancing
in great and small circles
leave not a trace;
only web and sweat

remain for the flies.

 

 

 

About the Author: Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, Slow Dancer, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Piedmont Journal of Poetry and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years, many of which are probably kaput by now, given the high mortality rate of poetry magazines.

Shortly after the Siege of Leningrad, the author was a Pushcart nominee and over the ensuing years has been published in a few anthologies.