J.W. Harvey
Actor. Writer. Bartender
Los Angeles
Poetry
The Same Satin
One ruffle divides our
once allied kingdoms whose prosperity was renounced
by propensity's folly;
my rival was conceived
between the same satin
that birthed a union of
kings who can't crown
but wear sheets as robes
that roll off the shoulder
as you turn away (lying)
like a wave of intent
that shifts the tides to
flood empty channels,
a moat to surround these
castle walls constructed
in stone defense, having
forfeited our palace
to break this treaty.
Violets rage
Violets rage
with indigo pulses
beneath the shadows
of your parents' porch;
Spitting purple, but
soaking the rainbow
from whatever light
granted by the sun.
Golden or Fragile
Golden or Fragile?
I ask my heart
as they wrap it
around their finger
like soft metal,
Forming to each gesture
and trusting some
Irrevocable integrity to
Bend but not break,
a malleable soul
Worn by the years
that promised an alloy.
The Future Artist
They say the future artist
lives a privileged life.
Well you can't blame
little Ms. Thing
or Mr. Has-it-all
for inventing problems
Mommy & Daddy already solved.
If it's human nature to be discontent
and your life is full-fancy,
then our luck winner of life's lottery
has no choice but to create
a world of fiction,
expressing the problems
the middle are too busy to notice.
A Dying Love
True, I am a wreck,
Blood-soaked burgundy robes,
My claim to the royal throne
Of fame and fortune,
A car crash of
glowing metals & effervescent fumes
Or shipwreck where
rotting wood conceals treasured gold.
My art speaks because that little voice does,
Compelling me to risk a
Crash & burn
If I'm lucky,
and if we're not.
I have no choice but
Total breakdown
To build an empire from the shrapnel,
For energy is neither created
Not destroyed
But transferred
From our love to my expression.
True love is as fluid
As the metal magma
resolidifying
on the side of Highway 10
Or the swelling ocean
that holds her majesty
in a watery grave.
I'm sorry for your loss, but
I take solace in destruction;
it provides the raw materials
to forge my vision.
Rose by any other name
Rose by any other name
sprouting in the city,
does not sell as sweet --
A dandelion plucked
from Midwestern soot,
blown to the wind, assumed
Out-shown by gardens
of the proven perennial
(once Violet, Lily, or Daisy)
Waiting on bated baby's breath
to blossom beyond marigold,
an undiscovered exotic
For this concrete jungle.