Written Submissions by Jamie Lynn Lockhart Harvey

Jamie Lynn Lockhart Harvey sent us some beautiful written work. You can check out her blog, which has some of her writing on it here

Untitled: 

sat here, tired and wavering 
amongst the hovering and bright bombardment of Dundas Square
on the mornings of my dreaded and well loved work days
I sit and smoke like an angry french poet
of centuries fallen – onto text and photos
memorized by ancient and used fingers

and how can these faces be so massive and flashing
like manipulated child day dreams while mothers and brothers
and family heirlooms
shift and roll around the closed door of my boundless bedroom

the tiny little songs of the everyday 

I sat on this cold stone railway 
my heart still beating for the screaming deserts of phoenix
those secret streets of paris – well polished by the feet of endless mongers of love
and my head still lifted in the trees of my whimpering and flight filled youth

I could bare a life well lived
strung up on the shoulder of 
Years From Now

old definitions altered 
or altogether gone

– misplaced or other wise – 

and hands still creased 
        deeper in their yearnings then ever 
rivers of blood flowing slower,
        stronger in their age and the unforeseen surges 

abatements and heart strings
pull me closer
       and I have felt loneliness 
like all
       and love sure has come and left
and shown its ragged claws to the sun on my face
– that deep warmth to sing, those happy rays of song –
and I have wandered lost
within the fallen temples of our shared heart
for awhile then

and woken up on my back
fear released 
to the light of the days of now

I sit here, untempered and at least fulfilled
for the skies pulled down with fog
and each word falls out as raw and loved quartz
to roll about my feet like fish of clear blue bodies
salted and clean
and they skip around behind me as I hold loves new hand
       a sight once again unseen
when I was young and nervous to take off my clothes
       to release my skin to the air of a strange but kind bedroom
of those boys I kept running into 
and longing for in my sleep

how did I fear for anything but time itself
a thing I now cherish as a well known friend
that I can reach in to and relinquish when my fingers fall tired
from hours in stillness, 

a floating of the soul 

a simplicity of wayfare that i have learned to step into 
       like a bathtub filled with hot clearing water
the lights above the mirror playing games to woe my eyes
the colours of my energy seeping with the air
      that pours out from the hands of the water
      that keeps me stilled and honest

until another day comes
and my body must go and do the things that it should
with my heart tucked behind
and revving with love

December 1st, Front Steps, milky way, the universe:

the day a silver wreckage
so simply laid down
tender tiny gestures into the frightened changing skyline
and the walkways we crossed through 
and the minutes swiftly and kindly erased 
braided into hours
strung through out our smiles

patterned gasps of pigeons 
fleeting over your head
like a feather halo 
the freedom of chaotic & organized flight

(the well known sun, dying
peaking through grins before
he sleeps)

an honest friendship of the soul
so sure as to be loved wholly and in all ways 
and talking of all the time
and the strange hands of the reeking earth
and the lapping grins of the golden life

and us in our midnight places
after the sun had been dreaming of days 
gutted of the switch
naked of the moon
for hours by now

and not a thing in a loss of hope for love – and passing, time. time how.

o, lost! the reeking earth
plugged in
contented and frail
smoke strings holding
your most sacred being
diving into a moon
as you laid under the sky
still an old blue place…

(- a wind strung boat side
rocks gently somewhere
an old, worn man sways…
plays a small guitar
sings deeply without fear…

“oh let me forget you for you,
yes, each strand of hair
your sleeping exhales of 
dreams passing through…
darling darling where have you gone to?”)

sit here still,
cold from all day becoming night
let’s stay and laugh and smile instead 
“I’m not ready.”
glowing in eloquent white

we’re all in each stretch of time
‘you’re not alone in anything…’
strange to feel…
to never really know
pure solitude 
oh well
 
and celebratory talk of your brother
so kind and youthful 
his fears begot into light
by rebirth and love 
a new life to bring a happiness once feared
life! o, life!
an illusion uncovered

and blur and blur, 
encounters with that young drunk man
his scarf worn tight like a weapon
(a face screaming of british ancestry)
insincerely angry over gandhi and simple thinking
just to talk, talk 
and you so kindly smiled 
and gave him the ears and reproaches he so drunkenly craved 

how are we to know what is best anymore?
things all seem to grow into one
grand
& special
a meditative hunger
of our sacred hearts
 
and all our losses and broken seams
& we will always choose to love anyway
like a child, sure – fears and hopes raised up and high
above the castles and freight train mind tracks – up, up!
– and talk of families fumbled in the darkness of vast red nights –
before the aged & institutional minded fucks 
come and tell us, ‘no!’ 
and ‘how dare you!’
and ‘don’t you know by now? that this! this is it!’

o with all our losses and busted bones
o yes how we will still dance
with vigorous love and spirit giving
our voices bellow through the crazed fire dream
o all! 
all our losses! 

how these little broken sentences gleam

‘how we will love anyway!’

yes, always 
we know

a dream left to living,
and a hand left to love

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