Written submission by Jamie Harvey

Long-time friend of The Continuist Jamie Harvey writes poetry that is guaranteed to melt your heart. She hasn’t sent us work in a while and we’re so, so happy to share a few of her newest pieces with you.
To enjoy the rest of her beautiful written work and more, click for her blog here.

a small tumble of thoughts
take over my space, my mind
gentle – as if it were a piece of string dragged lightly,
nearly floating over my body, my skin
elated beneath it, soundlessly rising
breathing into light

my well of syncopated rhythm
it stirs in me and pines
and I see the forecast of nightingales,
can feel their wind pushing by

father james road

cement darkened by rain
wet, inside my shoes now
as I walk down a country highway
slipping in mud
to find myself at work

living in a mad house somedays
where we are the angelic donkeys
washing their dishes in the name of buddhas work
or so we tell ourselves
to calm ourselves
until we can get out to forage our own path
and live in our own walls
and stand up on our tippy toes, with mornings coffee in hand
the night stained and still in our hair –
to reach our eyes just over the heel of the land
and see the wide ocean, our dream beacon of hope

the light shifting across the room,
that translucent sphere hung up in the rafters of the ceiling
it must be changing tides somehow while my body grows darker
and whats lit, it jumps out! and sings to the high heavens of hand made rays

oh you plastic creatures of no movement…
nor recognition of being – yet time wears them, too

a bit darker now with age and reason
lost and found and lost and found and

they all hover here over a successful future,
as if it is the only road out of this human condition
lessons not learned
but instead get sucked up into a masked duplicity of fear and love
“if you build it they will come”
money, money, money, money
I want to gather you up with my quick young hands and touch you
ask what are you worth in this once simple life where the dwellings of sadness were more human, honest – and in tune with the fluctuations of life all around us

this river at our feet moving quickly
and the sun turns off its faucet –  the tongue of the river slowly turning to ice
living in our heads and our bodies as clay, we cannot hear the deafening madness
I swear I swear I swear


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