Let Bygones Be

by Jack D. Harvey (March 2026)

7
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Let Bygones Be
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Well, strike me for a lark,
a tree fell over a tree,
we dreamt on a little while
and snow comes down a
little while and Mussolini
passes on.
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Well, let’s hold hands,
let’s sit in the park on
a bench, feed each
other from a paper bag;
summer passes too, the
trees lose their leaves,
the flowers fall apart
and butterflies
pass into the never-never
nothing-nothing.
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Sing in a cafe,
dance,
sit in a bus
with your friend.
The piano sounds once,
the dogged chords
resound between the
timbers and iron
of basement walls,
the wood of
country cottages,
of mansions,
the frames of skyscrapers,
ringing softly once and forever.
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At night,
all of us,
safe as mice
in our rooms
but let the owl
fly up in madness
and strike the
eagle once.
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Give What You Have
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Auction of my heart,
my head will have to wait;
auction of my blithe spirit,
my soul will have to take five;
auction of my trumpet
trumpeting away
beneath my belt.
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All these artifacts
lovely as linen
against the shining sun
have to go
with like the easy feel
of wrong-way streets
and sunny avenues
becoming perfect.
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O large wash of tug
please like me in
my lazy line, O bird
of morning mourn for
your mate, not for me.
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Oyez, oyez, oyez,
friends and enemies,
audience of one;
auction of all my
good stuff,
fading, goddammit,
like pictures on a wall.
Everything going,
going, marked
down, struck down
by time, by gosh,
and everything and
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gone.
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Time Flies
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My youth flits by
like a subway,
like a swallow in spring,
like a vaulting buck in fall,
like a boy on a merry-go-round.
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Wintry eld comes on me,
blowing me down the street
like a piece of waste paper,
comes rustling, taking me
to God knows where.
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My youth in a flash
turned to ash,
gone by
as fast as light; the light
step dies, the flush dies away
from cheek and strength departs
from brawny shoulder.
The stars not so clear at night
and my veins stand out
like the canals on Mars
seen distant through
a telescope.
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Where does it all go,
where do the dreams,
the doing, the conquering?
Like clouds over an island
blown on and on,
deep in the sky
they fade away.
=
Placid old man,
waiting and wondering,
I go along, sitting out
the day, the night,
lonely outposts
marking my time.
=
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