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Editors Note: As part of our mission here at the Colorado Switch Blade, we wanted to give a regional venue for some of the amazing creatives in our communities to show case their work. Here is a piece by our first poet, local Estes Park writer and poet, July Harvey.

Juley Harvey is a former journalist (California and Colorado) and a prize-winning poet —— TulipTree Review’s Wild Women, Thompson Peak (Janesville, CA) animal stories, Tilting to Listen; Wolf Warriors; Celebrating Animal Rescue; Dancing Poetry; and TallGrass Writers black-and-white series. Her work has appeared in more than 45 publications, beginning with Cosmopolitan. She is currently trying to conquer short stories and novels, along with poetry. She lives at the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park with her loving animal rescue companions, Ms. Moosie and Mr. Pye, and is in the wonderful Estes Park Writers Group, led by Kevin Wolf and sometimes by Jason Van Tatenhove. Her brother has an answer for the planet’s problems —— see blumedistillation.com. She remains inspired and indebted by the arthearts in the world.

to the survivors

written on 9/11/2021

because

all that matters,

from 9/11 20 years gone,

there’s somewhere the comfort,

the dragged-on dawn,

from wars big and small,

from immigrants

fleeing, baggage, all,

to those natural disastered out,

to anyone facing affliction, rout,

death, mass shootings, covid,

disease, wars, and toxic imbalance

of impure natures, nurtures, planet flout,

your spirits are acknowledged,

celebrated, cherished. you are. here.

we are. here. now.

the will to live and go on

is bigger than the wrecking ball

knocking us down, sideways, breathless,

through a loop, for a moment in memory.

in deference to tom petty, we all

have to live like refugees —

except the one-percenters,

on their yachts and spaceships —

save us from those ghastlight trips!

we are bigger than the sum

of our fears, and ghosts,

outlasting the loss

because of oceans and coasts of love.

we march on,

half-merrily,

as much for those gone

as for ourselves,

broken mirrors,

still reflecting.

there’s the comfort,

the half-fulls.

those who survive,

any and all,

we salute you.

champions of the soul,

no wheaties box portrait picture,

only the dogged human spirit

and the dawn

forces the getting up

and going on,

and so the fete,

the fate of living,

breathing, being.

vulnerabilities,

what we see

as what we get

as we age,

things that were never

there before,

things that were always there,

not so much anymore.

quoth the vulture,

evermore.

everything is something else’s

dinner, carnivore, predator.

but the human spirit rises

eternal, winner, a wildfire candle

with no handle,

a mysterious mandela mandible.

unkillable, coming back as

an ocean of krill,

determined, dim as a one-celled animal.

to the survivors go the toils,

the work of everyday living broils.

snow angels fly, cope,

we dark the cursedness

with our candled hope,

and hang on one-handed

to a fraying rope.