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.
Create your profile
Only paid subscribers can comment on this post
Check your email
For your security, we need to re-authenticate you.
Click the link we sent to , or click here to sign in.