Portfolion of Richard Lawrence Harrington



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Means to an End



I am your way;
not companion,
but crutch.

Your better self,
on my shoulders
- not heart.

I once believed
our desires

Now overgrown
by stumbling time,
I ache.

Rather I'd with,
than without you,
go on.

We still share paths,
though parallel,
at times.

Splitting lodgings,
more suitable
than planned.

Our Home Town



You'll never truly stay around, so let's always try for late.
We'll have streetlamps in the moonlight, lining every traffic gate.
Our town's too small to grow within - you, too restless to stifle;
so when you find yourself longing
for our mossy ol' awnings,
we'll listen and smile
as you rest here a while.

Let your stories wash out on Main, of life beyond the outskirts.
Wilt among our Autumn orchards, shedding to winds what now hurts.
While not always postcard-perfect, our town is always a home;
where strolling down middles of lanes
relieves us each of our strains,
and loved ones you know
will cherish how you've grown.

We Living



You're a stranger's soft "goodnight";
that voice which lays us in stolen down,
or that icy trickling 'neath the driest storefront.

You're uncertain answers to firm questions;
"what can you offer me others cannot?",
or a scrawled "anything" on cardboard.

You're the one who will surely fight;
under howls of shared discomfort,
or against those bullets which bury us.

You're the fated color of a life;
those many best and worst choices,
or mere tones and hues devalued.

You're the tears in our strained eyes,
spent laughing wildly into a drink,
or begged forth by our lost and taken.

You're everything you could possibly be;
the one forgiven on stock-exchange terms,
or given wholly to lone compassion.

You're ever passing these crossroads;
a hitchhiker going nowhere at all,
or walking - speeding into why we're "we".

Nested Cynosure



I've worshipped this one,
a likeness of none,
for hours, or years, or never.
We've whispered all night,
on to this morning's light,
while moments became forever.

Down the Road



We're ten years down the road
at the head of a fork
pronged far into what was

Now we've converged again
on this set point in time
conceived so long ago

We chose the well-known route
sealing ceaseless futures
as we betrayed our past

What was sacred back then
is still as precious now
but not for us alone

We've been forced to be weak
with these old friends' hellos
and those heartbreak goodbyes

The world is different now
both less than expected
and somehow still much more

So we've brought ourselves here
with patch-covered tires
and our well-traveled hearts

And as the road carries on
I'm glad it passed your way
those many years ago

It's Getting Late, It's Time to Come Home



When our names are called out before dark,
I will never forget you;
you’ll be long-borne in my growing heart,
still there when names have fled.

When you became my sacred someone,
we said it was forever;
and the years which seemed much longer then,
feel so much shorter now.

When those first wild nights have long gone by,
we both will share some sorrow;
but the mistakes that nearly lost us,
will safely guide us home.

When the last light of your street blinks on,
we know it’s time to go;
don’t be worried by the setting sun,
the end is lovely too.

When you and I are wrapped warm in bed
or laid down to rest by time;
it’s getting late, it’s time to come home,
I’ll walk you all the way.

Unto Us



We reach further,
closer than ever we have before;
into our hearts,
where answers lay pure and exposed.

We press inward,
toward what simple truths still remain;
buried in us,
deep beneath what others create.

We form ourselves,
better in judgement than in practice;
likened to you,
who never we have left unchanged.

Is This You?



Together, we have eagerly wasted time,
burned our little flames brighter,
and outlasted the night.

Is this you,
who falls into my ribcage,
whose fingers grasp my heart?

Innocence, we have so fondly tasted here,
dies beside these woven feet,
and sleeps without a grave.

Is this you,
who makes a full bed empty,
whose warmth keeps it half-full?

Holding on, we take those strengths we are given,
bracing weathered foundations,
and a leaky tin-roof.

Is this you,
who walks onward to the end,
whose journey met my own?

Onward To Our Night



The still motion of life yields ever onward to our fertile lights;
each taken to burn unique,
each committed to the same wind’s dance.

We race with feigned certainty to ends of roads and sudden faults of love;
we, under blankets afire,
we, awaiting that ancient awe.

Those strong march away fearing the beauty of disappointment;
long lost to old memories,
long callused to our bitter truths.

All our loved ones pass with the city lights below our hearts;
in the thin streets of our minds,
in flames we beg quietly to forget.

How perfect and hopeful we've been in all our fleeting deeds;
to outlast our faithfulness,
to have walked onward to our night.

Dragging the Anchor



You're the passenger who left me
when I forsook the shore;
in love out at sea,
with dreams of nothing more.

I thought these sails would save you
from an old lonely storm,
but can you rescue
what's been so safe and warm?

Well I'm sorry I shipped out fast
leaving what I adored;
truths tied to the mast,
of my love still anchored.

Now we're over those shipwrecked tears,
and never have I told
how I kept for years
your lonely storms of old.

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