Richard Lawrence Harrington

Richard L Harrington



Without Knowing Myself Better


To never
have held, and pulled, at stone
or stood loyally atop our mountains.

Had I not
wandered amongst your leaves,
stoic as my seasons changed about me.

If never
my brooks had interwove',
nor I flowed drunkenly through your valleys.

I'd stay here,
a silent moss-veiled cave,
hypnotized by warm daylight on the walls,

and I'd mistake
the ground beneath my heart
for the green, green grasses of some spring-dream.

This Untitled Something


It's etchings of rivers long dried;
scars of fluid devotion,
those unrequested commitments,
our patterns more so than the notions.

It's summer's wilting of meadows;
counting each blossom we knew,
those waters running underground,
tended rebirths into newer truths.

It's the bark of ancient lovings;
the slow twisting of dear trees,
this intertwining of our roots,
or how we still quiver in the breeze.

It's boulders in mountain saddles;
tense clasping at rough edges,
when cascades shift slower than minds,
breaking down before spring mends us.

It's waltzing 'neath the aurora;
a dance binding earth to sky,
electricity in our bones,
our wondrous lights never lost to time.

It's swimming with the change of tides;
the salty shores we have been,
this shedding of our loosened sands,
how countless eager forms hide within.

It's the circling of the mushrooms;
making homes away from home,
the morning dew that tickles us,
or our conjunct solace as we roam.

It's that small, magic feeling;
that sure, perilous movement,
the narration of the fleeting,
our grip to life before we lose it.

All Tied In


Deep swelling of our chests
- balancing this ebb and haul.
These vulnerable ascents
- weighed against a tethered fall.

We're tied here, vertically
- together, lashed to this stone.
Fingers placed furtively,
- pressed against this crag, alone.

Firm earth 'neath each caress
- climbing old faces of sin.
Tempting the wall, "undress"
- starlight revealing this skin.

These grasping limbs held tight
- returning our hearts back down.
Felt by day as in night,
- passion, into which we drown.

Into Embraced Comfort


and out of my life,
you'll fade
— or my favor
will swerve from and for you.
Ever reborn,
with the stirring of stars,
your warmth will remain what I knew.

and released, like bliss,
I'll drift
— or acceptance,
given no other choice.
My southern sea,
or ye expanse above,
I'm still proud to have known your voice.

and freedom, balance
in loss
— or forsake us,
by bonds that might have been.
Night's best questions,
twinkling beyond my sight,
answer, "We were only meant to begin."

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.

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