SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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September 8~ CHUCK HARP

9/8/2025

 
Today we're shining the spotlight on award-winning writer Chuck Harp, who brings us three poems which navigate place, time, and emotion. Thank you, Chuck, for sharing your words with SHINE international poetry series!

Vast Blues

Driving past the vast blues
tangling with one another
along the rocky coast,
everything shrinking
in my faded rearview mirror.

Work, lost to the winds.
Anxiety, hidden behind leaves.

Images of escaping the road
and swerving to the sea
to sink in secret
by fire, smoke, and foam
like a submarine, hidden
from all on the surface.

Instead, the wheels roll on
passing gawkers and commuters
heading to a new anything
that’s half as perfect
and simple
as that all-encompassing color.

Dry Heat

Sunshine snowflakes
Passing by my clouded windows,
Blackened deceased leaves
Seeking a final rest
Beside the faded paint
And deteriorating apartment
Complex, tucked in the hidden
Los Feliz forest
Growing by
the side of the highway
in the dry
crude California
soil, rich
in disappointment,
teeming with tears
these bright purple beauties
proving all can come
crumbling down
even on the brightest days.

Some for the Road

Halted by a red hand
approaching the crosswalk
I peek out beyond
my fraying grey him
to spot the invisible winds
shimmering at the furthest hill.

Ripples sprouting below the sun
like hollow peddles growing
in a liquified garden
set amongst boundless beds
only ever able to bloom
from the seed of desires
before morphing to an oasis
in seasons reaching the
dangerous temperatures.

Beckoned by a white guy
to enter the intersection
I trek toward the mirage
only for it to crumble
and disperse like dry weeds
beneath my traveling feet.
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Chuck Harp is an award-winning Los Angeles based writer. He’s published poetry collections, novels, scripts, and comics. Parallel to his printed works, Chuck collaborates with his art collective, Katcheen Tongues, to create musical poetry projects. Between work, Chuck writes about the skateboard culture.



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    SHINE - International Poetry Series

    Picture
    From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is my honor to provide a home for their words through SHINE Poetry Series.
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    NOW IN PRINT!

    Stars Over the Dordogne
    BY SYLVIA PLATH
    Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
    Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
    Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
    The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
    They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
    Nor do they send up fires where they fall
    Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
    They are eaten immediately by the pines.

    Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
    Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
    And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
    The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
    But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
    They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
    But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
    They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

    The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
    I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
    Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
    Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
    Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
    Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
    I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
    Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

    And what if the sky here is no different,
    And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
    Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
    The few I am used to are plain and durable;
    I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
    Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
    They are too puritan and solitary for that--
    When one of them falls it leaves a space,

    A sense of absence in its old shining place.
    And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
    I see those constellations in my head,
    Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
    There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
    On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
    Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
    And drink the small night chill like news of home.

    ~~~

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  • ABOUT
  • BOOKS
  • PUBLICATIONS
  • SHINE Poetry Series
    • SUBMISSIONS
  • PROFESSIONAL AFFILIATIONS
    • CONNECT
  • POETIC TRINITAS