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Best John Heck Poems

Below are the all-time best John Heck poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Details | John Heck Poem

Being there

Diamonds are a dangerous commodity.
Topaz brickettes pave lost roads 
for the unfortunate paths 
of bewildered Dorothy's
(and misguided second-removed cousins).
The birthday cards
I send myself,
are never returned to sender;
they're forwarded to you.

Rubies are ominous and a crucial burden.
Red. A vibrant statement.
Look at me! I'm red! 
Quite a pathetic gemstone.
(Dorothy - you need to re-dye your slippers).
The birthday cards you've sent me
are now forwarded back to you.
Diamonds and rubies 
are dangerous commodities.

Quartz tickles my fancy.
Limestone abandons my will.
Emeralds? I visted that city; once.
The PO Box for my re-routed
birthday cards are registered there.
My second-removed cousin
tiles his palacial floors with them.
Diamonds, rubies and emeralds are
dangerous commodities.

Sapphires are worthless crackerjacks.
Amethyst is a word that
(half the population of Idaho can't spell).
A Rock of Gibraltar. The man you needed.
The dupe you wanted.
The patsy who refrains from  
visiting your morosed petting zoos.
The gemstone you suckle?
Who is it?

No!

I'm not your diamond;
sweetheart.
Hardly, am I your ruby;
cupcake.
Perchance, an emerald? 
Doubtful! 
Quartz, limestone...a sapphire?
You orchestrate personal deaths 
upon the metallic
bands around your rhenoid fingers.
A gemstone I'm not a part of.

Being there - 
I was the part of your life
that was accidentally flung over 
rusty-coat hangers
stuffed in moth-ridden closets.
I was the gemstone 
that never glossed
your fancy fingers.

Diamonds?
Emeralds?
Rubies?
Sapphires?
Quartz?
Limestone?

No...pumice; 
my love.
Understand, pumice doesn't sink!
I'll pop back into mischievious
blackened-hearts anytime I please -
and you will welcome me for
a sincerity that warrrants no appraisals.

However, 
my utmost truisms sparkle 
decadent- bright
like diamonds -

a dangerous and rare
commodity.





.




Details | John Heck Poem

Pillow Talk

Dreams
Waft
Downward
Billowing
As the bed sheets drape.
Fold in the sides - tuck the corners
For only then will my wrinkled thoughts be neatly made.


Details | John Heck Poem

As Canvas Weeps

Unblemished vellum
Begs the Imagist's pardon:
Forsake not my skin -
Complete my chaste nakedness
With threads of dappled spectra


Details | John Heck Poem

Another Crossroad

Another crossroad.
Invalids weep when 
wearing another's
soiled diapers suddenly 
disappear.
In spite of the battered off-chance -
from a despondent interruption;
I'm the exposed exception.

Coarse fingers bleed.
My wheelchair spokes 
are hardly friendly.
I proudly bawl when no one 
can see me bow my head
amongst the company of
irreverent observers.

At rest
with this solemn disease -
the embrassing stench of inhumanity
forces me to open a 
newly glass-stained window.
I whisk swallowed past-killings
onto bent steel hangers.
Neatly there, they elegantly droop -
angled and uninteresting;
in a dank closet where 
falsified myths
and I 
silently hide.

Leukemia, I personally, thank you.
Mid wives laugh at me.
Jesters poke a crooked finger, also.
Kings, queens 
and jacks are left behind.
I chuckle, too - with an
unbridled Lucille Ball lament.
Four spaded-aces and a forgotten spittoon;
the uninviting hospice where we 
comfortably bed together
crocheting darned finales.

Say farewell.
Don't tell anyone.
Blood bleeds beyond 
frowned staled dales and

expiration is a personal moment.
Daddy and Mommy need to witness 
the definition of 
an unwarranted demise.

Open ended the 
Grimm fairy tale concludes,
without a finely tuned 
Aesop moral,
leashing the braille-exhausted
onto another muddied 

crossroad.


Details | John Heck Poem

Breathless

Caught in lust's whirlpool -
pretzel entwined limbs
edge me into your
carnal cavity
whilst you taste thine's flesh.

Nail-induced scars
tattoo my back
as wanton yips
pervade night air.

Erotic
stimuli
mingle and

sculpt our
torso's

whole!


Details | John Heck Poem

Forever Verona

A Montague. A Capulet.
‘Twas at a masquerade they met.
Two strangers caught each other's eyes
as strains of love began to rise.

Upon a courtyard balcony,
amidst the angst of family,
‘twas there the pair professed love's need -
though Kismet's kiss would intercede.

Alas, the banes of passion bleed -
resolving gest through tragedy.
The foils of fate singed hot as coals
yet death would reunite their souls.

Two hearts in heaven overflow -
One Juliet. One Romeo.


Details | John Heck Poem

Shrewd Awakening

Captive
Grinning coyly 
She feigns timidity
Cunningly knowing fools become
Ensnared





Details | John Heck Poem

Into the Woods

I stand neck-high tall
within the quicksand
of my infirmities.
Green and gaunt,
I hesitantly genuflect.

Ravaged tendons and corpuscles
are barely breathing
within the vacant corridors
of a soiled carcass.

My ardor for vindication
has been abandoned.
I presently refrain from accepting
the consultation of 
umbrous soothsayers.

Readers of tealeaves and tarot cards
hurl my infractions towards
the apex of your divinity
and the nadir of my scrutiny.

I espy no Judas rope
(dangling from lofty boughs)
as scores
of unanswered novenas
sleep beneath my fingernails.

Scars flourish upon my skin -
agnate to larvae
and dried leaves.
The density of my marrow
turns moss covered and dank.
Choirs of starving nestlings
bear witness to my afflictions.

Swallowing the last notes
of a disenchanted requiem;
they slowly bind my wrists 
with twigs of knotted reflections -
as Harper Lee's macaws
peck my cheeks and 
the calculated feast ensues.

A murky blanket
of eventide quilts me
in fibers of remorse.
Lesions burst
underneath my skin;
they herald my inhumanity
as I impishly smile.

Connect-the-dot cold sores,
(not found in children’s books)
entwine a raw endoscope probe -
mocking
my charted results.

Inky woodlands
are devoid of carnival mirrors
and inner deliberations.
Such forms
of bun coed celebration minuet
within another's emptied psyche.

The conduits
to my umbra are blocked.

All exits are closed.

So, into the woods I go,
medicine chest-closed
and matchstick available.
Searching for answers
the starving nestlings

formerly consumed.



Details | John Heck Poem

Bah, Humbug

Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting  
gray chill in the air.
I meander 
ever 
so
slowly 
past lawns
strewn 
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels 
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with 
da Vinci's golden teardrops.

(Impoverished attention-getters)

"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"

(Simpletons)

Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.

My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –

sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.

Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes 
so 
much 
dead.

(So be it)

They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)

These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,

bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."

(Wasteful)

Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.

My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -

pour myself a 
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -

scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...

turn the air conditioner

ON.


Details | John Heck Poem

Beyond The Lantern Light

'Twas a fortnight fraught with tainted stars;
'Midst mournful tears salting Neptune's sea.
A withered lass swallows internal scars,
'Twixt purist passions removed from thee.

Thoust bravest beloved her soul kept dear;
A buccaneer's quest sculpting pirated pride:
"Seizing Zeus' crown 'neath Poseidon's bier;
A jewel I'll bequeath to thine waiting bride."

Lantern lights flicker past sheltered shores.
Naked thee writhes; nary a vow to don.
Rest not the rues grieved 'pon garish moors -
Whilst honored prayers of thou beau breathes non.

Replete in requiem; Thalassa exhales,
Thine darkened omens proclaimed by thee.
Dying the deaths of thoust betrothed prevails;
Whilst unheard novenas abandons she. 

A fortnight chills and the stars grow dim;
Neptune's waters heal whilst God's fingers burn.
A comely maiden torches thy heart for him -
In hope thine's glow reflects lost love's return.


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