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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

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

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.


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

Hey, handsome...

My heart is empty, Jeffrey.
I’m standing here transfixed 
within the threshold 
of a vacant bedroom.
The air is still
but the delicate scent 
of your passing soul 
invades my nostrils. 
The aroma travels deep 
inside the tunnels 
of my abdominal cavity -
lingering like... 
a dew-anointed meadow 
sleeping ‘neath 
a fuchsia sunrise.

Your mattress is scrubbed, 
stripped and sunlit – 
except for two eiderdown pillows.
I envision a perfect outline -
your fragile face
softly carved within 
the creases of these satin cases.
I visually inhale the profile 
of your splendor; 
a modern day Shroud of Turin 
resurrected and resplendent 
through trickled specks 
of semi-dried sweat.

“No more IV’s”…“right…”
“No more bedpans”…“exactly…”
“No more night sweats”…“yes, handsome…”
“Now give me a big hug, Jeffrey…Jeffrey…”

My hands tremble as I 
reach from one photograph to the next.
The images I want to barter 
with Faustus and friends - 
ensuring me a pact 
whereas I can live and breathe 
inside these time honored pixels -
content in lonely frames
hanging upon clinical walls 
in a half-emptied bedroom.

I grabbed a beaded satin pillow
to cushion the fall as
I slowly hyperventilated.
I breathe once more, Jeffrey,
but I’ll gag twice again,
as I remember our newly spoken language -
a private dialect we created last month
reminiscent of the movie 
“The Lost Language of Cranes.”
Those three long weeks before
you suddenly became incoherent 
and inaudible 
and immobilized. 
Remember how we improvised?
Remember, handsome:

(shaking and arms crossed) “OK…you’re cold – I’ll get you a blanket!"
(pointing to your mouth)  “You’re thirsty…water or juice?"
(pointing to your mouth and shaking) “OK…I’ve got it…ice cream…pudding?"
(index fingers pointing upward and swaying) “I know… you wanna listen to music”
(index fingers pointing downward) “Please turn off the TV set”
(middle finger pointing upward) “OK…you want me to adjust your pillows?"
(both middle fingers pointing upward and shaking) “Alright…alright – I know!…If you
hear Celine Dion one more time on the radio you’re gonna kick your bedpan off the side of
the bed!"

(arms folded across your chest)…”Rest handsome, rest…”

Ssshhhh...
It’s OK, Jeffrey...it's OK.
No more IV’s.
No more bedpans.
I have your pictures.
You're not sweating anymore.
I’m not choking...now.
Beautiful pillows…really…
TV’s turned off...
Ate the last of the ice cream
and the pudding...and...

And as I did -
I swallowed every part
of your triumphant, 
blessed soul.


Details | John Heck Poem

the kissing ground

Sophie's sweat 
landscapes
the claret red horizon
thick serum
trickles 
from a Sickroom -
a death ward

where cracked knuckles
spatter the fjords 
moistening the planks;
bathing the laths of anxiety
‘neath 
marquis de sade stumps

Norwegian expressions of death -
agoraphobia
murdering actuality;
the Dance of Life
rapidly burns
as a funeral pyre of Ashes are
seized from
your tribe’s headstone

the stench of brother’s legacy
replaces
a protected breath
and a Dead Mother can 
descry muted 
caterwauls 
between
the Clock and the Bed

the two guardians of quietus
merely exit
this clotted bridge
contemptuously -
in soured and 
staled 

delight


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