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John Heck Poem
Scarlett thought she was promised permanent security.
Satchels of resilience bound her fragile wrists.
Woodland deities hailed her.
Underworld demons feared her.
The curious townsfolk simply stood in contemplation -
Inviting epee's gleamed in their eyes
as the garden shears, in their hands, smiled.
Scarlett oft pretended she was Joan of Arc.
Threads of meshed titanium webbed her sheltered heart.
Sour Grimm moppets heralded her.
Skeptical fairy godmothers chastised her.
The relentless wheel of innocence spun without interruption.
Persnickety rogues sashayed in dumbed silence -
permitting their sordid counterparts unwelcomed invitations
into a void where reverend satchels are tragically punctured.
Scarlett donned spiked eye patches in her latter years.
Protective velour swatches masking mass and the masses.
Myths and urban legends empathized with her.
Gods and martyrs appropriately buried her.
The dumbfounded spirits circle Scarlett's broken window with raised eyebrows.
Quizzically staring at rotting barrels littered with skeins if shredded satchels -
yards if tainted fibers being hopelessly spun into yet another
dark, forgotten midnight.
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2014
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John Heck Poem
'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.
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2008
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John Heck Poem
I penned a couplet for you today.
Rather, a quill manipulated
my hand and scrawled mendacity.
The misanthrope's who read the ode
applauded with flippers on.
Such insight. Such depth.
Mussolini meets Monet and
the Mephistopheles Mambo mounts.
Call me a scribe and I murder myself.
Call me a liar and I impregnate your charm.
I purposely dislocated my arm today.
Rather, your tongue severed bone
and flesh was torn from my shoulder;
a needed braised boomerang
to stimulate my poetic prowess.
Such clarity. Such wisdom.
Lenin leads Lichtenstein and
the Lucifer Lindy is launched.
Call me a poet and I gnarl my fingers.
Call me a fabulist and I bow to a crooked smile.
A jellyfish swam through my veins today.
Rather, the tentacles of a tyrant
triggered a fabricated Tanka.
Maudlin stumbles when I laugh alone -
more comedic when we cackle together.
Such simplicity. Such compassion.
Bundy befriends Berchtold and
the Beelzebub Bossa Nova begins.
Call me a dramatist and I gag upon reflection.
Call me a simpleton and your wishes are granted.
I solemnly yearn to expire today.
Rather, a fool fires in a fury
and a mannequin lies in his casket.
The curse you've driven towards me -
a combination menu
when a lone Woolf inconspicously
devours a battered Browning.
Such diversity. Such nothingness.
Stalin seduces Seurat and
the Satanic Samba softly swoons.
Call me a parodist and I choke upon perfection.
Call me a realist when I'm sleeping on nails.
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2009
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John Heck Poem
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.
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2010
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John Heck Poem
Hey there, Rag doll!
I'm folding into a bowled,
bold mix and
I'm in knead of a partner.
First come. First served.
Lying in a daydream -
I see you fit the bill.
Make my realities a nightmare.
You're my dazzling star.
You're thin-sliced innocent.
You're an unused gift certificate.
Need me.
Hey there, sweetheart!
Don't talk. Don't yelp.
It's only me leaving
an oil-stained finger print upon
your left eyelid.
Special. The touch -
my touch -
is special-licious.
Pirate-rigged and e(special)ly
meant for you.
I threw away my thesaurus yesterday.
I found it unnecessary
and callous.
LOVE is a four letter word
as is -
LIAR.
Hit me with an anthemed antonym.
Hey there, pumpkin!
Kiss me once again
and revel in
the sticky juices of
our misguided
presumptions.
Spit, spanked and smothered.
A rolling pin of charm -
You knead me,
darling.
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2012
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John Heck Poem
Unblemished vellum
Begs the Imagist's pardon:
Forsake not my skin -
Complete my chaste nakedness
With threads of dappled spectra
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2010
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John Heck Poem
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!
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2010
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John Heck Poem
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.
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2008
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John Heck Poem
Captive
Grinning coyly
She feigns timidity
Cunningly knowing fools become
Ensnared
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2008
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John Heck Poem
I stared into the mirror today.
I saw you -
a needled zealot
hovering around my left shoulder;
Adolph Hitler dressed in
opium-perfumed swatches.
You smelled like her.
You acted like him.
You looked like me.
Swastika tall and evenly abhorrent.
Syringe-insured yet,
never sharp enough to
successfully stab
outside the 50-point cork.
You slithered like a quadroplegic,
into my stratum.
Pointing and probing
a crooked finger -
never healing
the martyr's wound.
A broken grimace leaves me
ugly flesh to ponder.
Your tentacles:
toothless cleavers eclipse
black-dilated pupils,
servicing our
boomeranged arms
with dingoed malice -
peppermint leaves and peroxide boil
as the living corpse cackles.
Mussolini removed
thirteen quieted quills
from his heart
shortly before the noose was tied.
Into square knots.
Into napkin pleats.
Into a poet's silence - where
our self-induced stupor
was dragged upon
spiked cobblestones -
and for that,
my dear Stalin beauty;
I sew my spit into
vile words -
dribbling purposely
upon this diseased
cotton-swabbed
canvas
for you
and I
to clean.
Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2008
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