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Joshua Harris Poem
My Clock
By J. Philip Harris
Tick tock, tick tock the old man clicks his clock. That rude robust bellow of the long and short. Splattering seconds as it pleases. RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT, and on and on it goes, a never-ending cycle of cyclic stress syndrome. Oh, the tyranny!!!
SHHH!!!! Do you hear it? The crackle of the old man! It taunts me. It nags me. It’s pleased to watch my whits end. Oh why do your hands strangle me so?
Tick tock, tick tock the old man clicks his clock.The blundering muses of black wading in and waddling down the river white. You jezebels of Babylon! I long to murder you. I long to see your end. You spread me thin and drive my nerves into an early grave. My tardiness is amusing to you.
RUSH, RUSH, RUSH, RUSH! The aching grin that pushes me onward down the spiral of bleeding hell. My clock.
My Clock
Click
Clock
The old man clicks my clock!
Copyright © Joshua Harris | Year Posted 2017
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Joshua Harris Poem
The August Lion
By: J. Philip Harris
In the area of the afternoon, right before the stars
Where the little gray strands spread out among the coffee roots
Through the looking glass
Beyond the esotropic eyes
In the land of the chevron lane and the laughter of the silly school boy
In the heart of a sawbones' hands
Beyond the reaches of the retentive shadows
Where the hiccups of life have sought to crush his spirit
In the echoes of his father’s soul
Through the reflection of his mother’s love
Like a break-loose dance of life’s unbinding freedom to feel and to breathe.
Here in the whisper
Hear the gentle purrs thrown out into the void
Like diamond lights in the dark matter
Here, the hero.
Hear the August Lion.
Copyright © Joshua Harris | Year Posted 2017
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Joshua Harris Poem
Time With My Kids
By: J. Philip Harris
The air smells good here
Better than I’ve ever known
I stop a little while longer and
Let the sweet smell linger stronger
All the eyes that look my way
As if they call to me to say,
“Here I am, Papa.”
I love the sound of little words,
In here they only come in thirds.
I love the way they make the noise
Even when there are no toys.
I love their little fingertips
And all the messy bathroom trips.
I see the writing on the wall
And find it hard to see it fall.
I love the Panda and how she talks.
And the Owl and how she walks.
I love the Whale with his sad eyes.
And the Lion’s dapper guise.
I love the Monkey and her cheese.
And Elliot the Dragon’s sneeze.
I love the sleep I do not get.
But cherish more the moments
When I get to hold them close.
I stop a little while more
And revel in the dirty floor
The never-ending laundry pile
The leaving home that takes a while.
I breathe right in the chaos days
Wishing they would only stay.
I’m quite aware of how time flies
And, soon I’ll have to say goodbye.
I just wish that time stood still
And sat upon my windowsill
Where always I could take it down and
Spend it with my kids.
Copyright © Joshua Harris | Year Posted 2017
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Joshua Harris Poem
Everywhere The Kids Are
By: J. Philip Harris
Kids are here; Kids are there
The kids I see are everywhere
I’m swimming in a toddler pool
Of poop and pee and puke and drool
The chaos ripe, as it abounds
That rhythmed, cacophonic sound
It’s heightened ring I hear, resounds
Everywhere the Kids Are
The messes here, the messes there
The messes roaring everywhere
Like little flames set forth to fire
Consuming up the precious briar
And through the forest manor
It’s hectic, yes, I’m quite aware
With passing hyper critic stares
But something lingers in the air
That few will ever know
Kids are here; kids are there
Bringing with them pungent airs
Of joyous love eternal
A moment captured amongst the war
Of happiness felt like that of lore
But truest ever known
When time has left us standing here
Aged, creeping heads of steer
We will hold that love so dear
Everywhere the Kids Are
The air is sad; I feel it, too
The seasons change from green to blue
The light has left us in the dark
With our glowing flame
It may be small, but we can see
That Christ is leading you and me
Copyright © Joshua Harris | Year Posted 2017
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Joshua Harris Poem
I awaited the hour of Your presence to come.
I spent my energy in patient silence waiting for Your voice.
I fell lost for thought and direction.
My mind flooded aimlessly into the endless corridors.
I sunk down into a torpor because I could not feel you near.
The years’ drug on like sluggish roaming cattle.
I would wake up and face the day’s battle as if being led by a puppeteer.
Debilitated and worn to a smallish nub, I miraculously got through each day.
Others would speed along, winding noises in my ears.
They whooped and hollered, drunken with life’s allusions.
It was a clanging symphony inside my head.
The dread of the daily routine made me sick.
I learned to be blind and deaf so that I could endure the living.
Still yet, that something in me carried me through that wasteland.
I clung hopefully to each new day, awaiting your voice.
Frailly, I muddled through the raging quiet to its end.
Hopeful for a season of rest, I smote with grandeur.
I breathed in and breathed out.
Closing my eyes, I laughed aloud with relief.
I was a soldier leaving his foxhole at the end of war.
I stepped forward through the open door.
A door of unknown lands, of the likes no man has seen.
Still sure this door awaited rest, I moved anxiously forward.
I swallowed the pill, no questions asked and expecting euphoric pain relief.
As I lifted my eyes, which seemed to take a thousand years, I smelled an awful odor.
It permeated the room like fresh defecation.
The humid air velvetly touched my body, caressing my skin and coaxing me inward.
With sight in full rebound, I gazed upon the unknown lands; my long awaited direction.
My heart sank and my stomach grew ill as I stood surrounded by lions.
They were hungry, angry, and aroused with defense.
Words flooded my brains.
So much so that I could not speak.
I fell silent, but my spirit uttered only one phrase.
“Into the den, into my destiny.”
Copyright © Joshua Harris | Year Posted 2018
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Joshua Harris Poem
In the Amaranthine Era
By J. Philip Harris
Of all the echoes that I remember
All the smallish voices that still linger
The precious moments missed which fell through the cracks
like flaking brittle embers
Short lived and long forgotten
Of all the echoes in my box
Ones I can't seem to shake
They move in pangs of lamentation, of longing, of sorrow and regret
Of all the singing songs
The happy tunes I've missed
Ones my children sang in years unnoticed
Yes, the years of squandered time
Like run down homes
The endless ache churns deep within my soul to renovate them
Those avenues are snuffed out flames
Stamped into the rock of time
The chasm between us is of great
But how my soul longs for clemency
How I pine for absolution
Now, here in the rags of my life
Where time has stolen away my verve
Here in the dying down of an old flame
I am stricken with penitence
I am lavished with grief
The stone cannot be rewritten
But it can be forgotten
Extinguished by the One of endless mercy
And there in the Amaranthine era
I will live what once I lost.
Copyright © Joshua Harris | Year Posted 2017
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Joshua Harris Poem
In the meadow, of the fields of life burning ripe with ire, I lay. Falling into a nagging sleep away from all the begging flowers. Aloof into the night, with blindfolds to help me rest peacefully. I Am above the wounds watching. Ill from all the pain that flows, like the ocean deep. On my way through the crystal forest smoke. Yes, I am blind. Yes, I enjoy it.
I sift through the mesh in separate little grains, lying peaceful in the meadow of the fields of life. All the leavings weave passed. Paranoid they might start to grab. Quickly I measure down to speed past them and sleep deep in quiet peace. I drink down the silencing, like where the malted barley meet. I sanctify myself deep into the cask to wear the sleepers mask. When one by one the ants gather round to take from me my picnic. I sell them quick the Sevin dust to help them sleep and they grab their dollar bills to snort away the pain. Relief once more for me as I inject the art of ignorant sleep deep into my veins, peaceful sleep.
An evening of infinity came to a close in one second of complete surprise. Softly a voice breathed across my eyes to persuasion. Suddenly I felt the pain of sleep. Deep wounds of salted sleep lie bottomless inside my soul like tender ripping of flesh inching its way away from each other, as quarreling lovers do. I bled out conviction like a spy who talked under the pressure of the knife. Yes, I was blind. No, I did not enjoy it.
What touched me so? What soft blade plunged deep into my heart? What acid ate away the veil over my eyes? Grace! What Grace has let me live! I look and now I see the meadow of the fields of life. I see the begging flowers as for the first time. They are majestic little broken buds. I feel the wounds, sharp and lonely. The leavings permeate my nostrils deep into my senses and I sympathize with the smell. And the ants! Oh, how poor are they! I yearn to meet their every need. Yes, now I can see.
The sleepers mask is removed. As I make my way through the meadows of life I move towards the tree. Along the way, I stop to help all the ones like me.
Copyright © Joshua Harris | Year Posted 2018
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