Just A Taste

My beautiful beauty -
or maybe the "my"
is just wishful thinking -
thoughts of you have been
creeping around my brain,
snaking around the crevices
all day, it seems.

I want to be the sweater
you put on when you're cold,
and wrap you in my arms
and never let you go.

I want to be the coffee
that you sip with your pink lips,
feeling the warmth of love
spreading down to your toes.

I want to touch the bottle
of perfume, that swirls
around your glistening body
and leaves me so enticed.

I want to feel your pillow -
the same fluffy white marshmellow
that you rest on every night
dreaming sweet, tender dreams.

I want to taste your skin, my friend -
does it truly taste like roses?
All I want is just a taste of you -
your life, your love,
your hopes, your fears,
desires, pleasures
and beautiful body.
Please, just a taste of you -
before my time comes, and I taste
the earth.

My beautiful beauty -
or maybe the "my"
is just wishful thinking -
thoughts of you have been creeping
around my brain...


~J.V.Harker~
~Monday 13 April 2009~

Insomniac

It is two fifty-eight in the morning.
the house he is currently inhabiting
is soundless.
His bedroom fails to make
even one small noise
to remind him
of civilization.

Yet, despite his blurry vision,
he can not stop examining
the glowing red numbers
next to his bed.
They examine him back,
laughing at him, mocking him.
They call him
the Insomniac.

But in the next house on the right,
two children are sleeping
in a double-mattress.
Their eyes are closed lightly,
and, hand in hand,
they are now only active
in a world of dreams.

One block away,
an elderly woman slumbers,
sitting upright in her rocking chair.
The soothing sounds of an infomercial
keep her from waking
into her arthritic world of pain.

Somewhere across town,
A cat is napping
on the edge
of some woman's bed.

Deep in the city,
a homeless man is using
an empty pizza box
as his pillow.

Yet the Insomniac is not following
the actions of his fellow peers.
All he can do
is stare, maddeningly, at those numbers:
haunting him every night.

Until, in a fit of desperation,
he grasps the alarm clock's cord
and rips it from the wall.
The numbers slowly die away,
until all that is left
is a square, black mass
on his night table.

But still, the Insomniac
can not sleep.


~J.V.Harker~
~Saturday 11 July 2009~
~3:15 a.m.~

If You Have Never

You don't understand true happiness
If you have never felt true pain;
You can not become a therapist
If you have never gone insane.
You don't comprehend life's meaning
If you have never tried to have one;
You can't count your lucky stars
If you have never stared into the sun.
You will never really say "sorry",
If you have never felt any real regret;
You can not count on remembering life,
If you have never tried to just forget.
You can not call yourself depressed
If you have never been too sad to cry;
You will never really feel alive
If you have never had the guts to die...


~J.V.Harker~
~2005~

I Am the Seashell

Tiny, timid, I am
picked apart by vultures
for the sweet, tasty goodness
of my heart.
Giants step on me:
crushing, stomping
with their steel-toed boots.
Yet I rarely ever shatter.
With cunning, and skill
I will stand beside you:
the ocean of my desire;
the raging sea of my lust.
We never part, you and I,
And every night
that you feel alone,
crying into the darkness
you can always hear me.
Just lift me up to your ear
and hear my echo
as it travels deep into your soul.
I am the seashell.


~J.V.Harker~
~Friday 24 April 2009~

I Am the Mountain

Courageous, fierce,
fortified by time,
I stand strong
against nature's waves
of ultimate destruction.
Fires, hail, hurricanes -
the occasional heartbreak -
will never befall
my stony complexion.
With iron-like intensity
and an invulnerable heart
I will stand next to you
and shield you from
the snowstorms of life.
My eyes are like granite:
sheets of gray rock,
void of compassion
except when the light
from your deep blue eyes
shines into them.
And every night
that you feel alone,
whispering into the darkness,
you will always hear
my whispering
echoing back to you.
I am the mountain.

~J.V.Harker~
~Thursday 23 April 2009~

Hospital

The smell of mourning combs my nostrils
as I wander around the dimly-litted halls.
I can almost taste the raging dispair
and hear the heartbreak, the loss, the fading,
the dying.
Right in front of me, a stretcher awaits
to send my pour soul into Heaven or Hell,
and what surrounds me now can drive one mad:
the call of many fragile bodies
to come to a better, forgotten place.
No one here is walking out the same.
(that is, if they walk out at all)
for this place seeps into a mind,
worming its way into every creak and crevice
until it forces you to go back inside,
worse off than you were before.
I am afraid now to even cross the corner,
for fear of seeing Death, in all his glory,
reaching out with his bony arm
to suck one more soul
(is it room 1-B, 2-A, or 3-C?)
into an ever-deepening, consuming abyss.


~J.V.Harker~
~30 June 2008~

Hope - Written With S.R.C.

Hope is the beginning of each new day;
Another opportunity to make things right;
To rise up from sorrows in dramatic way;
To laugh, to love, to shine your light.

Hope is the start of a brand new journey:
First brave steps taken on a daunting quest
To achieve all that you never thought you’d be;
To laugh, to love, to live your best.

Hope is a kind word from a dear, dear friend,
A feeling that reaches your very soul.
Even the slightest smile can help you to mend,
To laugh, to love, to make you whole.

Hope is a bird who owns the bluest sky;
And, even in death, he will not depart
From wisdom gleaned freely as wings onward fly
To laughter, to love, into your heart.

Hope is a metaphor for faith not dead
When all else fails and angels fall;
It comes to save our souls instead
Of losing laughter, love, and our predestined call.

Hope is the angel ever rising in flight,
Whose constant motion leaves no chance to despair;
She comes to your darkness bringing her light
To see that laughter and love in life has always been there.


~J.V.Harker and S.R.C.
~March 2009~

Here I Am

"Here I am!" she said to the closet,
but her only answer was a groan
in the perpetual darkness
of some long ago forgotten sin.
"Here I am!" she said to the shower,
yet felt only a trickle of a memory
come floating from an arch of time,
passing billions of particles just to land on her face.
"Here I am!" she said to the dresser,
but her reply was an open and shut one:
just a reverberation filled with lonliness,
regret, sorrow, and mothballs.

So she kept on her unrelenting journey
around the corriders of her home,
trying to find the one small thing
that would answer her - let her know
that she was not forgotten.

"Here I am!" she said to her cupboard,
but only a mouse squeaked in reply
and casually scampered away
in a hazy, free-flowing breeze.
"Here I am!" she said to the sofa,
but the indents of her past sittings
had long since faded away;
and now all was unmoving - silent.
"Here I am! Here I am!"
was her desperate cry, as
she sauntered all over the floorboards;
"Here I am! Here I am!"

And then she came to the mirror
propped upright next to the grandfather clock.
"Here I am!" she whispered softly,
yet only saw the walls as her reflection.
With that, she shut her eyes, and melted away...


~J.V.Harker~
~26 June 2008~

Heart of Gold

She walks with a smile,
letting the wind guide her
on her daunting, sad quest;
laughing all the while,
trying to be her best -
even when I'm not beside her.

She has a heart of gold
and eyes that burn like fire.
I tell this to everyone,
but the picture never gets old.
Her face shines light the sun,
even when I'm not beside her.

She cares for everyone,
yet places them all higher
than me. I love her so -
but it stops being fun,
so I tell her to please go:
I'll trade the gold for something lighter.


~J.V.Harker~
~1 April 2009~

Harmony

the alarm clock - blaring.
the kids are screaming.
the dog won't stop barking.
the sink must be broken,
for it won't stop dripping.
the house phone is ringing.
the cell phone is ringing.
the toast is burning.
the eggs are running.
the school bus is coming.
the dog won't stop barking.
are these the memories
I will always remember?

the highway - tangled
up in metal and curse words.
the gas keeps on diminishing.
the radio won't stop talking.
the cell phone is ringing.
the cell phone is ringing.
the cell phone is thrown
down behind the seat.
are these the memories
I will always remember?

the boss - screaming.
the files are piling.
the clients are coming.
the fax machine is calling.
the cell phone is ringing.
the desk phone is ringing.
the office phone is ringing.
the clients are waiting.
my head is pounding.
are these the memories
I will always remember?

the Advil bottle - empty.
the business is closing.
the wife is calling.
the children are sick.
their fevers are climbing.
the doctors are closed.
the hospital is crowded.
the wife is now crying.
her cell phone is ringing.
my cell phone is ringing.
the nurses are calling us
into the examining room.
are these the memories
I will always remember?

the sunlight has faded.
the blinds have been closed.
the television is on,
yet no one is watching.
the wife is resting.
the dog is snoring.
the children are sleeping;
their medication is helping.
the cell phone is ringing
but then is shut off.
the wife turns to me
and tells me she loves me.
the sparkles in her eyes
show me she means it.
this is the definition of a day.
this is the reason for living.
although not perfect harmony,
these are memories
I wish to never forget.


~J.V.Harker~
~11 April 2009~

Glowing Sunlight

(Won 5th prize in the GWCC Library Poetry Contest)

The glowing sunlight, embers
of white dust, fragments of particles
danced around her head - fireflies.
We sat, laughing to the ocean's breeze.
She was sipping
some colored substance.
I was simply drowning.
We soaked up
the mighty rays
that shone down,
caressing our backs like some comforting hand,
telling us it was perfect
to laugh now, be merry
until it all fades.
With the sun risen,
and the light shining,
what troubles we knew before
are gone.


~J.V.Harker~
~18 November 2008~

Ghost Town

Footsteps
are etched in the dust
of a thousand broken promises
and a million shattered dreams.
And through the bustle of people
I battle through the city maze
feeling completely alone.
Even ghosts would be lonely here.

Horses might have been replaced
by the constant, expressionless
subway tunnels, but they still
let loose as much waste.
The saloons may have taken up
more catchy, darkened looks,
but they still house the same
dead-beat, frightened cowboys
in need of their medication.
And while rolling
on the gray pavement,
page two of the Times
can easily be mistaken
for a dirty yellow tumbleweed.
Even ghosts would be lonely here.

The arms race has been won
by now, it is true:
no one feels an urge
to carry guns in holsters.
And casinos carry out the same
shady, yet certified, deals
that unruly bearded men
carried so long ago.
And while walking, every pair of eyes
that follow my trailing shadow
seem as empty as the wallet
in a homeless man's pocket.
Even ghosts would be lonely here.

Smiles
are empty, without feeling;
missing gaps as giant
as the newest skyscrapers
or as wide as a ten-gallon hat.
Oh, how I hate this city,
fueled by guns and drugs and twenty dollar coffees!
But even the ghosts would agree:
I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else.


~J.V.Harker~
~10 February 2009~

Ghost

I swear, I think I died
one day, nestled deep in my bed;
now a shell, a fragment left of myself
carries out all the tasks I will never do.
What was my name, before everything faded out?
I ache to remember all of my past.
But before this, nothing was there:
nothing but the darkness.

Time has ceased it's ticking;
many clocks are left unwinded
with no one there to give them a sharp twist.
The painters who created my face are all gone,
and all the bright pictures of life have stopped spinning -
they're melting. The paint is now dripping down
all over my prone figure, that
fails to make any sound.

If worms don't eat me up,
I think, then, I will chew myself
silly: eating chunks of my gray body,
swallowing them whole in search of reality.
Is my tomb already shut? Am I inside it?
Sometimes I think I can taste wood, carved rock
as flakes of them land on my tongue -
they taste just like sugar.

Death is not a concept
when it's staring you in the face,
as gray and unforgiving as cold steel.
(It is the only thing I do with perfection.)
It is the only story that has no ending;
except for when the casket has been closed,
locking me, and my ghost, inside
the realms of Forever.


~J.V.Harker~
~Thursday 21 May 2009~

Fragments of Death

A beloved rocking chair
is rocking, taciturnly,
with nobody in it.

White dust, gray ash
are covering
a once-loved bookcase.

Smiling faces
are rotting
in a photo album.

Letters never sent
are piling up
on a wooden desk.

A black crow
is resting his claws
on a cemetery stone.


~J.V.Harker~
~Friday 1 May 2009~
~Edited Thursday 4 June 2009~

For A

God is crying on this cold day;
the sun's lost its shine this morning.
All faces are hardened like clay;
the whole playground is in mourning.
The wheels on the buses have stopped turning;
even the engines are giving a sigh.
What, teacher, have the children been learning?
Whatever it is is making them cry.

Grief can shock a town like lightning,
and tears can hit the streets like rain.
Death can be so damn frightening
when you can pin it to a name.
Somewhere, a piece of fabric must have ripped
from God's interwoven blanket of prayers;
and now, a funeral home is equipped
with pink lace, Barbie dolls, and teddy bears.

But what, what about the poor souls
here, on earth, crying on her grave?
Should we dig them all eight-foot holes?
For that's all they have left to crave.
You can step off of your building block,
sweet, innocent girl of seven.
And I guess we can take back our chalk...
for there is no hopscotch up in Heaven.


~J.V.Harker~
~Thursday 30 April 2009~

Trite and Cheap

Anna, Anna, Anna
is the only name I can think of
as I press my sweat-covered body
on top of (is it?) Arienette.
With my eyes closed tightly,
all imagination becomes reality:
short, brown hair
easily becomes long and blond.
This creaking matress of sin
transforms into long summer nights
listening to crickets whisper.
Overpowering, sickening perfume
warps into the familiar scent
of fresh-grown cucumbers.
I am not in this foreign hotel anymore;
I am back where I should be,
at Spring Street, in Connecticut.
And as we moan on like banshees,
each quiver reminds me
of the steel shovel splitting
the fresh cemetery dirt into pieces
so long ago.
Soon we are finished here,
and I jump back to reality.
Putting my clothes back on,
I know I should feel ecstatic;
yet all I am feeling
is trite and cheap:
so tired of eating away at nostalgia,
just like the worms
are doing to my love's body right now.


~J.V.Harker~
~28 December 2008~

Flames

Stop your spiteful coughing;
run back to your apartment.
Lock the door, forever.

Push in the button;
shut off the alarm.
Let silence fill your mind

Call the fire fighters;
say they are not needed.
You are facing this alone

Lean back in a recliner;
sip Cabernet Sauvignon
from a sparkling glass.

Smoke may be pouring
through open windows,
but let the air overtake it.

Do not assume this is Hell,
for this is the closest
to Heaven you can get.

And with a smile on your face,
and teardrops in your eyes,
let the flames of life consume you.


~J.V.Harker~
~Monday 25 May 2009~

Fishing

The moon is smiling
over the black ocean,
but I can not take notice.

I am too busy feeling
like God, as I grasp the pole
in my sinister hands.

Which lucky creature
will I be able
to catch - kill - this time?

And then, the line
gets tight, and I gasp,
ready to unleash my rage.

Turning and pulling -
yanking and screaming -
the ocean becomes alive.

Soon, a bluefish is flailing
over the bloody deck;
he drips with the sea.

I glare into his eyes
as he cries for water
to fill his drying lungs.

He will struggle, of course,
for quite some time -
but it will not be enough.

And as he dies, I whisper:
"How does it feel
to feel human?"


~J.V.Harker~
~Monday 1 June 2009~
~Edited Thursday 4 June 2009~

Final Destination

An engine can only run
for a limited number of years.
Tires can only wind down a road
for a limited number of miles.
Headlights can only be bright
for a limited amount of tears.
Thus, for one long lifetime,
my vehicle - the body that holds
my lungs, my heart, my soul -
has remained faithful to me.
Until tonight.
I beg for someone
to put me in a garage
for humans, please -
one I will never
drive away from.
I can not fight it, anymore.
All that I am
is now breaking down.

Motionless
is what I long to be:
at peace with the constant reminder
that I am going
into that promised land
that promises nothing.

Emotionless
is an emotion
I am feeling tonight,
as I lie here
in a hospital room,
with the hands
of dead family members
and dead friends
clenching my arms
and whispering to me.
Or maybe it is just
hallucinations from
all of the pain medicine
a needle is forcing me to digest.

The final words are now tumbling
from out of a tired hand,
long since past it's prime.
The metaphors of cars,
and engines, and roads
that have filled my poems
need not apply anymore.
It is quite obvious what is happening.

All of this?
This is my reward, my trophy
for surviving all the torture.
The prospect of death
and the dull, wooden box
that awaits me soon
is all I have left in my future.
This is not like a movie scene
there are no final words
no epiphany, no secrets, no tears
I am too busy fucking dying.

And then, dear god,

Blackness.

I have arrived
at my final destination.


~J.V.Harker~
~Wednesday 1 July 2009~

Fever - 103 Degrees

The white of the bedsheets
seem fuzzy - fade in, fade out
along with a dizzy throbbing
no one else cares to hear.

Yesterday I dined at 313 Campbell.
Today I slurp up chicken soup;
unaware, as my temperature rises,
what the outside world is eating.

And every minute spent in consciousness
is a battle for cool, calmness.

Until

nothing


~J.V.Harker~
~10 March 2009~

Failure

Ah,
failure!

The supreme art of dancing
with smiles and laughter
and then driving them both home
at the rise of dawn
with hopes
of maybe getting lucky;
but you are quickly shown the door.

Failure
is nothing;
nothing but a calm,
silent existence
that will always exist
in the back of each person's brain.

Whether dancing, touching,
laughing, crying,
you always know, dear friend,
that failure
will be the final result
of a life-long battle of time.

Like the ticking of a clock,
or the sound of coffee in the morning,
or the breath of your loved one,
or the beating of your heart,
failure is something you hear
but never really notice
until it all becomes too clear
to ignore:

Until the clock stops ticking,
and the coffee stops dripping,
and your lover stops breathing,
and your heart stops beating.
Then, when all
is too late,
you are left to wonder
why you always acknowledged
but never gave in
to failure.


~J.V.Harker~
~25 February 2009~

Eternity - An Acrostic Poem

Eaten alone out of the darkness;
Time-consuming all in all.
Even the ticking of the earth is silent,
Ready for the slightest bit of movement;
Nocturnal shadows
In the dismal gloom of nothing.
This is all that ever will be;
You and I will cease to exist.


~J.V.Harker~
~11 August 2008~

Epigram for my Gravestone

"Here lived and breathed one mighty, superb being."
Some say he was perfect; some say just fine,
But what people say can be misleading.
All that he was is what follows this line.

Energy

a friend spoke of great powers
lying outside of the mind's realms
giant bundles of energy
just waiting to be bitten
into, by us hungry humans
with the perfect karma.

why have i not heard of this before
i asked, while smirking
that oh-so-familiar smirk
of the Poet Who Knows It All.

their powers can be summoned
if only good intentions are wished
my friend whispered, seriously.
in every object, souls reside.

so that night, still grinning
i lit some white candles
and sung songs in tongues
while dancing naked around
pentagram-shaped trees
in the light from a full moon.

yet the universe's energy
must have been drained that night

because all i had asked for
was to come home, and write
a good poem.


~James Harker, Jr.~
~Wednesday 24 June 2009~

Dreams

The sister of death -
with soft, bony hands
caresses me
every night.
She beckons to me
under my blankets
with glowing yellow eyes
and mounds of flesh.
A different world
is waiting for me
she whispers
if I just come with her.
Yet I do not follow.
No, not just yet.
Instead, I snach her gifts
she presents to me
with a gleam in her eye:
magnificient, opulent dreams
which convey
in the deepest sense
all I have ever wanted.
She says all of this
will become mine, forever,
once I cross onto
the other side.
Every perfect memory
pours into my mind;
for just an hour, at least
I am the person
I have always prayed to be.
Yet just as quick
as they came,
by the sound of my alarm clock,
the pictures are twisted back
into a void of darkness
to join the ghost of Yesterday
and the demon of What Will Never Be.
It is no wonder
I wake up each morning
with tears running down my cheeks,
and a grit determination
to be making that adventure
to the land of eternal slumber
very soon.


~J.V.Harker~
~2 Febuary 2009~

Disabled

He speaks words in tongues,
but his tongue is tied.
He glances at the wall;
seeing the specks of paint
as moving animals.
So he counts them all,
and re-counts them all again.
His vision is glassy,
and he staggers against the weight
of a thousand different feelings
pent up inside of him
that he can never express.
Yet he knows what he likes,
so he draws pictures in his mind.
There, perhaps,
goes the next unknown Picasso.

She mumbles nothings
against the fragile current
of warm air, as she sits
inside the Special Educations
classroom.
Teachers with expressionless faces
slap a label onto her,
and she becomes a decimal
in the on-going race
to find the entire percentage
of people just like her.
Yet she knows what sounds beautiful,
so she sings music in her head.
There, perhaps,
goes the next unknown Mozart.

His polished, shiny hell
is sitting next to him
as he sleeps in the bed.
Two wheels are what moves him
throughout his dim life.
He’s unaware of what it feels like
to run, to walk, to stand up at all.
But he did just run
the Boston Marathon ,
about an hour ago.

They tell her she is stupid;
has an IQ less than that
of a common animal.
The ridicule, and shame
have prompted many nights
of crying into a pillow.
She feels so alone,
and only wishes to know
what it feels like
to be smart - smart like
everyone else.
She never will read, they say;
but she knows what a book is.
So she writes novels in her head.
There, perhaps,
goes the next unknown Hemingway.

The words he wishes to speak
are blocked by invisible doors
that threaten to be opened
despite a swarm of ridicule.
Every obstacle in life
has been harder to climb,
when even the more simple of phrases
becomes so hard to say.
Nobody knows his name.
Due to his lack of words,
he becomes a figure
that people just look through,
like a ghost
of some long ago, forgotten time.
Yet still he presses on,
guided only by sheer will
that is strengthened by his longing
to show the world –
with a pen and paper, mind you –
all the Picassos, the Mozarts, the Hemingways
that can never show themselves.
There, perhaps,
goes the next, silent fish
in a sea of troubling water;
But he is content, and happy,
with just being himself.


~J.V.Harker~
~12 January 2009~

Dinner Party

We kissed and loved out on the balcony
as the dinner party rattled on downstairs:
so uniquely and orderly fashioned.

We hugged and whispered sweet nothings
as the wind gently tossed her hair
making this all seem like a dream.

We had just met fifteen minutes ago,
but her eyes told of a different story:
all our existence was waiting for this night.

We closed our eyes and felt the moonlight
gently cleanse our face of all past sins -
the baptisms of two entwined souls.

We drank the rest of our blood-red wine,
and with trembling lips we told the lie:
"We'll be together again very soon."

And then I re-joined the eating crowd.
With shaking hands, and a racing heart,
I hugged my wife - told her I loved her.


~J.V.Harker~
~18 November 2008~

Death of a Poet

The book in my hand - his book -
dropped into the cold, metal trash can
outside of the intensive care room.
I did not want to be reminded
that the man who wrote so vividly
from a web of clear imagination
was the same creature caught
in a tangled mess of tubes.
The caged creatures he set free
in every one of his resplendent poems
had all come back, now, to haunt him.

At first, I thought he was invisible -
or, perhaps better (for him) - already dead.
There was no real mass lying on that bed -
just some rubber, lifeless doll:
the kind little girls enjoy dressing up
while serving them tea and crumpets.
But then the doll opened a caked, crusted eyelid
(only for a fleeting moment)
and I choked back a scream
that threatened to overpower my tightened chest.
I almost thanked God when it closed again.

No words - not even from the best of dictionaries -
could describe the feelings in my heart
as I grasped his hand for the final time.
The fingers that brandished many a pen
were now limp, inanimate stumps:
unable to even lift themselves
for a helpless, uninviting wave.

A plastic robot, stuck down his throat
helped pump oxygen into his body:
a body too worn out to do it on its own.
His breathing formed a pattern:
almost a hypnotizing form of meter.
It startled me, and gave me jolts
all the way down my spine.

Even the nurses had overlooked him.
My being there, in this room,
was the only reason the life support machine
had not yet been disconnected from the wall.
I could not comprehend this;
but maybe that word, "comprehend,"
is a verb not used in hospital rooms.

I moved away from his bed,
desperate to find somewhere to escape:
a blueprint of this spinning, twisting room
had to be tacked up there somewhere.
Everything grew bright, and then hazy.
The stench of urine overwhelmed me:
let loose by sickened souls too tired to care
what they were doing right anymore.
It covered everything - the floor, the bed, my hands.
"No, Jesus, no" was the only phrase
I could commit to memory.

Without another word, I stumbled;
stumbled and swayed, tumbled, fell
out of that twisted, retched cell.
My footsteps sounded like moaning ghosts
as they squeaked on the tile floors.

I thought I was prepared to say goodbye
to a dear, true friend of mine.
We had shared many poems together
while sipping coffee at the local Starbucks.
We had discussed wives, children,
careers and politics.
But the empty form in that lump of sheets
was not my friend.

Not even poetry can do justice
in describing the cowardice I felt
as I traversed out of the hospital.
The bright sunlight struck my face
like a slap straight from God.
I took it, and begged for another.

I knew some grieving family member
would pull the plug
on that ghost formerly known as "human."
After all, would good would he be?
The grocery stores were not in short supply
of frozen vegetables.
He would never be able
to hug and kiss his wife or children.
He would never be able
to compose another verse again.
He would never get one more chance
to earn that Pulitzer Prize.

And as I sped away, tires squealing,
to go home to my realm of sanity,
I knew I would never be the same.
Perhaps he was not the only poet
who had died, after all.


~J.V.Harker~
~Tuesday 16 June 2009~

Day of Bliss

Let's spend the morning
listening to bird calls
from the top of a high mountain,
while singing sweet melodies
to the carnations and daffodils
down in a meadow below.
Let your hair down loose
until it sinks below your waist -
we can both flow free today.
We are not going anywhere
just yet.

Can I take your hand,
and tell you I love you?
I do not care
if all the animals blush.
You do not even have
to say anything back to me.

Let's spend the afternoon
sealed up in blankets,
back in our darkened room.
I can put on some music,
and the soft, gentle harmony
can be the soundtrack to our kisses.

Let's spend the evening
sipping vodka from a glass
in my own private bar.

Later on, I will take you dancing -
holding you tightly while we sway,
whispering in your ear so softly:
"I never want this to end."

This is my perfect
day of bliss.


~J.V.Harker~
~Thursday 4 June 2009~

Dancing

music softly playing
as we sway on like trees
caught in the grip
of a level two hurricane
candles dim yet burning
showing passion on your face
and a tear in you eye
dear god, dear god, we have
never danced like this before

in sadness there is laughter
in crying there is dancing
so lets put our feet together
in a fit of pure depression
waltzing in a haze of gray
which forms a layer of dust
all over this dance floor
known only in our minds
dear god, dear god, we have
never danced like this before

your tears are like vodka
so I mix mine in to form a drink
that can easily be swallowed
and mistaken for something sweet
let us hold onto the flavor
while our feet do the talking
the walking, the twirling, the screaming
as we drift on in sweet silence
dear god, dear god, we have
never danced like this before

stepping on jagged glass
dancing on polished silver
which ever way is easier
we will dance that way forever
it's either do this, or cry
tears that will not land
on any parts of us
for we exist just as shadows
dear god, dear god, we have
never danced like this before

even when our faces burn
and melt, to show the skulls
even when our skeleton arms
can no longer grip each other
even when death
comes calling from the heavens
even when time
ceases to stop spinning
dear god, dear god, we will
never stop the dancing


~J.V.Harker~
~March 2009~

Conflict

Beating heart;
pounding head.
Shaking hands,
feeling dread.
Gasping, and
pouring sweat.
Yet the worst
has not come yet.


~J.V.Harker~
~Thursday 20 August 2009~

Pilgrimage - A Poem by Ione Rehm Hertweck and J.V.Harker

(In no way do I take credit for this poem...I took parts of the original, therefore it
should never be published anywhere. I only copied parts out of respect for it.)

If you should go before me, dear,
Across the Great Divide,
Won't you stop and rest awhile,
Just on the other side?

Do not fly into the sunlight,
Do not run off with friends;
Even though it must be a sight,
I'm right around the bends.

Yes, I'll be coming right along,
To walk again with you--
With you away, there's nothing here
That I should want to do.

At a blank T.V. screen, I'll stare,
And wish that you were here.
I'll finger a lock of your hair,
And pray that you were near.

I'll tend your flowers, and make your bed,
And close your desk and book,
I'll walk through all our little rooms,
And take one last, long look.

I'll remember how you sat,
In your deep old easy chair:
The firelight dancing in your eyes,
The lamp light on your hair.

I'll recall all those peaceful nights,
Just lying side by side;
I'll even think of many fights,
And how you cried and cried,

And then, I'll remember just why
I loved you, anyway.
While thinking of you, I may cry,
But love you, everyday.

I'll remember how you loved
To hear the Springtime rain,
Tapping out its busy song,
Against the window pane.

I'll sing the songs you used to play
On your old radio.
I'll speak the words you used to say,
As I watch the time go.

I'll visit friends, and nod my head
When they ask "Are you fine?"
I'll talk to you, although you're dead,
And I'll still call you mine.

I'll fold your clothes and pack away,
The things you loved so much--
The little hobby treasures
That you'd never let me touch.

And then, I'll draw the curtains,
And lower every shade,
And set it just inside the door,
The flower stand you made.

I'll sweep the porch and wind the clock,
And shut my desk drawer too--
Then, close the door so softly,
And cross the bridge, to you.


~Friday 14 August 2009~

The Outgoing Tide

Young lovers, we were;
fresh out of college,
set to tackle the world
and each other.
Moans in the moonlight,
kisses in the morning;
we were the type of couple
everyone admired.

Yet problems arose
out of the hidden darkness
of her plastic soul,
and the broken, rotten chunks
of my decrepit heart.
After the initial happiness
evaporated, and the masks
of fresh love were taken off,
we were left
with only each other.

But, to quench
one more day
that was sure to erupt
in gnashing, and gnawing,
we took a long drive
to visit the ocean.

I carried whole-wheat bread
to give to the screaming gulls,
while she carried her emotions
like a steaming cup of coffee.

But the sun did its magic.
We lounged around
for two hours or so:
not speaking too much.
Yet we began to smile,
and it felt lovely:
like revisiting a once-familiar place
thought to be forgotten.

Then, the tide came in.
Foamy water lapped up
the edges of the silky sand,
bringing forth seaweed
to line the grains like wet hair.

The two of us
took a walk, side by side,
to the end of
a giant, wooden pier,
littered with gull droppings and fish guts.
The ocean wind was blowing gingerly,
and the sweet-saltiness of the day
gently washed over both our faces.

Yet all it took
to ruin this perfect moment
was one quick word spoken
in a stroke of anger;
it prompted an act
that could never be undone.
Fish hooks, beer cans, and seashells
litter the bottom
of the great, blue-green ocean.
Now, so does something else.

As I sped away, alone,
I found myself praying
for those fish in the ocean
to have a mighty appetite
before the tide
goes out, again.


~J.V.Harker~
~Wednesday 19 July 2009~

Crest of a Wave

The boat is sailing
out of the harbor by noon,
never to return again.

The captain is saluting
the mindless crowd
of people, waving goodbye.

The three-decker ship
in which he steers
without any hands
is floating
on the crest
of a iridescent wave,
six thousand feet
below the surface
of the sea.

And never before
have I felt more free.


~J.V.Harker~
~Sunday 25 April 2009~

Coffee

The Starbucks on Main Street:
filled with lurching zombies
needing their morning fill.
Their life force:
poured from a black machine.
Steaming goodness:
beans crushed and liquefied.
Cream and sugar mixed in
like a giant melting pot
that God stirs with his hand.
Frothy magic:
rising up from the bottom.
The heat fogs my glasses,
reminds me of lovers
in the backseat of a car.
Stressful mornings:
all washed away
by the simple act
of the throat swallowing
the dark substance.
Until it happens:
this wonderful miracle
spills onto my pants,
leaving a brown stain
that will forever have the smell
of the rising sun.


~J.V.Harker~
~10 Decembrer 2008~

Clayton, North Carolina (Population 1)

The white slashes on the gravel
have led me far from home
into another place - another world.
My white Pontiac is flying
over rotting farms and broken picket fences,
swimming past a town
filled with thriving weeds and wilted daffodils.
And everywhere: empty.
The population has vanished.
The shops, once bustling with men
have now been handed to the flies.
The ovens that belonged
to the multitude of restaurants
are rusting away
with the stench of past entrees.
The houses are losing paint,
as time wipes it away
like an eraser does to pencil mark.
Then my car's engine overheats,
joining the rest of the quiet, nothing-town,
and I am stuck - defenseless
on a dirt road
that will never have
another passenger.


~J.V.Harker~
~Monday 29 June 2009~

Broken Windows

It has been said
that eyes are the windows
to the soul.
Two blue, peering slits
in the face of one person
can view every waking moment
of their indescribable life.
Yet what happens
when the windows become cracked
and eventually break;
little slivers of glass
dropping all around
one poor victim?
Those portals of life
now see nothing
but the dark, empty void
that exists only on the road to Hell.
Doctors may try to mend
the glass, by therapy
or god-awful medication;
until they, too, give up:
lifting up their hands
in an act of utter dispair.
They throw this poor victim
into a white-padded cell
that is about as safe as
lying on a bed of burning coals.
They do it for his own good
or so they say:
all the perfect, happy people
who have a home to go back to
at night.
It is in this cell
that the poor victim is forced
to do nothing but reflect
on a distant, beautiful life
that once may have belonged to him.
He is fed food by a spoon,
and words by a knife,
until he realises just what
everyone wants to hear.
He begins to lie
by saying he feels better.
He constructs new windows
with careful calculation,
making sure not to slip
lest they break again some day.
And when he is finished,
he is left with glass so thick
no thoughts, words, or emotions
will ever penetrate them again.
Not even a single tear
will find its way through.
Thus our poor victim is free
to wander around life
with a fake smile plastered on his face.
Every second of his life
is now nothing but a lie;
until his sick, dying soul
finally draws its curtains.


~J.V.Harker~
~20 December 2008~

Blue Sands

We were both born in the same year - fate, some would say.
Destined to become the best of friends, we acted out our parts.
We began our lives fighting over toys in cribs,
whining and crying together when we were sleepy,
and eventually, sleeping - sometimes, head to head,
sealing the bond between us that would never break.

When we were both five years old
my parents would ship us to their old friend's house
every weekend, straight in front of the Carolina coast.
And each day that we were there, we had so much fun
running around by the water's edge
we never even learned their friend's name.

The gulls would cry in terror whenever we approached.
They would rise up high as we ran towards them:
arms outstretched, mouths open in taunting screams.
They would circle the sands for hours afterward,
shrieking and renouncing this home invasion.

One day, I was asked a very serious question:
"If the ocean is blue, why does the sand not turn blue
when the water from the sea splashes onto it?"
At age five, this was as philosophical as Aristotle,
and I pondered the question over and over,
determined to give the correct answer some day.

Yet time weaves webs which get tangled up in memories,
and the years seemed to blend as we grew older.
My friend's hair grew longer; my eyes turned darker -
we each felt the weight of the world from time to time.
But together, we could lift it - anything was possible
as long as the two of us stood side by side.

When we were thirteen, we dealt with first kisses;
at sixteen we shared stories of women we'd had.
By eighteen the world was within grasping distance;
at twenty, I was married to some woman I barely knew.

I tried to convince my friend to settle down -
life was too delicate to be taken so harshly.
But the parties were too fun, the drugs too sweet -
the women too easy to resist.

Somehow, I turned out to be a good family man -
my friend turned out to be something else.
But I ceased to try changing him - I was too happy
living in a new home with someone I loved.
How can life get any better than that?

Five years later, I traveled two thousand miles
to bail my friend out from a dirty Las Vegas jail.
We never said a word on the car ride back -
my friend just stared at the road as it passed by.

At thirty, I hardly ever saw my friend anymore:
just a wave, a salute, a card in the mail
was all we were amounting to.
Until my friend got some women from Georgia
drunk, knocked up, and fired from a job.
I lent some money, got a thank-you in response,
and we both went along our own paths.

I saw my friend one final time,
at a bar in New York City -
I was celebrating with my daughter
who was fresh out of college.
My friend was trying to flirt with her.
A fight almost ensued, until I realized who it was,
and quickly stepped away from the crowd
to vomit in some dark bathroom.

When we arrived home, my wife asked me
how I could have ever loved a friend like that.
I explained to her: "One of us was different back then;
I'm not quite sure just who that was."

Next year, I read it in the papers:
my friend was dead from an overdose,
or some form of intoxicating drink.
It really did not matter - the ink told the story,
and I cried for the first time in years.

I suppose the funeral was the worst part:
nobody was there whom I could recall.
Yet still, my wife held on to me tightly
and I loved her so much for it.
I stood apart from the sobbing ones
as they lowered my friend in the ground:
just one more coffin in a ground full of wood.

When I arrived home, I locked the bathroom door
and cried until my eyes were almost bleeding.

But to be honest, I was not that devastated
over the physical death, or the concept.
I was not even hurt over the fact
that we should have been closer.
When I closed my eyes, and pictured us
growing up together, arm linked in arm,
I got a warm feeling in my stomach.
Yet there had to be a reason for my tears.

Then I remembered, as I slunk to my bedroom:
I never did figure out
why the sands did not turn blue.


~J.V.Harker~
~Monday 8 June 2009~