Please check out our friends websites on our LINKS page. If you have any comments or questions, please EMAIL US.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ALL THE MUSIC AND ARTWORK ON THIS WEBSITE IS DISPLAYED UNDER A
CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE
 |  |  |  |  |
HARLEY KING
A Lost Lover
I reach inside my troubled mind
and find a basket of rotten
tomatoes. She was my lover
before the coming of the great war
that left me without a leg and
a shell nestled against my spine.
We would walk hand in hand
along the shore of the great lake
and talk about a future that
was never to be. I remember
her laughter at the simplest of jokes
and her tears when I hurt
her feelings. But I cannot
remember what I had for
dinner ten minutes ago. Time has
changed the shape of my soul and
given me heartburn and gas. I run
my fingers through my gray hair
and am reminded of the smoothness
of her skin and the sparkle in her
eyes. She would hold me close in
the early morning hours when
fears colored my dreams and I
would scream for mercy. I loved
the smell of her hair and the warmth
of her breasts. I wish now to be
free of her memory, to escape this life
where I am dependent on others
for my basic needs and for my
survival. I long for death as others
long for life. But the dark shadow
eludes me. Always one step ahead
of me. Never willing to wait. Why
does God take the lives of the innocent
and ignore the wicked? These hands
of mine have tasted the blood of
strangers. Have slit the bellies
of pregnant women. Have butchered
the dying and roasted their flesh.
And yet God will not allow me to die.
Will not free me from my misery. I
am tormented by her memory and
the salvation that she offered. If I
had only listened when she begged
me not to go to war. I was young
and foolish with a thirst for glory
and fame and a belief in my
invincibility. I told her to wait
for my victorious return as
the conquering hero with a chest
full of medals. How naive I was!
How ignorant! I reach inside
my troubled heart and find
a cloak of many colors. She kisses
me softly on the lips and for a moment
I fall asleep in the comfort of her arms.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
I reach inside my troubled mind
and find a basket of rotten
tomatoes. She was my lover
before the coming of the great war
that left me without a leg and
a shell nestled against my spine.
We would walk hand in hand
along the shore of the great lake
and talk about a future that
was never to be. I remember
her laughter at the simplest of jokes
and her tears when I hurt
her feelings. But I cannot
remember what I had for
dinner ten minutes ago. Time has
changed the shape of my soul and
given me heartburn and gas. I run
my fingers through my gray hair
and am reminded of the smoothness
of her skin and the sparkle in her
eyes. She would hold me close in
the early morning hours when
fears colored my dreams and I
would scream for mercy. I loved
the smell of her hair and the warmth
of her breasts. I wish now to be
free of her memory, to escape this life
where I am dependent on others
for my basic needs and for my
survival. I long for death as others
long for life. But the dark shadow
eludes me. Always one step ahead
of me. Never willing to wait. Why
does God take the lives of the innocent
and ignore the wicked? These hands
of mine have tasted the blood of
strangers. Have slit the bellies
of pregnant women. Have butchered
the dying and roasted their flesh.
And yet God will not allow me to die.
Will not free me from my misery. I
am tormented by her memory and
the salvation that she offered. If I
had only listened when she begged
me not to go to war. I was young
and foolish with a thirst for glory
and fame and a belief in my
invincibility. I told her to wait
for my victorious return as
the conquering hero with a chest
full of medals. How naive I was!
How ignorant! I reach inside
my troubled heart and find
a cloak of many colors. She kisses
me softly on the lips and for a moment
I fall asleep in the comfort of her arms.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
The Artist
The artist
sits alone
at the edge
of his canvas,
watching his friends
die one by one.
He paints
their faces
before his memory
fades and he
forgets who they are.
Some days
he does not
get out of bed
except to take
a piss and
drink coffee.
Food no longer
surprises him
or nourishes him.
— Harley King
© 2008 by Harley King
The artist
sits alone
at the edge
of his canvas,
watching his friends
die one by one.
He paints
their faces
before his memory
fades and he
forgets who they are.
Some days
he does not
get out of bed
except to take
a piss and
drink coffee.
Food no longer
surprises him
or nourishes him.
— Harley King
© 2008 by Harley King
The Healing Power
I drink deeply
from the healing waters
within my spirit
and breathe the healing
air that cleanses
my flesh of cancer
and restores my strength.
I eat of the enchanted
apple and taste the sweetness
of its juice and feel
my soul refreshed and
vibrant. I am a child
of God and am comforted
in His arms. Within
my body lies the power
to heal my wounds and
to destroy the cells
that have mutated and
grown chaotic. I am
as God wants me to be.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
I drink deeply
from the healing waters
within my spirit
and breathe the healing
air that cleanses
my flesh of cancer
and restores my strength.
I eat of the enchanted
apple and taste the sweetness
of its juice and feel
my soul refreshed and
vibrant. I am a child
of God and am comforted
in His arms. Within
my body lies the power
to heal my wounds and
to destroy the cells
that have mutated and
grown chaotic. I am
as God wants me to be.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
Sing A Sad Song
From the time
I was a child
at my mother’s
breast, I wanted
to be a guitar
player, a singer
of sad ballads,
and a lover
of music. I’ve
had my days
in the sun. I’ve
tasted the depths
of despair and
heartache. Lovers
have come and
gone, taking bits
and pieces of my
soul until now
I have nothing
left to give. My
mother was a
large woman,
heavy of flesh
and full of love
and laughter. I
never knew my
father. Gone before
I stuck my tiny
head into this world.
My mother would
hold me in the dark
hours of the night
when I was scarred,
frightened by
the demons walking
through my dreams.
I paid back her
kindness by letting
her die alone in
a filthy bed,
choking on her
own vomit. I was
riding high in
those days, playing
my guitar and
singing my songs
in every bar and
cantina west of
the Mississippi.
I had abandoned
her to her aches
and pains and
the squalor of
her life. She who
had given me life,
who suckled
me at her breast,
faced those final
days alone. Did
she see the face
of God in those
last moments? I
remember how
she would attend
church and ask
God to forgive
her for the sins
she had committed
and those she
had not. She
hung crosses on
the stained walls
of our humble home.
I found her many
mornings on her
knees before the big
cross in her bedroom,
crying her eyes out.
I now face those
same demons that
must have accosted
her in the final
years of her life.
I hear the voice
of God reprimanding
me for the life I
have lived, the
hearts I have
broken, the men
I have killed.
For me, my music
was my god, and
I shared it with
those who would
listen. But my
music took as
much from me
as it gave. I feel
drained of my
spirit. I live
in doubt of my
existence. I cry
alone in the hours
before the coming
of the sun. I play
my guitar and moan
a sad song. These
days I sit on sidewalks,
playing old tunes
that I still remember,
in the hopes that strangers
will drop a quarter or
two in my purple cup
so that I can pay
the rent and have a
bite to eat. Gone
are the stage lights
and the drunks who
barely heard my music.
Gone are the women
who followed me
from town to town
sharing the warmth
of their bodies in
hotel bed after
hotel bed. Gone
are the record deals
and the recording
companies who stole
my money. Now
there is only me
and my favorite
guitar and the songs
I sing over and
over to anyone who
will listen. God
talks to me when
my heart is open
and ready to receive.
He challenges me
to give up my
music and return
to the bosom of
His love. He demands
that I stop singing
and make my way
home. But I can
not quit. The music
owns me. I am
possessed by its
fragrance. I am
lost in its melodies.
And even God
is not strong enough
to free me from
myself. I search
the faces of strangers
for a way out of
my despair and I
come up empty-
handed and forgotten.
I have tasted the lips
of many women and
now death comes to
me dressed as a
woman with ruby
red lips, large breasts
and big hips. I hold
her in my arms, feel
the chill of her breath,
and dance that fateful
waltz. I’m going home.
May God have mercy.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
From the time
I was a child
at my mother’s
breast, I wanted
to be a guitar
player, a singer
of sad ballads,
and a lover
of music. I’ve
had my days
in the sun. I’ve
tasted the depths
of despair and
heartache. Lovers
have come and
gone, taking bits
and pieces of my
soul until now
I have nothing
left to give. My
mother was a
large woman,
heavy of flesh
and full of love
and laughter. I
never knew my
father. Gone before
I stuck my tiny
head into this world.
My mother would
hold me in the dark
hours of the night
when I was scarred,
frightened by
the demons walking
through my dreams.
I paid back her
kindness by letting
her die alone in
a filthy bed,
choking on her
own vomit. I was
riding high in
those days, playing
my guitar and
singing my songs
in every bar and
cantina west of
the Mississippi.
I had abandoned
her to her aches
and pains and
the squalor of
her life. She who
had given me life,
who suckled
me at her breast,
faced those final
days alone. Did
she see the face
of God in those
last moments? I
remember how
she would attend
church and ask
God to forgive
her for the sins
she had committed
and those she
had not. She
hung crosses on
the stained walls
of our humble home.
I found her many
mornings on her
knees before the big
cross in her bedroom,
crying her eyes out.
I now face those
same demons that
must have accosted
her in the final
years of her life.
I hear the voice
of God reprimanding
me for the life I
have lived, the
hearts I have
broken, the men
I have killed.
For me, my music
was my god, and
I shared it with
those who would
listen. But my
music took as
much from me
as it gave. I feel
drained of my
spirit. I live
in doubt of my
existence. I cry
alone in the hours
before the coming
of the sun. I play
my guitar and moan
a sad song. These
days I sit on sidewalks,
playing old tunes
that I still remember,
in the hopes that strangers
will drop a quarter or
two in my purple cup
so that I can pay
the rent and have a
bite to eat. Gone
are the stage lights
and the drunks who
barely heard my music.
Gone are the women
who followed me
from town to town
sharing the warmth
of their bodies in
hotel bed after
hotel bed. Gone
are the record deals
and the recording
companies who stole
my money. Now
there is only me
and my favorite
guitar and the songs
I sing over and
over to anyone who
will listen. God
talks to me when
my heart is open
and ready to receive.
He challenges me
to give up my
music and return
to the bosom of
His love. He demands
that I stop singing
and make my way
home. But I can
not quit. The music
owns me. I am
possessed by its
fragrance. I am
lost in its melodies.
And even God
is not strong enough
to free me from
myself. I search
the faces of strangers
for a way out of
my despair and I
come up empty-
handed and forgotten.
I have tasted the lips
of many women and
now death comes to
me dressed as a
woman with ruby
red lips, large breasts
and big hips. I hold
her in my arms, feel
the chill of her breath,
and dance that fateful
waltz. I’m going home.
May God have mercy.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
Breakfast At the Local Diner
On Tuesday of last week
God and I had breakfast
together. He ordered a ham
and cheese omelet with home
fries and a large glass of freshly
squeezed orange juice. I settled
for three buttermilk pancakes
with maple syrup. We talked
about the future of the world
and whether or not He should
destroy the universe He had
created. I laughed at his jokes
and assured Him that the human
race would some day outgrow
its childish behavior and come
to understand the true meaning
of His love. He did not share
my confidence and expressed
concerns between sips of black
coffee about man’s inhumanity
to man. Our waitress asked
for His autograph, thinking He
was a movie star or a famous
celebrity. He gave it to her
on a stone tablet and let me
keep the hammer and chisel.
I asked Him how I would die
and He smiled and told me
not to worry — that He had
my backside covered. We
said our goodbyes after tipping
the waitress a hundred dollars
and paying the bill. God took
me in His long arms and said:
“Keep the faith, My son. Your
happiness is in My hands. I
love you.” We parted ways
and promised each other that
we would get together again
before the end of the month.
I stood watching Him fade
into the distance and then sat
down on the sidewalk to begin
my day job — begging for nickels
and dimes and a kind word.
— Harley King
© 2008 by Harley King
On Tuesday of last week
God and I had breakfast
together. He ordered a ham
and cheese omelet with home
fries and a large glass of freshly
squeezed orange juice. I settled
for three buttermilk pancakes
with maple syrup. We talked
about the future of the world
and whether or not He should
destroy the universe He had
created. I laughed at his jokes
and assured Him that the human
race would some day outgrow
its childish behavior and come
to understand the true meaning
of His love. He did not share
my confidence and expressed
concerns between sips of black
coffee about man’s inhumanity
to man. Our waitress asked
for His autograph, thinking He
was a movie star or a famous
celebrity. He gave it to her
on a stone tablet and let me
keep the hammer and chisel.
I asked Him how I would die
and He smiled and told me
not to worry — that He had
my backside covered. We
said our goodbyes after tipping
the waitress a hundred dollars
and paying the bill. God took
me in His long arms and said:
“Keep the faith, My son. Your
happiness is in My hands. I
love you.” We parted ways
and promised each other that
we would get together again
before the end of the month.
I stood watching Him fade
into the distance and then sat
down on the sidewalk to begin
my day job — begging for nickels
and dimes and a kind word.
— Harley King
© 2008 by Harley King
Face to Face
I step into
the healing waters
of your love
and come face
to face with
myself. I dream
of the power you
have to change my
world in an instant.
We each must
walk naked and
alone into the heart
of the pain and
learn to touch
our souls with hope.
I dip my head
under the gentle
water and feel
my suffering vanish
before my eyes.
— Harley King
© 2008 by Harley King
I step into
the healing waters
of your love
and come face
to face with
myself. I dream
of the power you
have to change my
world in an instant.
We each must
walk naked and
alone into the heart
of the pain and
learn to touch
our souls with hope.
I dip my head
under the gentle
water and feel
my suffering vanish
before my eyes.
— Harley King
© 2008 by Harley King
Trade-In
So often
the heart
is lost
in a pool
of pain
that we
cannot
hope to
restore it
or even
trade it
for a new
one. She
smiles at
the sound
of my shoes
on the floor
and runs
to kiss me.
I am healed.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
So often
the heart
is lost
in a pool
of pain
that we
cannot
hope to
restore it
or even
trade it
for a new
one. She
smiles at
the sound
of my shoes
on the floor
and runs
to kiss me.
I am healed.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
Final Minutes
I grow old
polishing my shoes
with sweat and tears
from my mother’s love.
God was a cruel
father who punished
me along with other
sinners when we lost
the basketball game
in the final seconds.
Sometimes our dreams
are like hot air
balloons on a Sunday
afternoon when the wind
has stopped breathing —
going nowhere, remembering
nothing. My final days
are filled with doubt
and moments of regret.
We loved too much to
free ourselves from
our passions. I catch
a ride on the next
shuttle to cities unknown
and hearts waiting
to be broken again.
Remember me in those
final minutes before sleep
arrives to heal your pain.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
I grow old
polishing my shoes
with sweat and tears
from my mother’s love.
God was a cruel
father who punished
me along with other
sinners when we lost
the basketball game
in the final seconds.
Sometimes our dreams
are like hot air
balloons on a Sunday
afternoon when the wind
has stopped breathing —
going nowhere, remembering
nothing. My final days
are filled with doubt
and moments of regret.
We loved too much to
free ourselves from
our passions. I catch
a ride on the next
shuttle to cities unknown
and hearts waiting
to be broken again.
Remember me in those
final minutes before sleep
arrives to heal your pain.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
The Roar
She touches my lips
with the tips of her fingers
and whispers harshly
in my ear. She stumbles,
her shoulder grinding
into my chest. I catch
her sweetness in my arms
and carry her to my bed.
Time is like a shovel
filled with dirt — caught
between where it has been
and where it is going. I
feel the stony tones of her
voice grate on my heart
strings and wonder if she
can rescue me from too
much booze and not
enough sex. Her eyes
have closed, crowding
out the sights and sounds
of the world we share
together. She has entered
the abyss where only
dreams venture and the wise
avoid. I chuckle softly
to myself and reach for
the blanket to cover her
sleeping flesh. God has freed
me from my anxieties and
taught me how to navigate
the roar of the white water in my ears.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
She touches my lips
with the tips of her fingers
and whispers harshly
in my ear. She stumbles,
her shoulder grinding
into my chest. I catch
her sweetness in my arms
and carry her to my bed.
Time is like a shovel
filled with dirt — caught
between where it has been
and where it is going. I
feel the stony tones of her
voice grate on my heart
strings and wonder if she
can rescue me from too
much booze and not
enough sex. Her eyes
have closed, crowding
out the sights and sounds
of the world we share
together. She has entered
the abyss where only
dreams venture and the wise
avoid. I chuckle softly
to myself and reach for
the blanket to cover her
sleeping flesh. God has freed
me from my anxieties and
taught me how to navigate
the roar of the white water in my ears.
— Harley King
© 2009 by Harley King
Email the author HERE