"harvester" poems
An Adventure
An Archer
A harvester of fire
and
Ruler of Jupiter
Positive, straight-forward
Intellectual and Adventurous.
But do not be fooled we are
Careless, Superficial
Over Confident and Tactless
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
As I watch’d the ploughman ploughing,
Or the sower sowing in the fields—or the harvester harvesting,
I saw there too, O life and death, your analogies:
(Life, life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest according.)
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*She wears fine cloth made from star dust
Sheer and fine
Jewels hang like tears from the edges of her gown
The moon is high and beckoning for her recognition
For this is a time of harvest and the wolves are howling their knowing
Hold tight child in womb all will soon be shown to you
Life returns to dust
As lovers can not agree to let love just be
The light of source is touching the spirit
Making us feel strong
Binding all that is together in its natural rhythm
Drums sound and smoke rises
Lady of this magical night stands forth and offers herself
To the great creator
Creator of distruction as much as creator of spirit
As both are of the same
Bathe in moon lit rivers and spend time with soul
Tomorrow we will hunt and break bread with fools*
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
Above the earth and below the sun,
Exhaled from volcanoes long ago.
Stately as the ships of the Spanish Armada,
Sailing the horizon graceful and slow.
Bearer of ambrosia that innervates the earth,
Harvester of water and what the winds blow.
Ageless and formless, taking every shape
Suggestive to reason of what we do not know.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 7:49 AM UTC
I know I didn't treat a lot you right
I'm a closed book with a big bad padlock on it
maybe you could say trust issues
but **** it I love you guys
no ****
(maybe a little)
because no matter where or how I have been
I have had some great people there for me
to keep me walking along that tight rope
without the fear of a body full of broken bones
We climbed hay bales in Drax
and ran away from the farmer in his combine harvester
we let everybody's tires down
and we went to the club and stayed until closing time
until after there were no taxis left
walking four miles home at four in the morning
we had a laugh mate
And to my Yankee friends
The rest of the world may hate you
but I don't
(much)
video games all night
ding **** ditch
homecoming and prom
and smoking cigarettes behind best buy
whole days spent on a couch laughing harder than we were high
the bowl we bought together
aptly named Willem Defoe
Marathon movie nights
post virginity loss high fives
telling me you were proud of me
for how I handled my parents' almost divorce
And I'm a cynical, ******* introvert
and at times I never want to see a human being ever again
but when that feeling fades
you guys are the first people I text
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
With Body pretzled up, skins converged to form
branches of rivers, mouth slack and frozen to
a permanent scowl of delirium and manners-gone,
as many swears dripped from those dry, cracked lips.
One of my mothers – gumshoed from the alley’s way of family.
“Get gumption, girlie, because everybody is full of ****
I remember that lullaby, “A tiny turned-up nose, two lips just like a rose. She sits upon my knee, she means to the world to me.”
I spy the scar on my pinky finger from her cigarette.
Could the King be witness in the Room?
Were those buttons of hollow wood over her eyelids?
Wrung of cries – we didn’t see that coming,
though we heard the flies.
And Age’s stumbling rattle through the hallway.
Do you know who I am?
Do you remember me?
Should the window washer come another day?
This stubborn sovereignty over what is reality – the root beneath the porch, the fog on the windshield.
Loosen the grip on this natural plane,
Please --
Woman of my Childhood, harvester of my manners.
Stand until the grown-ups sit.
Look away and bow your neck.
This was called the boxing match between Industry verses Inferiority.
Not child through birth – no –
but life spawned by those
strung-high fists.
There’s finality in this phone-call.
I heard it happened an hour ago.
Treading grievances and grimaces, picking through a flowerbed only to stroke the weeds.
Lifting boxes of Lead from reality to the Bridge of Dreams.
Frankly, I stole the gumption from your knotted mouth and
still cannot cry.
In a splinter of reason – I cast out the fundamental jibes of sacred hope.
That promise held between dog and owner during business hours.
Except there can be no homecoming.
The sickest liquor on the alleyway fence.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:08 PM UTC
The storm– she will come,
Oh- by the roar of the drum,
The boom of the beat–
Now cometh defeat,
Four seals are now shattered,
The ground will be battered,
Come forth thy lost line,
Thou shall face His divine…
The sky opened to set them free–
The creature like thunder: “Come and See!”
Foremost in the lead–
Upon the White steed–
Arrow of the Bow,
All obstruction fall low,
Striking the weaker down–
The fire glistens about his crown,
Above all the rest,
Behold all victory; CONQUEST…
The bizarre of the steeds–
The color that bleeds–
A Fiery red that burns in the eyes,
As each soldier dies–
The civil war spark,
As if for a lark!
In the fight of the four,
The second is WAR…
Come and See! Come and See!
Now the count is to three,
The black horse doth ride,
The third horseman as guide,
The hand bears balance not gore–
The sole vocal of four;
“…And see thou hurt not the oil and the wine”
The third–oh the third–John! The third is FAMINE…
Oh the horror– the horror– the fire filled eyes!
All that follows in path now simply just dies,
The pale green beast is a savage- a monster- no heart,
The ending- the rebirth- the salvation doth start,
The fourth rider tears– ravaging all the land,
The unholy Reaper with scythe in it’s hand!
The harvester hath expelled mankind’s final breath–
With Hell at the rear– the fourth and final is DEATH…
The war now to heaven and Hell now to Earth,
The charcoals are black and red hot in the hearth,
Cast forth by the Lion of Judah- the Lamb of the Lord!
With all of existence- the Divine became bored,
The Harbingers of the Last Judgment- the servants divine,
The living creatures cometh to steal all hope from thine,
Cometh One then come Two from the mythical Seal,
Cometh Three then come Four from the seven rumored to be real…
CONQUEST– the archer- the first rider of pure WHITE,
Crown capped with unholy deception of light…
WAR– the swordsman- the second rider of fiery RED,
Blood and betrayal as thou mark thy brother dead…
FAMINE– the balance- the third rider of pitch BLACK,
Food and resources all man will soon lack…
DEATH– the reaper- the fourth rider of pale GREEN,
Hell guiding scythe ridding Earth of all souls unclean…
The horsemen they triumph in biblical tale–
Consider an alternate story and detail,
Think not of no hope in the book Revelation,
Rather- imagine the truth of a war of no rotation,
The power unbalanced to alter dimension,
A different battle scene with a similar intention…
– Written By: Jacob Coffey –
*********************************
Just my take on a Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Hope you enjoyed it!
– Jacob Coffey
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
I marked where lovely Venus and her court
With song and dance and merry laugh went by;
Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly,
Bound from the ground and in mid air to sport.
Left far behind I heard the dolphins snort,
Tracking their goddess with a wistful eye,
Around whose head white doves rose, wheeling high
Or low, and cooed after their tender sort.
All this I saw in spring. Through summer heat
I saw the lovely Queen of Love no more.
But when flushed autumn through the woodlands went
I spied sweet Venus walk amid the wheat:
Whom seeing, every harvester gave o'er
His toil, and laughed and hoped and was content.
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We used to play guns with sticks
and we all knew how to die convincingly
with playing cards in our spokes
we summit hills atop motorcycles
ratatatatatattt
we walked through woods
explorers and pioneers
waiting for dinner or supper or bedtime
when summer was another world entirely
and the stains on our clothes
told stories
and not worries
We would carve sticks into spears
with knives our mothers did not know we had
today we hunt pheasant
we never did catch one
but we made dens deep in the woods
and climbed trees until we didn’t know how to get down
the hay bales stacked four stories high
in the farmer’s field
was a jungle gym
and when the farmer chased us away
in his combine harvester
we were playing Jurassic Park
back when girls were silly, annoying little things
that none of us were quite sure why we liked
and fights were forgotten within the hour
we had better things to laugh at
a marble composition book filled with ****** raps
and graffiti designs
we would take stones and make them into entire planets
but before long
our shadows caught up with us
a stick was just a stick
a bike just a way to beat the heat
and we were all too aware
of the special effects
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
The reaper's eyes were on her,
Yet she never bowed.
The reaper's ax chose her,
Yet she never soughed.
Death was finally in love,
With the girl he could never cow,
For she was something he could never have,
A girl with a skin too firm to swallow.
Why couldn't he touch the girl,.
The girl whose tears never fell,
The girl whose eyes are pearl,
The girl whose voice is a shim of bell?
Her secret wasn't a mystery,
She was too pure to be touched by maleficence.
The reaper desired her for her rarity,
But his hands burned at the touch of virtuousness.
Death chased her everyday,
In the hopes of taking her soul,
But her soul was too far away,
Far away for him to hold.
The young maiden didn't even notice
The harvester at her tail.
She was too involved in lightness
For her to witness his veil.
The reaper's ax was rotting,
It was yearning blood,
Though who he was lusting,
Was nothing but an illusion set by god.
The girl was a mirage,
God's own penalty,
Towards the slayer,
That gave birth to misery.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
He was parked up a hundred yards from her house
imagining Louisa
not too picky, judging from the run-down old houses
several were boarded up.
He was becoming quite absorbed with one of those.
A bad place. Soon to be notorious, a good house for a woman to be afraid in......
He had dug through all the Metal tapes in the vw.
Found Pride and Glory. Played Harvester of Pain over.
Till he was ready.
I'll show her hearts and love, god he was mad.
Hope Daisy gets to watch, wow that excited him.
The light came on early.
He waited until dusk, then walked around the back of her house.
Then in.
****
**** she had a cat.
Old as well, would it starve?
Then he saw her in the chair.
Jesus! Older than the cat.
And smiling at him.
He drove away an hour later.
Felt like hell inside. Forgetful old ***** thought he was her home help.
So he made her a coffee, fed the cat.
Sanctimonious cow gave him money.
Her husbands photograph was on the wall faded brown like she was.
Died in the war, drowned practising for D-Day.
So he spared her, for that and for the sake of the cat.
He stole an old bottle of whisky on his way out.
No sobriety test on the road to hell.
Six hours later he kicked a teenage ********** to death.
Dressed like that, you can't have a mother or a mirror.
Left the old ladies money on her corpse,this one's for Her.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
Walking amongst the fog
I see nothing but my fears
Lungs choking on the smog
I have been lost in here for years
Seeing only shimmers of light
I'm struggling to find the way
I become colder and darker every night
Searching for the words to say
Unsure if I can make it all alone
Harvester of my own life and the seeds of death I have sown
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
It is the emotion that takes all of your skills and traits to maintain.
It is the way of life that sprouts beautiful flowers with roots locked in harmony
It is the positive open embrace or the nagative self destruction
It is why I fight for your hand. Why I long for your anticipated advent
It is the reason why I scratch the surface of insanity when you are in pain
It is holder of broken hearts...harvester of nostalgic dreams
It is keeper of infatuation...the essence of peace and chaos...
It is Love
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
It was summer's last days
along the trail
where the serpentine creek
murmurs and winds
beneath the limestone bridges.
Just beyond the bend
a weary stand of feed corn
awaits the harvester's blades.
An unexpected gust sets
the oaks and sycamores swaying
and a few desiccated leaves
skitter across the path -
harbingers of the impending fall.
In the brush along the trail,
newly morphed Monarchs
flit from purple thistles
to yellow star flowers like
a streak of airborne tigresses.
while honey bees,
cloaked in veils of pollen dust,
quench their thirst with
draughts of goldenrod nectar.
The autumnal equinox
looms just days ahead.
Shadows lengthen as summer sings
its final hymn to the setting sun.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
- I -
I am Death
and I am sorry.
Sorry that I robbed you
of your youth
your vigor and your
vitality.
I am sorry that I gave you days
and months and years of black
days and months and years
better spent under the sun
dancing in the rain
prancing in the snow.
I am sorry that I robbed you
of your very first love
your child, your sister
your mother or father
your one care in the world.
I am sorry that I took away
those things that were the
light of your life
the salt of your earth
whether those be tangible
or intangible.
I am sorry for all this and more.
- II -
But this is what I do.
This is the burden that Fate and
Destiny have placed upon my
shoulders.
This is the task that has been
assigned to me by the cosmos.
The universe needs a Reaper
a Soul-Harvester
a Life-Taker
and that’s me.
Death.
It is my unfortunate task to remind
you – man, woman and child
that you are not invincible.
I am an omnipresent reminder of
your own mortality
an ever-present red ribbon
tied around your finger.
Believe me when I tell you that
I enjoy it very little
and detest it very much.
That I should be the one who
coaxes your tears from your eyes
burns my soul – MY soul.
Yes,
I have one, too
however hardened it may be after
all these years.
That I should have to swoop in to
your homes, your hospital wards,
your cars, barge in on your meals,
your vacations, your special time
with loved ones
is, to me, awful, a sin.
Me stealing from you those years,
people and other things from you
is vagrancy, indecency, criminal.
Nothing less.
- III -
I, Death, am a vagabond.
A cold hearted ******* A demon borne
in the fiery pits of Hell.
I am cruel, calculating and ruthless
with impeccable timing, I know it.
I know it, and yet I have not the heart
to give up what I do.
It is the only thing I know.
But every day that I do it is a day
where my heart aches.
My heart aches
and it has for some time now.
It is a pain of which I shall never be
rid. I am sure of it.
Would you believe me if I told you
that I listen to your pleas?
Your moaning, your agonized begging,
your take-me-not-hers, your why-him-not-me’s
fall on ears.
Attentive ones
listening ones.
I promise you, I hear you, and I hold your
hearts in my hands.
But I just cannot give you what they seek.
It would be unfair.
Me letting your brother live and not
his would be unbalanced, unnatural
unseemly, unprofessional.
Mercy defeats the purpose of death.
Mercy defeats the purpose of me
and I hate it
but it is so
and that is that.
- IV -
I am Death.
I am black
I am dark
I am night.
I know your secrets, your darkest
ones.
I know what you desire to know.
When you shall die.
I know it.
You all shall die.
I know it.
You know it.
And that scares you.
You are all afraid of me.
Do not lie. I know it. It’s true.
You all think you are doomed.
You think you are doomed?
You are doomed to succumb
to death?
I am doomed to be death.
I am sorry
but I am Death.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
Even when the fast windtoppled the old and looming tree outside,the one I used as shelter from the days of different sunlights,I noticed the strong double doors of the barn,where I kept the machinery,standing firmly closed--they were held with bolted hinges and metal strapsthat kept the splinters from happening.I was standing on the inside,staring out through the ***** windows,trying to figure out the difference between hurricane and breeze.And although the rafters above me were creaking, and I knewthey would soon collapse down and **** me, for now, they were betterthan the weather outside.And as long as the tractor has enough oil in its workings, its gas tank filledup and its tired inflated, as long as the harvester's blades are at their sharpestand the batteries are charged every weekend, I know that when I go outside,that when I do, the work's going be done...Yes, when I go outside, when I do, the work's going to be done...
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 10:37 PM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Highlight tomorrow, rewrite the stars that trail across our eyes.
I blink at you, smile, and remove my disguise.
You’ve got so much light inside, illuminating me with your touch.
You brush your cheek across my chest, and the bright golden flood is almost too much.
I beg night to stay, I've enough sunrise hidden here in you.
You blink at me, smile, and say “I feel it too.”
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 11:31 AM UTC
It opens in transition
Warm Texas rain in June
Dallas in a cocoon
--
Kingdom of the sad harvester
Crop of tears raised in the sun
Forming long shadows on the screen
--
Starlight in cathedral
This explosion within
Enter the soldiers
Enter the dragon
--
Framed insects
Relying on hidden stairwells
To cover their hasty escape
To seal their fate
--
Inside a fascist restaurant
The men hiccup and cigarette
The women just smile and pirouette
Dancing around the blast zone
Detonating minds and hearts
Just as the end credits roll
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 2:08 AM UTC
Is it you--
are you the rain
that my children
dance in?
Are you the
harvester of long
grains and seeds
that the lone bird
feeds on?
To know you
is to know for an
eternity.
It is you,
the hand of death,
the whisperer of
rustling motions,
who knows of both
the grandest scope
and of who I am
in my smallest ways.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
Harvester of words gathered in the
Trenches of life between
The dawns early fire
And the dusk of our gathering,
A reminiscent corridor that takes
A reader and places them in
The belly of your understanding,
Digestive reading.
And we become all things
All at once
To find a meaning to the wonderful
Chaos,
The stubbornness
Of the human condition
Gazing at broken things and finding
Light in the void of humanity.
You poet
Armed with a language unique
To the written word of your being,
The benevolent ruins of time
Assaulting the moments
Gazing into melancholic skies
Bringing them to read our hearts.
Bringer of wisdom from our own
Stupidity,
Spinning the compass to one another,
Bringing closer the faceless
Soul breathing in words,
Syllables like embers raining
On the angels watching us suffer,
We compact the understanding
Into a small requiem of experiences,
Ripping the face off of the world
And giving it our own touch:
I, you, We,
Poetry the birth of ruins
And dissolves into forever,
Poets, bringers of languages
Never spoken like dictation of spirits,
Time before time,
After and before collide
Birthing the momentous inkling.
Take it,
Its yours,
Poets living in the dream
Suffering the expense
Of the reality,
Constellation of our suffering....
Poets, living martyrs.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
If it's a distance empty from the A to B we can't decipher.
lined along with bricks and mortar, stick and stone left how we like em.
How do efforts scurry through assuming light could bless the shadow
nose to sky with hopeful glances honing in on roads of gravel.
Growing disillusion suits a lofty breadth of chest to beat on
knowing in the end a setting sun eclipses better eons.
Apropos of nothing and devoid of any hopeful signal
known to try imposing gold on weathered stone, and broken spindles
Drew the yoke upon a sect who we prescribed a disposition
drawing red each sordid line, insuring they'll be sent to prison.
Never free. The harvester assumes the fruit have grown impatient
failing here to see them printing license plates on new plantations.
Maybe in the future we'll refuse the craven role, observer,
graduate to breaking through, return the lives we stole with fervor.
Maybe while elites are keen to trim the fat and clip the losses,
we'll discover links they hadn't seen, between our little boxes.
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 4:03 AM UTC
Holy water into wine. Beer from barley.
Walking on the roof of a brewery,
Contemplating how Jimmy Fallon's
Finger never really seems to heal.
Combine harvester headlights dance
On the living room walls
As I lean back on my white IKEA
Sofa, tracing long hairs and
Fingerprints of lovers gone,
Wondering why I chose such a
Revealing colour.
Suppose the transparency matches
That of my soul's lining.
Holy water into wine.
Fields of gold now liquid painkillers
Slurring the voices in my head that
Pick fights with my heart over
Insignificant issues.
I lip synch to the music of my
Neglected talents and the memories
Of inspiration attached.
Bullets like knuckles rapping, rapping
At my empty chamber
Door.
Every finger I ever broke
Was from typing or
Punching
Walls.
Sometimes I put on the mask of
Poet, and pretend to be writing
For as long as it takes to fool
The empty pages.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
*Jack-o-Lanterns and Tennessee breezes
Sweet potato cobbler , Apple cider , frosted
scenery
Sweet memories 'neath the Pumpkin Moon
Whittling sugarcane to the sounds of pure Autumn
The Coyote yodel and the Barn Owl holler* ..
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC