Drunkish on the bus by Adam Parry.
Why shame this man who has shamed himself
a thousand times?
Why harm this man who has shouted and screamed
at love
and got no answer?
Let him love this rain.
Or the running
or teasing the long white hair on
his chest.
Why hate this man?
when seeds of death
lodge in his mind and form.
Why desert this man?
When it always seems this day
he has only time for love
and only time for love.
Picture (A family of black immigrants, 50s, on a wet
street in Dublin.)
by
Adam Parry.
He had bought her a first communion dress
on Tuesday.
Tuesday was hot, hot a sunny day.
In the shop it shone out from the window.
Sunday! Sunday rained.
They had to walk to the church
in the rain almost the first out the door the dress lost
it’s brilliantine,
another new Communion dress, faded, mossed over
by the time they got to the Church she seemed a
coal-miner;
wet as her Dad and Leo in the pram in.
After the Communion they were walking home and the rain
fell
on them even harder. The street was deserted and shops
shut. Awful grey streets
a dirt windows, silhouetted forms huddled ones and twos
brighter, out shone the little girl’s communion dress.
In the shop windows while they swam against the tides of
the rain
and the street was so, so long.
I wanted to cry, but that would make the rain, rain
harder and home seemed
impossible, faraway place wet as I was.
Poem for Sara
As dark as I am you are
light.
Your weightless heart
beats faster.
Your love is always
yours to give.
I worry how to forgive.
You are a sheltering forest
I am a single tree upon a
hill-top in the sun and storm.
You give good, see Jesus
in this stranger I have become
and it hurts my heart
for all I see is hate.
Dream by Adam L Parry.
Red bright, in my beautiful dream, a snow queen
long locked away- our
eyes met over the ice-cream counter-
a green bag over her shoulder
of plastic and black
her pale face, unmarred,
unfreckled, she sleepwalks
to work, dreams her own
dreams counting the footprints in the snow
I left behind.
Perhaps, perhaps the Snow
Queen will come to me as I sleep
In Beauty.
LARA POEM
The magic remains in the colour of
your hair.
The beauty belongs in your so
white eyes.
The love is recalled as you sleep
and sigh.
The truth is recalled in your
blue, blue eyes
The truth remains in the hands
that holds.
The sorrow returns as you turn
away and go,
But happiness returns in the magic
that remains.
After the sadness my heart opens
again
July 27th. By Adam Parry
“Colour in my heart,” the lion
cried
from the dot to dot picture I had
made.
“Make me look serene yet ferocious
that I may seem to clutch
brightness
with my golden stare,
make my land a Kaleidoscope, as
you
touch colour to the savannah and
sun where I belong.”
I took some blue and gold and dew
coloured in the lions land
put texture and tricks of the
light
the pencil drew out of me.
As if meditating over the
surprises of time
as I inspect the sun.
I display the light upon the lion’s
mane.
Unthought-of, in a thoughtless
moment,
the lion on the paper
roared with pleasure at the land I
had made for him.
From a small red book by AL Parry.
Love is a diamond
held hidden for so, so long.
Accident or design?
Love is lost and found
in a dark clown’s smile-where a stranger’s
fears crash upon the rocks and
uncover the birth place of the diamond
a moment waited for forever
and beauty enters the day.
