Saturday, 25 March 2017

ARMCHAIR by Adam Parry

Beyond the Dee
horses run free.
An island shoal- there-
where they bunk off school.
Find a tree of peace, do I,
and waltz over the roof of tall trees.
Dogs, humans, all seven senses
yet hardly seeing the cyclist going by
as the dogs bark their unfettered glee.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Peace Treaty

Peace Treaty by Adam Parry

There is now a peace between
my contradictions,
an armistice
unpoepled with any but
my own thoughts.
Once I fought alone
until discovering
my allies in the war
there, always there, raging beneath my hair, and I
allying myself to theirs in their own minor wars.
Now in the one minute radio silence, they go,
and I alive and alone fight the Evil fascist might, or I might’ve
if I had not signed the treaty long, long ago
and alone in no-man’s land I dance.

Monday, 6 March 2017

Can we go to Clachna Ben again? by Adam Parry

Can we go to Clachna Ben again?

All the hills and mountains
I never climbed are still there
They cannot care if I am man,
woman or mouse.
They wait, still,
under this sun, the same sun
shining as we struggled up
Clachna Ben.
Virgin again
pages unwritten. Suddenly I know what I was missing-
all those hills and mountains  I never climbed
I climbed again and again.
Always climbing but when will we go again
to Clachna Ben?

Saturday, 18 February 2017


A straitening of subtle reflexes
lays the sun upon her eyes
spiralling centre circles she
traces with her fingers and toes.

So high, so mighty she sits so small
cross-legged as if she had it all.
Her head held in a loving way
while wandering I witness her as if
she were a prayer and cannot
look away.

Now the willow tree lifts her up
like fresh dew
 she is a child made new.
Yes the Willow Tree lifts her up
So gladly and the wanderers, them
and you,
pass beneath the willow tree
unable not to stare at someone so, so rare.

Monday, 6 February 2017

No Time by Adam Parry

Quick! There's no time to be wasted.
Run fast for the train, get on the bus pulling the day.
All the cars full of people are racing away, but we'll all
go together as slow as can be.
All over the city, all over the land
the lame and the useless are all holding hands,
whilst the rich and the beautiful
follow along and pitifully say
they don't know the way.
The joggers are running
and the sprinters don't quit.
Now the old man on the corner
has run out of booze, but follows the people for
he has nothing to lose. So.
Quick! Put on your glad rags, while music is still
playing, say one last goodbye to the sun and the stars
nod to the morning, don't lock up your house lock up the home
forget all those sadnesses - and pick up your bags.

Thursday, 19 January 2017

Genetic Engineering by Adam Parry

Does it reduce within me?
Poor cousin from cold hill,
when trees made houses
and only birds and insects would fly then.
Cousin Peter, too many centuries ago,
sent his blood to me in a warm fire lit room
on a rug clutching Auntie someone in his arms.
Spermheads my egg-mother now unknown
lost where no grave marked her leaving.
But, baby brother conceived my have made her leave.
New brother, sibling stepping into the shoes of
Lucy and Mark's dead dog.
Cousin Peter loved the Lord
and put baby name in the Latin book,those
speechless litanies.
He wrote his name black as the ink.
Judah named, cos Father stereotype, long, long
before the nailing of the new God on
Worm's door, said Judah than he said 'hello'.
To Peter, Lucy, Mark and Judah one more blessing
in the ill conceived tilled over ground.
Planting comes and goes, then comes the gold comes
the Harvest comes the snow.
Then Judah died, left new Mum, single babe
abandoned by time and so soon the rains fell.
Little Thomas fell below Peter's name cos mama had no time
to leave her own.


So passes time, tears pass, tears less numerable
than a single storm.
With judah gone, Mum gets conned
by Joe Zander, a blacksmith from the bad side of time where
the caravans rest, and was repaid for her Home and the
land she never owned with Minah, the girl she needed in her
nightly plea to good.
Little Minah got all tangled up and lost.
Too many wars, and revolutions, too many days circling the change.
A-leaving, a passing. A thousand, thousand past lives never told
I lost my lineage.


Now here in this place.
Still. Only rain music in my only ear.
I paint a sky - slap dash: too much blue, boo-hoo.
I have a drink too many and can't afford a whore
while Gauguin wanks upon a sunflower on my kitchen floor.
I painted peasants but they made me cry.
I loved and loved but she left me to die.
One day I'll break the colourless chain of pains.
There is a field I know...
At least Theo will not have to bail me out again.
I'll be as free as the sirocco and rage in the trees.

None will come from me, it is done.
The line is broken.
I will not have to burn these endlees seeds:
sketches of daydreams, bright blue as my eyes, wide as the rivers
and cloudless blue skies.


It grows in me, grows somewhere in me.
Twisted ribo-nucleotides rushing spiral-like waves.
Guanine and cytosine. No chance of escape.
Adenine and the other one.
Mismatched and unciphered, a second-hand jigsaw waiting
to be remade and fitted back two by two.
But obliterated, by change, change, no change please we're British.
Until unfigured I fell, just another statistic cleaning Gound Zero
Watching old souls go, embacing clouds in the high air.
I watched too as I rise from the twisted wreck, there I died there.
I soar and soared above the Twin Towers
a garden shrine so far away.

Wednesday, 4 January 2017

A Song upon The Flame by Adam Parry

The crippled Whirling Dervish
dances the dream of mourning in his head
spinning, the uncontrollable whizzbee,
chanting the incantations at the back of tongueless mouth.
Laughing with glee as God dances with him.

He watches the vultures take his soulmate away,
with crusty, blinded eyes;
yet they do not take her smile from his mind
or the chiming laughter of her eyes.
Or even, as if she were twirling him about on a potter's wheel,
the caress of her body and hands.

The vultures chew and peck her flesh to feed their kin,
and as he steps out of the weary circle of dance
and into the undying fire of his soul
he spins and never falls-
as uncontrollable as the lightening storm-
he washes in the flame of her touch.
She gluts the greedy birds.

When all the other dancers go
he dances on
moulded and reshaped
by her tender hands.
As the night dances about him until morning,
the others find him there.
whitewashed with death,
and they feed him to the crows.