Tuesday, 3 July 2018

A wish by Adam Parry

A wish


October lies still dreaming

waiting for a time

springing up sedately as the seconds

melt away to October time.


...some wonder of sun’s glint

reached for me from the moor-

to leave so many books behind

and plans of plans half-thought...


Yet, now October sleeps

until it has time to yawn to

wipe the sleep from its sunny eyes

and watched the horses play.


So deep October lies in dreams,

a long, long summertime away, waiting to rearrange

the golden rays.

as if in the golden rays

summertime remains,

lives within and never goes away.


October takes wasted tears and washes the heart of fear.

Monday, 18 June 2018

Silent Pen by Adam Parry

The pen sleeps now
does not speak now
left to be picked up, or dropped,
forgotten somewhere
silent pen - my best friend.

Thursday, 24 May 2018

Pretend by Adam Parry



Pretend you’re a tree and come with me.

I’ll take you where the clouds were born

before they melt into the sea, where all the

Dolphins probably pee.

We’ll climb a ladder to the sky

and wonder how we got there.



Pretend you’re a dog

just come out of the fog.

Throw off the clogs, the hooves

and stand aloof, forsooth, forsooth.

I’ll tell you a tale that’s delved

from stale hail.

Hail! We must prevail.



The pocket pretended she was a locket

and put a silly hand into an electric


I lost her locket and stole her keys

when one day she pretended to be me.



Pretend you’re a cat

Who had no mat upon she sat

Pretend you’re a door

who couldn’t say more.

Encore, encore!



Pretend you’re a head

gone slightly unsled.

Instead...instead of today

think twice for tomorrow

and three times for yesterday

and when today comes think only of then.



Pretend you’re a human

If just for one day,

don’t look in the mirror

don’t run away.

Never forget that pause

in a lifetime

when you were human

when you were free.

Tuesday, 8 May 2018

A white slip of paper by Adam Parry and Where are you now?

The moon plays with clouds
another nightingale daydreams
splendid notions in a night of motion.

We're going to lose ourselves in the struggle for
birth and life.
I wonder if your back again, already
born again to some quick breeding creature
or maybe waiting to be born somewhere warm
where we wait.
I'm right here my old life
knowing that life is a bit more complicated than I ever imagined
no more myself and you are still being you uncomplicated
not some confused human
And I hope
your life as bee or buffalo, a tree or a tiger
will be better than the one I am still clinging on to.

Tuesday, 17 April 2018

Light by Adam Parry

Light like your lips or fingertips
heavy as haversacks and culliebucks
worried eyes- watch him!- coming
over this way
and see him pass. Close again
on the morning sun, heavy lids,
liquid lights squeeze through impossible passages
like a fingerprint of a forgetful dream,
that really doesn't need to be remembered
always there in codes of thoughts
codes of what is felt
like the lightness of lips a
and the touch of forgotten fingertips.

Thursday, 8 March 2018

The Pointalist's Paintbrush by Adam Parry

No technology in my theology
no God in my wayward lines, that take
shape with every mistake. No Devil
in the perfection of my undimmed need.
A watchful waiting for the sun to rise again,
in a silent unsung day.
A long time warring over conflicting dawns
a step outside and with a white brush edged with grey -
the artist remakes the Moon.

Monday, 26 February 2018

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 his tongueless mouth.
Laughing with glee as God dances with him.

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

The vultures peck and chew her flesh to feed their kin,
and as he steps out of the weary circle of dance
and into the undying fire of her soul,
he spins and never falls -
as uncontrollable as the lightning 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 on about him until morning,
the others find him there
white washed with death,
and the feed him to the crows.