Saturday, 23 September 2017

Now by Adam Parry

It spins, spirals under,
rolling over, mixing in the light-
the mile wide molecules
and the unutterable absences.
Places of wonder hove into view
while volcanoes within us remake everything anew.
It
is all colours, new spectrums,
an orgasm of spring, gently going by,
a coil in the clock of time. Our place to survive
in the cold, cold space,
these nuclear summer days
a hope in the moment
as it turns circles and mimes.

Monday, 18 September 2017

Let the white roses grow by Adam Parry

The day is done, some just begun.
The sun strayed awhile, strayed into the garden.

The cat grass rises higher, daffodils lie dormant
for another spring in the day.
The stones I washed, the stones I carried as I
wagered on a turn of the day, finding a new door into now.

The cat grass grows exponentially
while the rosebush waits
for a button hole moment.

In another now, not now not then,
dreams' tears I do not recall
rises the cat grass higher, high as a hedge,
I consider cutting it, but
I will let the white roses bloom.

Saturday, 9 September 2017

Pretend your a tree by Adam parry

Pretend your a tree
and come with me.
I'll take you to
where
the clouds are born, before they melt
into the sea
where all the dolphins probably pee.
We'll climb a ladder to sky
and wonder how we
got there.

Saturday, 2 September 2017

Conversation with the wind by Adam Parry

The wind's my friend
some say  she pushes you up the hills
and away from places you really don't want to go.

But turn from this wind, is what I say, turn this storm into
electric lights, turn against the war like wind, hush her
spirit with the flick of switch.

The wind though sings of a thousand worlds, whose voice will never be tamed
or mimed or maimed.
And on the wind came thrown down by crows
that mankind was gone away, never believe anything
or maybe that was a rumour, some gossip.
Never mind.
It's okay, mannie, its only the wind.

Tuesday, 29 August 2017

Waiting for the long weekend by Adam Parry

Falling from the dark pen onto
the wishful white page.
Turning circles
skirting by forever
never holdihng hands or touching eyes.
In the snow I felt again the fresh glow. To those
I silently say goodbye
never though going away.
Running round stone circles in the sleet.
May I? Maybe
forever more, the wishful page exhorts
as the pen races on ahead on a million mile grasp away along the wishing page, continuing
never seeming to end

Saturday, 19 August 2017

A note from Alice

Down out in the wind
sun glints on this pen
spreads blindingly over the whipped white water.
A  clear view of the wind
here in the red benched half circle
where seasons stay the same
one
endless summer
weaving gold and fire on the trees.
The Summer man smiles blazed bright
in the red shelter and marvels at what he sees.

Saturday, 12 August 2017

Now by Adam Parry

Now, in this bright morning,
golden and thread about each other.
I pause to stare more at the details
of fallen leaves. Not so many.
It sees obviously summer
as the
heat bangs down on me like lost kisses.

No postie came to my door
no junk mail
no 1/4 price beds for sale or charities for the whale
The flame of the still green remains
the same and the foxgloves will stay awhile.
The electric and wires remain,
perfect tightropes no-on would dare

I see a spider-web over there.
I wonder whether to remove it
they are useful for taken out the flies
and sometimes in the right night
they waft in the sunbreeze . I go to-
remove it- change my mind.
My hear seeing beauty at the back of my eye. So I leave it for now