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, 8 May 2018
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, 30 January 2018
Revolver by Adam Parry
The seagull soars over
the sycamore there.
An unobtrusive moon
circles in eggshell blue
and waits to catch a seagull's eye
or some others passing by or
waiting by a bus stop in a mimicry of summer.
the sycamore there.
An unobtrusive moon
circles in eggshell blue
and waits to catch a seagull's eye
or some others passing by or
waiting by a bus stop in a mimicry of summer.
Monday, 22 January 2018
13-1-18
A day with ice, hardly possible to stay on my feet, but I made it to the bridge over the Bucklerburn. And halted. It seemed impassable - my quick route up from the Terminus- and I wasn't sure how to continue. A fellow passenger from the bus I'd got off joined me at the edge of the bridge.
'If you can't go round go through' and off he went, sliding elegantly over the troll guarded bridge and I thought about witches not being capable of crossing flowing water. So, I dared a tentative step and almost fell. I took me twenty minutes to cross the ice bound bridge clinging to the railings and finding melted spots as I tip-toed tracked myself as safely as I could to the other side. Then after the bridge there is a slope up to the back of the estate. My house was right at the top of the slope so after much slipping, sliding I made it up the ice seemed to try and catch me with every step. Proudly I was glad I didn't fall on the tricksy white willing enough break my bones and undoubtedly murder me if I could.
The house was cold when I got home. The young cat had found a space on a towel on the base of the bath, while the older mewled and watched with an icy anger, mewled again and I put on the central heating.
'If you can't go round go through' and off he went, sliding elegantly over the troll guarded bridge and I thought about witches not being capable of crossing flowing water. So, I dared a tentative step and almost fell. I took me twenty minutes to cross the ice bound bridge clinging to the railings and finding melted spots as I tip-toed tracked myself as safely as I could to the other side. Then after the bridge there is a slope up to the back of the estate. My house was right at the top of the slope so after much slipping, sliding I made it up the ice seemed to try and catch me with every step. Proudly I was glad I didn't fall on the tricksy white willing enough break my bones and undoubtedly murder me if I could.
The house was cold when I got home. The young cat had found a space on a towel on the base of the bath, while the older mewled and watched with an icy anger, mewled again and I put on the central heating.
Wednesday, 10 January 2018
River by Adam Parry
Above the first flow that
runs over rocks and salmon
past trees and bends in it's bank
beneath the black and blue of the sky
those greens and gold of autumn-land-
above this first flow another river runs.
One of all colours containing
the magic of 17 trillion thoughts,
shaded and hued
cleansing the Universe anew.
This river flows
runs over rocks and salmon
past trees and bends in it's bank
beneath the black and blue of the sky
those greens and gold of autumn-land-
above this first flow another river runs.
One of all colours containing
the magic of 17 trillion thoughts,
shaded and hued
cleansing the Universe anew.
This river flows
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