DRAGONFLY LOVE

A season
of violent gasping.

The freedom of flight.

The dragonfly’s lifespan
is but brief.

Love, in our times,

is like a dragonfly;
fast, furious and wild.

The ruby eyes of the dragonfly

see only its fleeting passion,
its wings of teal.

The morrow unmourned.
 

 

Alice Parris

 

RIVER’S EDGE

What shall I say to

the child of my womb?

Shall I tell him that

I cannot run with him

along river’s edge, or

count with him the petals

of an upturned flower?

 

Shall I tell him that I

shall never throw a

baseball his way or

cheer him on to victory?

 

Shall I tell him

that my spirit shall

hover near the river’s edge

while he runs into the

brightness of the sun?

Shall I tell him that I shall

watch from far away for

my image in his child-tears?

 

Alice Parris

RAZOR-PAWS

Faux-photography by Anna Donovan-poet

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

RAZOR-PAWS

 

Our endless attempts at communication utterly lacked

the resolution of contrition.  It was then, that I tried to

 

leave my terminally-ill relationship, in stealth mode. I

hate the very nature of unrelenting, futile conversations.

 

As I was poised to leave and never look back, your

intuition transformed you into a gigantic lion behind

 

me standing on two legs. In male dominance, your huge

paws encircled the unsuspecting flesh of my upper arms.

 

When I tried to make a mad dash for the door, your

paws became claws tearing and shredding my flesh.

 

I was never one to stay in deteriorating relationships,

so my arms were shredded; a bright-red blood turning

 

into a thick-dark ooze.  Now that I am out of reach,

your razor-paws extend, swiping still, spilling blood.

 

For you, this activity  has become a blood sport.  Women

like me know that men can cut like razors when you leave.

Alice Parris

* FIRST PUBLISHED ONLINE IN STUBLE TEA (POUR IN SPIRIT)

SILENCE SPOKE

 

SILENCE SPOKE

Now, is this great love
of yours spotted in imperfection.
 
Self-interest trumps the
declaration of your undying love.
 
Love was slashed in the ledger

This rose of yours bore thorns;
bleeding hands dripping rivulets…
 
Silence spoke. That which remained
unsaid was greater than that which spoke.

Sometimes, you can never go back…
I was bathed in great joy for one day.

Alice Parris

Photography by Anna Donovan-poet 

 

PULSE STORM

 

The underbelly of caterpillars
yields food for thought. The veins
of leaves became the swelling tendrils
of my ancestors, secured by moisture.

Lightning striking blows of blackened
sorrow. Thunder claps streaking across
orange & purple skies, swollen seas.

Mighty trees felled; throbbing fibers
left aching in the wake of pulse storm.

You came back into my life, pulse storm,
uprooting memories hidden in forests.
Branches sealed by tender touches had
been torn, cast to the ground.

Fushia optics, scarlet-reddened,
invigorated, awakened synapses travel
through time tunnels bringing me here

and now, facing yet another encounter
with the alpha-force of mighty pulse storm.

 

Alice Parris

photography by Paul Thomsen

Concept of title, “Pulse Storm” by Stony River-AU

 

YOU LOST ME

                                                                                                                                                    

 

 

You lost me  Somewhere   Between   Meandering Lines…   Between Silences, Omissions, Compromises, You lost me.    Alice Parris