Tag Archives: musing

BAROMETER BONES

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Photography by Stony River/AU

Photography by Stony River/AU

BAROMETER BONES

Barometer bones
predict storm clouds
gathering.

Lightning causes
fetal positions
of pain.

Bones
feel thunderstorms
assemble

as armies of slate-

hurling hail,
throwing lightning-
javelins,

catapulting
massive buckets
of rain.

Crazy old lady
appears in a
fire-engine-red

raincoat &
yellow, rain-slicker
boots.

She died
drenched & appears
not to know.

Alice Parris

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DANCING HEARTS ARE STILL REMEMBERED

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Lavender-turquoise-salmon sea shells
jangling from cherry-red hip scarves.
Yellow, red, orange & brown crisp leaves

blowing on a near-frost morn, circling
around sensible shoes for painful arches.

Dancing feet are still remembered.

Gone are the tinkling sound of anklets
above Aboriginal feet. Pages slowly yellow.
Turkey oven mitts replace youthful hands.

Hippie graveyards are filling quickly this season.
Blood medicated to move through more efficiently,
even though aging bodies move like a sea of slugs.

Mescaline revelations are a vague notion, now.
Desert moons whispered their neon-wisdoms.
Now, the rumble announces a newly deafening ear.

Dancing minds are still remembered.

Love for humanity was poured out like LSD
upon this generation of seekers. Quietly, they
have been taken away; one by one. The world
is the poorer for it; with its fierce anal pincers.

Dancing hearts are still remembered.

Alice Parris

PHOTOGRAPHY BY STONY RIVER/AU

Photography by Stony River/AU

NOT ENOUGH

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Fire in AU by Stony River

Car ablaze in AU/Stony River

 

 

Slurping , sucking
licking, rubbing
of hands together-
flies void of prayer.

Ticking, tocking
clocking, tooling.

Not enough.

Insatiable appetite
for internet buzz.
Wasps, yellow jackets,
bees- all stand down.

The arachnid has
come to town & taken
over the buzz business.

Not enough.

Faster, faster,
text, text, text.
Spin, spin, spin
tweet, tweet, retweet.

Infamy: wheel of fortune
dragging a hanged man.

Not enough.

Enter into the lion’s den 
with your meager offerings-

to be tangled, mangled
& dangled; but decidedly

Not enough.

 

Alice Parris
 

FLATLINE

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In My Prison of Darkness

Faux-photography by Anna Donovan-poet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gray-morphed thoughts

veiled in illusion/delusions.

Tiny catepillars scheduled for

gossamar wings in the Spring;

 

advanced aviation systems.

 

Nothing but nothingness

showing up for dinner,

as both meal and guest;

 

feasts of famine.

 

This flatline awaits motion

upon ICU cardiac monitors.

 

Alice Parris

FIFTY-YEAR-OLD WOMAN

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Too young
To rock
Her days
Away on
The porch,
Too old
To use
Her beauty
As leverage,
Negotiating
Her way
Into a
Better life
Than her
Mother knew. Somewhere
Between
These two
Lies
The truth;
Written
About
In the
Notebooks
Of angels.

Alice Parris

Feeling Fabulous at fifty-nine

THE UNTOLD

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m_98e085eb4dbe4781b48dfcdf946ae9a4[1]                                                                                               
 Deep waters and raging seas

 

 Are within the sound of my

 Voice departing upon the ether.

Deep waters are a graveyard;
Untold stories are buried there.
 
 
 
Alice Parris