Thursday, November 01, 2001

Rick Parsons

Scrapbook from Fiji

Drift back into nostalgic photos: a coral-fringed
beach where time seems to stop, framed against
the sunset sky; the sensual native who cleanses
inhibition in heathen springs of undressed sunlight.

Many journeys begin in his eyes. I find myself
traveling into them again. A drunken sailor lost
on the sordid side of town, wondering if past
could swirl into future.

Let me wash upon his tawny shores
in waves of whirlpool tongues
and untethered tides, intertwining and writhing
in the currents of the rocky straits below his navel.
Undertows flow in unison to beating tribal drums,
drifting on rushes of wind in a warm tropical shower.
Eyes on fire with the exhilaration of dolphins arching high in the air.

Let me quench this thirst with untamed water,
touch his cheek again like gentle rain.
Let us be lovers who kiss in the setting sun
as it blankets the ocean,
says goodnight, then slips away.

Come. Lie down beside me,
and whisper my name.

Portfolio in the Rain

I remember the final days of the monsoon best.
The exotic spirits and pills rained down his throat,
sloshed his mind in sludgy splatters of murk.

The camera remembered him best posed
on the toilet, head tilted over his shoulder,
mouth drooled open, shorts around his ankles;
a knockout on the runway floor.

He wouldn't remember that photo shoot
taken during another blackout.
A shaken and rattled slur, he couldn't
even open his eyes. I tried to sober him up
with caffeinated cups of goodbye,
thick skinned and bitter from brewing too long.

I remember the final days of the monsoon best.
His eyes were still closed as he stormed down
the flights of my twelve step stares.
That's when he stumbled into the door
on his way out, the locks changed
like last years overrated styles.

Hemispheres Part Two

Hemispheres were him, hothouse landscapes
where night hid from day and tiny creatures
of the psyche ran through hot-blood terrain.

I walked along edges
of southern tectonic plates,
fed on jungle fruit, touched each leaf
with soft desire. My own roots grew
in sultry, steamy twilight.

I dared to terra form chaotic coasts,
strained to tame a reckless planet.
I planted my seed and like God,
tried to create Man in My image.

Flora sprouted despite ensuing chills.
A father's cruel, frigid care fluttered
over a child's horizons; coursed across
shifting surfaces where love branched out.

He took shelter in my embrace,
then claimed my offshoots overshadowed him.
He did not realize his duality cracked
the final fissures, erupted slow volcanic waves.
I pulled up roots, brushed off dirt,
walked away from the hemispheres
that were him.

Rick Parsons: I have dabbled in the many fine arts of post traumatic stress, miscellaneous phobias, anxiety attacks, but my forte and true calling has been depression. I work as a veterinary technician, live with eight cats whose souls are to mine as child is to mother. I deal daily with the effects of ankylosing spondylitis. Writing poetry, in my opinion, seems to be a bit of insanity in itself. I hear voices inside my head and write down what they are telling me. Some voices are a child, some a beating heart, while the origin of other voices seems to be bits and pieces of subconscious thoughts jumping out at me from the dark, lonely corners of the mind..

K. Lee Michael Workman Colin Van Der Woude Peter Tremain Rick Parsons Karen Herring Joe Hackworth

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