THE PALINITES

Photography by Stony River/AU

Photography by Stony River/AU

The Palinites came from far and wide
to anoint their Northern queen and
sit her upon a throne of great power.

She left the Northern lights and fled
into the desert. There she lived like
a queen; lavishly. Far from the poor.

She was anointed the standard bearer
of a truth that neither pitied the poor
nor visited the widow. There was no
compassion for those appointed to die.

She charged much gold for others to
behold her and to be in her presence.
She preached the gospel of Sarah. She
peverted the true gospel of good news.

She prepared her caravan. Pomp and
ceremony went before her coronation.
The Palinites waved their fronds bowing
at her display of great wealth and power.

She chose as her crown rare, costly jewels.
Our Savior wore a painful crown of thorns.

The Lord has not blessed her coronation…

Alice Parris

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THE THIRD ALICE TRILOGY

Photography by poet Duane Locke

Photography by poet Duane Locke


MOONDROPS

Mother moon cries. Eye-weeper.

Earth’s waters replenish her tears.

Mother moon cries in great travail.

THE TWIXT & THE TWIDDLE

Coal-black armor on midnight steed.
Swords clashing in the heavenlies.

We lie between twixt and twiddle.
Seeking safety and understanding.

THE THIRD ALICE

Asleep, the third Alice has
appeared in the third Heaven.

Her unglorified body flits
easily into celestial spaces;

haunting heaven thru desire.

Awake, she is weighed down;
the temporal demands of life.

The third Alice sees the glorious
flash of white wings encircle her.

Hears pure knowledge whisper
to her spirit, “soon, but not yet.”

ALICE PARRIS

THE WREATH

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Lilac & mauve carnations,
orange-creamsicle & fushia sunflowers
pop out between sprinklings of green sprigs.

Dusty-rose &
tangerine trumpets blow the announcement:

Woodstock magic;
open hands, open hearts & open minds.

A hard-loving, hard-playing time
cut short by balding, joyless men.

The wreath
of color-profusion graces my bedroom.

Bejeweled bracelets of Crystal, Hematite,
Amber, Amethyst, Aventurine, Tiger’s Eye
& Jade still grace these arms- no longer held

out in the wonderment of freedom.
Some can hear the distinct tribal drumbeat.

These wreaths adorn guarded-hearts;
believers in mid-August, butterfly-freedoms.

Away in dreams
of ‘Summer’s Eve’ wonder, Boomers will take flight.

When aging lids grow weary, the charmed-piper plays.
Then, free-spirits are filled by an illumined-iridescence.

Woodstock magic lives again…

Alice Parris

CLEAR STREAMS

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CLEAR STREAMS

Clear our streams of consciousness.
Purge our wagging tongues in purity.
Clean our mottled, ambivalent hearts.

We are the keepers of earth’s flame:

We will decide the fate of waters,
limitless, mercury-less fish, blue
skies filled with sprite-birds singing.

Get under the waterfall of the living;
death is easy and surprisingly cheap.
Enter clear streams & wash away guile.

Wash hands filled with blood and mayhem.
Clear streams pierce through our amnesia.
Clear streams give amnesty for indulgence.

It is not our vast metropolises that will
reflect the greatness or genius of mankind.
It will be in the simplicity of our clear streams.

Alice Parris

DANCING HEARTS ARE STILL REMEMBERED

Photography by Stony River/AU

Photography by Stony River/AU


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

*Plucked from my poetry archive

MY FIRST-LIGHT LOVER

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And…
I wait for my first-light lover.

He is alive with musical vibrations
& lyrical laughter. He draws me past
the night’s cruel maze of darknesses.

His eyes are the color of Cool Gray
His skin is burnished like fine brass.
His voice is harbinger of a new moon.
His smile melts ice-stars; to shed tears.

And…
I wait for my first-light lover.

Waiting…
my feet grow stong like roots & my
legs are hidden by Birds Of Paradise.
He never understands how long I wait;
his days are my endless months, years.
His job is to sprinkle gold-dust on those
with dead-fish eyes, so they can glisten.

My first-light lover
cleverly stole Cupid’s quiver of arrows.
In stealth, he has become the King of Hearts.

And…
I wait for my first-light lover.

He is there in black-obelisk night.
In inhalation & exhalation at noon.
He is there as day disrobes, donning
musty-dusk. He is there as fire flies
seduce sultry, summer eves. He is there…

at first-light.

Alice Parris

WINTER’S CLAW

Photography by Stony River/AU

Photography by Stony River/AU

Winter’s claw
tears at the melancholy nature.

Soot-branches
are ragged, uninvited guests.

Winter’s full moon
denies love’s ample bosoms.

Winter’s night;
the dark gift stealing meadows.

Obsidian-cold
mounts marble grave-stones.

Alice Parris