O BLACK ANGEL

New Angel Wings by Shadavar-Stock

New Angel Wings by shadavar-stock

 

O black angel, 

spread your wings for me.

Deliver me from ghosts and rattling chains,

chants, haunts, and roots, sinking at the bayou’s bottom.

 

The past with its dried hope and magnolia,

now long-gone; a shattered mirror of forlorn days.

 

O black angel,

spread your wings

upwards and outwards; sweep from

paradise to heaven. where grass grows emerald,

springing back past the walking on it.

To where joy-filled winds speak mysteries of the ages.

 

O black angel,

spirit me away to where

gates of pearl open onto streets of gold, like glass.

 

O black angel,

Uphold me in your massive hands.

Let me look into your piercing eyes, and

see beyond the boundaries of man’s comprehension.

To that place of magnificent, peerless beauty.

 

O black angel,

carry me in your wings.

Take me to that place where I might

see His body, bloodied and pierced for me.

Behold His face and kiss His nail-scarred hands.

 

 

By Alice Parris

 

 

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I CRY ON SUNDAYS

Photography By Stony River/AU

Photography by Stony River/AU

I CRY ON SUNDAYS

I can hear the clickity-clack of the many
perfectly-heeled miniature leather shoes,

the swishing of multi-tiered dresses, the carrying
of tiny pocketbooks.  Young men swim in suits,

wear pressed ties from a sealed storage bin.

They are perfectly coiffed as they enter into
the house of reason, malfeasance or treason.

There, where the bell tolls, widows clutch their
pocketbooks, careful of ordained pickpockets.

I watch indifferently, with red puffy eyes

I remember my own personal losses:
losses without funerals.  I cry on Sundays.

Post-congregation parties gather at their local eateries,
in their Sunday’s best.  There, they down syrup-laden
pancakes in hedonistic abandonment.

Bellies are filled to the brim in this ritual,
this careless mocking of starving masses.

I watch with a soul-sadness so deep
that it cannot be named.  I could let out a howl,

but my Maker already understands.  Tears of
flesh-eating rain pour like rivers when

I cry on Sundays.

 

Alice Parris, Nashville, Tennessee

*First published in the Ann Arbor Review

THE SEER

Photography by Stony River/AU

Photography by Stony River/AU

THE SEER

Craggy visage
framed by snow-locks.
Power mantle unfurls
upon a servant’s feet.

Garbled voices give
way to white-misted,
billowy clouds nesting
in a bed of symbols.

Flesh feasts
upon divine symbols
with viper-drool fangs.

The seer stands alone.

Wildflowers of white
yellow & lavender. Early
birds flying with mates.
Flooded creeks flash-dry.

Morning dew hides
from first light. Silence…
Rumbling underground
seeking wide-lipped spout.

Flurries scurry
to orbital peripheries.
Discernment of shadows.

The seer stands alone.

Within timeless frames
& frameless times…

The seer stands alone.

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