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

‘MOVABLE FEASTS’

PHOTOGRAPHY BY STONY RIVER/AU

PHOTOGRAPHY BY STONY RIVER/AU

A flash in the pan, a wisp of smoke,
a broken covenant. What are we to
think of those who become part of

our families, our lives & then opt out;
leaving collateral damage that turns
cold in our veins, at odds with blood?

Are these truly ‘movable feasts’ in our
lives or are they soon to be as ashes
scattered, as time sweeps up all things?

Pomp & ceremony, a white dress & veil.
Will a decade pass without a retraction
of vows? What will have been the point;

to give seed into the world & cut them
into halves? I cannot say for I have been

the greatest covenant breaker of all. I was
not a ‘movable feast’ for any but my blood.
Ice water surely runs through these veins;

not knowing love as it is defined by timeless
romantics.  Disposable, partakers of covenant-
halves, rendered bloody-sure in the severing.

I reaped the whirlwind for my indifference,
lack of contrition. All I know is loyalty and

bloodline. God kept demon-birds away from
my seed with their vengeful, purposed- pecks.
In spite of me,  my seed & offspring are blessed.
Alice Parris

 

 

THE QUICKENING

PHOTOGRAPHY BY STONY RIVER/AU

PHOTOGRAPHY BY STONY RIVER/AU

THE QUICKENING

Should I go softly into the sweet purring night
or spin like a new windmill into the furious sun?

Shall I yet stretch out upon limbs brittle-sure?
The morn cups chirping birds of Southern hue
as the vultures gather at the the road’s crossing.

I was that gift of drink poured out in love’s leaving,
never noticed till years passed on their understanding.

I watch dimly in this gray world trimmed darkest noir.
The sharp mind bleeds from having turned upon itself.

Colors bled and faded in the passage of indifferent years.
Stark, falling shards have become our only measurements.

O, do you discharge your spirit before slumber overtakes?
There is yet a brightness hidden from earth-bound eyes
that quiets all turbulence in the breathlessness of night.

The quickening comes when time stalls… suddenly.

Alice Parris

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

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

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