tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19904015799765712702012-01-06T11:51:29.894Zoriginal poems for the 21st centuryjude parsonsnoreply@blogger.comBlogger991100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-42073637160486324282009-11-19T12:29:00.000Z2009-11-19T12:31:02.323Z

Tokens of our love expiredscattered on the bedroom floor,letters torn that had once firedpassion… paper, nothing more. They will kindle fire again,But not to cause this heart pain,Just a pale flame, embers, smoke,History cancelled at a stroke. It was simple, she’s dispelled.I did not mourn, nor despise;No tears shed, regrets not held,Nothing left now… only lies.(c)Graeme K Talboys

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-36370002519453959292008-10-27T12:46:00.004Z2009-03-31T23:09:09.149+01:00

She lifted me up and carried meon her shoulder. I was seven thenand must have been a fair weight.She said to me “Son, just close your eyesand go to sleep, it’s just a wee bit further.”I was sick down her neck but she just laughed,even though it didn’t smell of milk anymoreand hadn’t since way back.She always seemed so strong when I was ill, so why, when she was done and dry,

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-13977050847956858392008-10-27T12:43:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:10:59.545+01:00

Sat in a wheelchair outfacing the sunplaid rug tucked around his kneeswas how I found himcould not hear or seejumped in shock as I touched his arm.Wheeling him backstunned at the frailty of thin bonesshrunk into tissue-paper skinfound the discarded hearing aidclogged, as always, with hardened waxI soaked the tubes in hot waterbegged from the girl who brought his tea,replaced the battery.The

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-79396567307988315422008-10-27T12:40:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:11:55.118+01:00

I like to think I can do some things well,especially when I sit down to write;but I could never do a villanellebecause it taxes every cerebral cellto render both refrain and rhythm right.I like to think I can do some things well –perhaps the sonnet is where I’d excelif that iambic pattern weren’t so tight –but I could never do a villanelle.And when my novel’s finished, it might sellenough to make

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-57544516383314423392008-10-27T12:37:00.005Z2009-03-31T23:13:18.059+01:00

‘I don’t mind which "flavour" as long as it’s healthy’it’s what you say as the swell crestsand one by one you count each tiny digit starfish against your deflation until, like a giant intruder in a room of small plastic chairs and toy clocks, you watch his eyes flick sideways in endless repeat‘at least he’s not autistic’ evaporates in culmination of all those sideways glances and muttered remarks

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-85040566985494991782008-10-27T12:35:00.002Z2009-03-31T23:13:50.903+01:00

Its stern poetic license shall imposeone-forty syllables in tiers of ten;but fourteen lines of regulated prose,to stabilize the thoughts of wistful men.No right to roam at random through each verse;laborious or languid wanderingin patterns reckless, feckless or perverse,the balance and the rhythm squandering; no limericks, slick lyrics or blank rhyme,undisciplined or syncopated beat;erratic

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-54065973472972832392008-10-27T12:34:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:15:08.556+01:00

The second fiddles always take the blameWhen the orchestra is out of tune or not in timeAnd I’m playing second fiddle yet againNow the second fiddles always take the blame.The conductor’s sleeping with what’s-her-name...The oboeist we thought was past her primeThe second fiddles always take the blameWhen the orchestra is out of tune or not in time.The second fiddles never take the blameNow I’m

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-36173108502376043082008-10-27T12:33:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:16:04.947+01:00

When young, I’d gaze at stars and wonder why,And pressed my parents for a telescope –A means to realise my fervent hopeThat I might find some answers in the sky.Philosophy then took me in its spell:‘Is knowledge true belief?’ ‘What is a fact?’– So frighteningly pristine and exactI feared my brain was crumbling, cell by cell.Now poetry has come to make me whole,With rows of slender volumes on my

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-11100228452130410622008-10-27T12:31:00.002Z2009-03-31T23:17:02.912+01:00

Do you have a family?It was a safe question, I thought,to fill a gap, stop the drift to silence.We’re trying to start one.Through arranged public expressionsour eyes met, both knowingshe’d carelessly unbuttoned the conversation;a rush of colour escaped to her face.I turned away, allowing her a momentto cover up - and saw the room of faces,this way and that, mouths opening and closingto launch

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-14910967269797159932008-10-27T12:28:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:17:46.676+01:00

Sticky grey, clay weathered hands, dig from endless seams.Slap! Wedge Slap! Forming bovine shape, eyes peering through forest fingers.Thud! Wheel whirring, dribbling water splattered stars. Whirling, Twirling centrifugal force pushed ever outwards, throwing spirals in.Purple lustre, copper matt, wait for fiery transformation;Roar! Glow Roar! Tongs plunged quenching flame, smoke abundant, colour

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-12143696807678834702008-10-27T12:27:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:18:57.865+01:00

Each night you light me into bedOh orb of subtle brightnessA halo rests around your headSo out of pure politenessYou share your suffused energyWhilst I sit near, undressingOr pour your lightness over meAs I sit idly restingYour pleated pink silk nightcap glowsSuffused with subdued colourIn rosy hues my book I chooseThen tilt your lampshade overPink shaded lamp on gilded standI thank you for your

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-77675815169061019522008-10-27T12:26:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:20:51.340+01:00

Lay under the truckcold running down his backbullets poundedover and overrelentless waves pounding rock.later they severed his neckpushing the shattered disc into placelost two mates in that attackat Catterickhe was treated for shockonce fit, they wanted himto return to Iraqwatching the news from Basraliving on handoutshe couldn't go back©Janet C. Coyle, 2008

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-6579500377110872662008-10-27T12:23:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:19:53.652+01:00

Concernover possible linksbetween suicide victimsemerged.Claimedseven young peoplein the areahanged.Notedeach other's deathon an internetsite.Newspolice looking againat thirteen casesconfirmed.Police said no evidencesuicide victims corresponded.That virtual world contact somehow led todeath.©Janet C. Coyle, 2008

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-584751496016493102008-10-06T18:52:00.002+01:002009-03-31T23:22:34.896+01:00

Those sons of the Victorians - so aloof, To be there at the birth just wasn’t done. Her bags all packed, he briskly packed her off; His parting shot was “bring me back a son”. The dull drip-drip of daddy’s disappointment Seeped slowly through the fabric of our days. Outnumbered amongst women, discontent,Disgruntled by our foolish female ways.But here, among his things: her evening gloves. I phone

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-38729688025204877792008-10-06T18:50:00.002+01:002009-03-31T23:24:23.567+01:00

See the spider spindled, black clad silhouette sit.His inky rimmed orbs gloat, wedge shadowedas electric blue doe eyes fall before the altar of cooland slack limbed, enter the holding arena.In the snug, last weeks crimped and spiralled victims mope.Coins keep ‘I’m not in love’ in constant repeatas glowering the main squeeze, puff-addered,spits venom at dejected but hopeful leavings.Identically

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-48391120423878866702008-09-05T23:39:00.007+01:002009-03-31T23:25:12.987+01:00

The white puffball bride lights up in the loungeHer one-match wedding strip displayed for all.Buck’s Fizz flows, releasing old scores, grudgesMum’s off her head; shouts ‘duty,’ shouts ‘paying,’Soon starts swaying, ashtraying into DadWho protests, in his vest, still proud, in this,His home. Deeply injured, he rails. Firm, throughGritted teeth, gives the team talk. Morale high,Tissues dab eyes,

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-17577239213836850002008-06-08T11:07:00.002+01:002009-03-31T23:26:36.140+01:00

It's raining.Never-going-to stop rain,noisy-on-the-window-pane andgurgling-down-the-drain rain.I went to Spain.When I left home it was raining,When I arrived it was raining,Filling-all-the-tanks rain;wet-me-to-the-bone rain,rain they hadn't seen for years.How could I grumble?I remember rain,monsoon rain in the tropicscan't-hear-yourself-speak rain,rattling-on-tin-roofs rain,The wedding vows I

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-64419862816730553332008-03-09T17:37:00.002Z2009-03-31T23:27:09.432+01:00

A large, black dog has come to live with us.It was a very gradual insinuation.He stayed, at first, on the outskirts of the garden,Slinking in only at dawn and duskTo leave his turds on the grass.The darkening days draw him indoors.His matt, unglossy coat sucks the warmthFrom the fire and leaves a chill behind.At night, he lies on Tom’s side of the bed.The weight unbalances my rest.He cannot speak

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-19007040350026578902008-03-04T11:56:00.004Z2009-03-31T23:27:52.590+01:00

The red grey city covers seven hillsIts houses, halls and spiresStrain against the western windLike a meadow of frozen sandSand, blasted superheated and blownStretched out over frames of steelBurns red in the reflected gloryOf the bloated setting sun.(c) William J Davidson, 2008

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-19862306498229324472008-02-03T18:59:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:28:47.358+01:00

Is there a future for someone like me?Am I just a number in a black bookKept by a minionIn an government officeAnd poured over at intervals whilstSomeoneDecides if it is my turn to be houndedTo find work.Is there a future for someone like me?Am I simply a diagnosisIn a doctor's recordsA hospital statisticTo be quoted when a politicianNeedsTo prove that the latest cuts to the NHSMeans it works.Is

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-51607164381931898192008-01-26T12:27:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:29:40.942+01:00

Our conversation’s ‘Clematis Montana’woody branches of tangled talkrambling lengths of sixfold spoken shootsredialling fence and tree incessantlytwining tendrils of talkative tipsunravelled, spiralled cords lose threadof which branch bore the fluent flower.(c) Janet C. Coyle, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-82215159519806141492008-01-26T12:26:00.001Z2009-04-01T00:08:30.470+01:00

summer catsfascinatedby entrances and extra exitstempting ledgeson upper floorsJosephine leaps from garden wall window to bathroomby slope- tiled roofadventurouslydescends through leafy tree.front room casementsform furry flurriesunscheduled appearanceson balmy eveningspatio doors ajarso Cassie, purringcan see and stalkthe unsuspecting starlings.© Janet C. Coyle, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-68917102297885688362008-01-26T12:09:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:31:15.244+01:00

Grey grizzly drizzle masks unnerving shadowsGloomy granite where spectres replay historyGravitating with wintry wraiths of curious breathGlimpses of icy shadows, half defined immortalityGarnered from ruins of ancient tragediesGhost watchers grapple supernatural realityGuarded weakly, grappling unnatural nonentity(c) Janet C. Coyle, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-20109073645067990442007-12-12T22:26:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:32:17.392+01:00

Lonely hands, clasped on knee,Clinging onto dignity.Slouching down like sleeping dolls;Quiet, still, while time revolvesAround the Chintz and festive glamour.Oblivious guests take half an hourThen return to joyful homesClaiming that 'We make no bones,Gran's pretty good, she's got a cough,But in the home she's better off.'(c) Alison Roughsedge, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-88426931458158513172007-12-08T13:18:00.003Z2009-03-31T23:40:10.933+01:00

Our gender ambiguous parent Who art in an etherial otherworld non-defined, Hallowed be they name. Thy bordered realm come, For thy will be done, On earth as it is in the etherial homeworld non-defined.Give us this day our daily organic, low carb, fair trade, may contain nuts, breadAnd forgive us our trespasses and other indiscretionsAS WE FORGIVE THOSE WHO TRESPASS AGAINST USAnd lead us not into

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-18322536085234792622007-11-24T12:34:00.000Z2009-03-31T23:41:03.167+01:00

The glove lay on its backwith fingers curled upwardsand comfortably at rest, attesting to life-long labour.Leather it was, once tan and smooth like its owner,now gnarled and wrinkled,exposing the soft entrails of its shredded lining,worn in and worn out. Threads incapable of repair.The other glove, the halfthat made the two a pair,lay flat, still tissue wrappedin the drawer, under the socks,

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-25822190160880180702007-11-07T21:44:00.001Z2009-03-31T23:42:11.679+01:00

White horses chasemy ankles to the shoreThey tickle my heelswith their frothy manes.They whinny and whistlebetween the rocks;Stamping the sandwith thundering hooves.And when the tidehas turned and gone,they graze on seaweedsfloating in the swell.(c)William J Davidson, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-46405162104848093422007-10-22T12:04:00.001+01:002009-03-31T23:43:47.400+01:00

Out there he stands, the watcher at the gateHe listens 'til the sound of feet is doneWaiting, head cocked, as if to hear his fateHe waits, so calm, although it's very lateAnd most of us are to our beds long goneOut there he stands, the watcher at the gateHis meal has long been cold upon the plateBut yet he stands as still as carved from stoneWaiting, head cocked, as if to hear his fateHe knows

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-21454540581582813602007-10-12T15:08:00.001+01:002009-03-31T23:44:36.190+01:00

The sky glows pale, edgelessand undefended.Highlighted mint green is ripped apart by shards of gold. Seeping swathes of melting indigo smudge the childish pastel wash as whispering charcoal clouds conspireto unite and banish light. Static trees,clearly subtle, are ebonised,stark, etched silhouettes on canvas.The stalled air, sweet yet neutral, hangsas the

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-23044517764056714572007-10-12T15:07:00.001+01:002009-03-31T23:45:30.938+01:00

Your eyes on me, your hand up her,In flagrante delicto.My sheets, my bed, unfamiliarflesh, deception in full flow.It's hard to run, you'd be too slow,Your trousers round your knees.Her eyes like mine from long ago,So desperate to please. Those vacant words of love you spewed,Spat out in shallow vowels,meaningless now, your mistress nude,I'll gather up your towels. The bed remade, a life unfolds

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-62553514523365012742007-10-01T14:11:00.001+01:002009-03-31T23:46:26.644+01:00

Grass growsMowers mowGrass is cutCut is neatFeet on grassGrass wets feetToes grow dampFeet get damperWet hampers feetHamper on grassWith glassGlass cuts feetCut is neatFeast is lostCompost.© L A Rowe 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-81813212046912440422007-10-01T14:09:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:48:01.193+01:00

In a time before peacetimeYoung men drew chalk trails of death far aboveThe hop fields, where the East-End's new RuralFolk, in barns, ate and slept and some made love.Kids in carts drawn by the old bay, 'Muriel'.In a time before peacetimeShires, horses-of-phoney-war ,drew carts Through orchards. Apple laden wainage of LandArmy Girls, in green, with pride in their hearts,Dreamt of silk

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-73969601449371702692007-10-01T14:03:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:49:13.611+01:00

Rising on dark mornings, absent of song.Eyes sealed with sleep, grumbling at the hour,stumbling blind to the murmuring shower.Trees spill inky branches against the dawnsky; purple like the bruise on his lover’seye. Wakened by the clear crisp air outside,he drives to work with a bleak hangover’s,pall around his thoughts and leaves his bride,suckling wrath and misery to her breast.She weeps and

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-31521893787127437492007-10-01T14:01:00.001+01:002009-03-31T23:51:36.194+01:00

Great grim skied smeekit city of the west,Where awbuddies yer pal and aw the rest,Unless yeh are a dirty feenian hun,Supportin’ Partick Thistle as yeh run,A workin’ town wi’ hardly any jobsIt has its share o’ wanky, arty, nobsWi’ plenty bars an’ shops tae spend their payIt looks mair like Auld Reekie every dayBut dinnae worry, we’ll see ye awlrightAn come tae visit on a Friday night.© William J

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-87301944359374727542007-10-01T13:33:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:52:54.397+01:00

(Closing the Asylums)‘I’m Claude’, thoughts are misted,Swirling together for so long,Like the net curtains over my mindWhich I can’t make hang straight.‘Hello, do you love me?’‘Hello, do you love me?’Comfort in the repetitionAs I tramp from table to table,Dishrag, wipe, plate, cup, clatter,Bin, sink, bubbles, splash, rattle.Familiarity as today, and the day before that,And the day before the day

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-72104039764717922402007-10-01T13:23:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:53:58.180+01:00

The cool powdery feel of the flour on my fingerstakes me back.The gritty crunch of the sugar on my tonguetakes me back.The crush and crack of broken walnuts in the bowltakes me back.I’m back in the kitchen, standing on a stool, apron to my toes, massaging doughto ruination.All around me, women work, weaving and plaiting pastry, beating and whipping cream, toastingand grinding nuts.They coo and

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-42664220855519645552007-10-01T13:21:00.001+01:002009-03-31T23:54:35.621+01:00

Does the career thief, or the serial killer,Hold the same belief as any other fellow,Did Shipman find his actions justified?Did Fred West still take a craftsman’s prideAs he poured another layer of concrete in his cellar?Does Saint Bob look back to boom time, and feel like a rat?Does Mandela regret his Robben Island flat?Do we all stand by convivial,Because our impact seems so trivial,Our fates

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-48303223825847233862007-10-01T13:17:00.001+01:002009-03-31T23:55:42.619+01:00

Apollo was the subject of the ‘Colossus of Rhodes’, Colossus being the name given to the first ever computer created by Tommy Flowers and Alan Turing. Niobe and her progeny were killed by Apollo and Nemesis for daring to challenge the GodsIntelligenceNemesis flying, still was caughtAnd beaten by wings of power,To do the will of so-called godsAnd with Apollo slay Niobe’s flower.Each fate

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-31111967109185040832007-10-01T13:07:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.264+01:00

The proof of Fermat's Last Theorem was finally completed in 1993 by Andrew Wiles. Lecturing on Wednesday 23 June 1993 at around 10.30 in the morning Wiles announced his proof of Fermat's Last Theorem as a corollary to his main results. Having written the theorem on the blackboard he said ‘I will stop here’ and sat down.Resolution A song of songs, a balm for aching hearts.A wise, untimely beauty

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-53686138099292762832007-10-01T12:57:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.264+01:00

The earth’s land surface was once one big continent. About 250 million years ago it broke into the continents we know todayIncontinent Stitch together the continents with a Boeingand weave chip shops and pubs into the local cultureuntil the wandering hordes don’t recognise the boundariesof land or national mores.Ladle down the booze and fries and assume it’s just like home with hospitals, GPs

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-52675132578650668122007-10-01T12:55:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.265+01:00

A catalyst can change the rate of a chemical reaction but is not itself used up in the reactionCatalyst I told you there was nothing left;no charge of heart, no rush of blood, no eagerness to be inside your space.No other now to stun my breath as you once didsave for the girl who wandered past the margins of my sightand flared new life into the hollows of my mindrecalling days when you could do

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-25209453011389974902007-10-01T12:54:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.266+01:00

Why is the sky dark at night?Light Relief The sky is dark at nightBecause there is a limitTo the amount of dustIn any given minuteThat I can vacuum upAnd still have time to bin it.© Carole Crickmore, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-866629318634003902007-10-01T12:53:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.266+01:00

Clausius - Heat does not spontaneously flow from a colder to a hotter bodyTempers Fugit I stand in the shower.Its needles lash my skin as your indifference has lashed my hopes.Scalding water and cold comments;tears mingle with the dropsuntil there are no moreminutes in the water.Years in the desert of your neglect;dreams that have disappeared down life’s pop-up drain.Cover my skin with bubbles

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-29321344967911696512007-10-01T12:49:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.267+01:00

– Mass cannot be created or destroyed, (but can change its form).Fruits of the Forest Battalions of dark pine-tree troops patrol the mountain spines in needled mail and crimped-cone epaulettes. By temperate lakes graceful beeches sway their crinolines of copper-pointed lace pinned by winging birds. Flat-topped, thorn-spurred orphans, bleached against the plain,Africa’s

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-91643020840857419912007-10-01T12:46:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.268+01:00

– Mass cannot be created or destroyed, (but can change its form). Rebooting Open the boot and we’ll load up our tatStuff from the shed that’s all dusty and oldPuzzles and toys and an old summer hatShove it all in and we might get it soldStuff from the shed that’s all dusty and oldThings we’ve forgotten just might be a hitShove it all in and we might get it soldIf we can sell it, we’ll make quite

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-36861429605749321042007-10-01T12:44:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.268+01:00

Every fundamental particle has an antiparticle – a mirror twin with the same mass but opposite chargeD(ist)ress I love this dress, it cost a lotI feel so great, I look so hotThe colour’s right, the neckline’s lowThe skirt is tight, the best’s on showHe’s bound to fall, he’ll start to droolHe’ll get the gist, he’s not a foolIn through the door, into the crowdI feel them pause, I’m on a cloudI see

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-31078536443903765542007-10-01T12:42:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.269+01:00

The total pressure of a mixture of gases is the sum of the partial pressures exerted by each of the gases in the mixtureMy Little Pressures Six little arms to push into raincoats.Six little hands all demanding to hold.Three little mouths all chattering non-stop,maximum volume, just hush when you’re told. Oh, now the buggy’s jammed in the doorway.Naughty of daddy to not fix that step.Ben, don’t be

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-63463709883091718832007-10-01T12:41:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:59:53.270+01:00

The sun is the centre of the solar system and the planets orbit around itPerturbation Paparazzi whirling in an asteroid belt of bluebottles, snapping seconds and spreading discontent and envy like disease, bombarding the night with strobing intrusion, hustling the day and rocketing danger into traffic with their motorbikes.Uncouth curiosity humoured to increase circulation figures and an editor’s

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-24692554892461028822007-10-01T12:40:00.001+01:002009-03-31T23:58:56.782+01:00

The cycle of chemical reactions by which plants turn carbon dioxide and water into sugar during photosynthesisHot Air She swears she never eats, justa leaf or two of lettuce.I’ll go and check the fridgefor fruity sweetened yoghurtor some secreted squaresof dark organic chocolatethat slip down when she’s saddenedor stressedor lateor tired.There’s a cycle in the shedshe never puts her bum on -it

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-63311038229018455192007-10-01T12:38:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:02:38.257+01:00

At temperatures close to absolute zero atoms and molecules lose their separate identities and merge into a single ‘super atom’If Only Beleaguered faces on the screen, paler every dayAnalysis and news reports, people grouped to pray.Serious accusations, wait ‘til the blame-game starts.Alone in the media turmoil - two welded breaking hearts.© Carole Crickmore, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-86552114405854723452007-10-01T12:36:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:02:38.258+01:00

Electrons in atoms are restricted to certain orbits, called ‘allowed orbits’, but they can move from one orbit to anotherEscalation Brown wants to be on the second floorHe wants his own PA.He wants a key to the executive looand he thinks he knows the wayto get it.He doesn’t say yes all the timebut he never, ever says no.He doesn’t always volunteerbut he’s always the last to gohome.He’s not after

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-60445629124962257102007-10-01T12:34:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:02:38.259+01:00

Some functions in plants are not regulated by the sun, but by some mechanism within the plantsCatching UpTickety tock, tickety tock, biological clocktockety tick, tockety tick, hurry up, be quickdwindling eggs, what a shock, find a man, produce a flock.Tickety tock tickety tock, biological clockbrain fading, don’t mock, need the loo around the clockgoing deaf, hips click; have to use a walking

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-89176943798650467792007-10-01T12:26:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:02:38.259+01:00

An element can exist in two or more forms with different propertiesA Bit on the Side So leave her now.You said you would,just before we went to bed. Darling! Flowers, you lovely thing. How much you’ve spoiled me all this spring!She’s just your past.You said it wasdead and gone with nothing left. Darling, isn’t that a pain? Another number wrong again.Why can’t I call?You said you

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-56357144532085003092007-10-01T12:24:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:02:38.260+01:00

– Scientific laws must be based on observations and experimentsFa(c)t Some old women run to fatSome of them run to thin.If it’s all in the genes like they say,why won’t my bottom fit in?© Carole Crickmore, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-9837423603785533202007-10-01T12:21:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:02:38.261+01:00

A body fully or partly immersed in water displaces its own weight in waterWaves I lazebeside the pool.Cool alluring waterlaps gently over turquoise tiles.I yield.I slide into its depths,swimming through the rippleswith angled neck to keep my hairsplash-free.Splashlesssideways breaststroke, not breathless free-style crawlor frantic flailing butterfly,in peace.Intothis calm retreatyouth’s noise

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-34992181045881293732007-10-01T12:02:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:02:38.261+01:00

During the past 600 million years there have been 17 known ice ages on earthCountdown In the past six hundred million years the earth has had seventeen ice agesbut since you caught me sneaking offto snog Bill’s secretary in the stationary cupboard at last night’s office party I have had twenty four© Carole Crickmore, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-1644711881338391822007-10-01T12:00:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:03:59.247+01:00

The washing upA time for joyful singingDuets, your hands in fairy liquidMine the tea towelIrish linen.The washing upWith confidential chatterAmong the clatter of the platesYours the kindly earAttentive to my teenage angstToday the washing upPlates, glasses, cups, mechanically cleanedNo time to talkNo youthful confidencesNo songs.(c) Carenza Hayhoe 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-7950215878087680512007-09-17T14:56:00.000+01:002007-09-17T15:28:33.114+01:00

(The Ghost of Finlarig Castle)As I approach the fearsome fortress,My Castle, resting in the wooded knoll:Its awesome square towers are silhouettesAgainst the deepening dusk;The red sun is setting on the silvery water, That laps against the boundary of the loch.Barefoot, I slowly pass by My Gavin’s grave.There is another, entitled Lady Alma; where I lay.Ivy and moulding, wet leaves grab at my feet

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-52527467812948943742007-09-16T19:59:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:06:00.572+01:00

Hen night girls, all in white,Pink furry halos bobbing overhead,Tits and bums of pale jelly.Middle aged spread at age 25Pierced with gold, tattoos aboveResplendent thongs cutting cheeks. On display for all to seeLoud voices, drunken laughterAnd clipping of killer heels,They totter off into the nightJoining the throng of drunken masses.White limos stretch by, Mooning arses rest on windows.The stag

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-45227719202459075292007-09-09T20:15:00.000+01:002007-09-09T20:20:56.116+01:00

Too drunk to standThe stairs, twisting in a fun fair spin,Pitch and yaw as I climb handOver hand a grog fuelled seamanSent aloft to furl the sheets.Too drunk to lieI drift between the mattress and ceramicsBetween the china and the floorThe walls offer hard comfort And a cold embrace.Too drunk to sleepMy dreams suppressed by emptinessUnconsciousness enfolds themIn a comatery rest that lasts Beyond

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-41243393960260120902007-08-26T20:13:00.000+01:002008-02-04T14:38:30.260Z

Tick, tock, tick…Pillow smells nice. Rest now.Lovely.Wow, what was that?! Heart's going bananas; like a train.Wonky engine though.Clackety, click, clickety, clickety, tock-tock…Eh oop. Stand by your beds - here comes the chaplain.Tick, tock, clackety, tick…‘Yes, I'm fine. And yourself?’Silly little man. You’d think he’d turn his mobile off – we have to.‘OK, you off now then? Bye, now.’Doesn't

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-46314573507155612792007-08-26T20:07:00.000+01:002007-08-26T20:08:25.018+01:00

Imagine,the colour blue - start with the sky and let it wash into your closed eyes, Breath, heart, your soul.Where does it carry you?Bluehas its own sound, its resonancewhat does it say?the colour blue.Seas, skies, deep holesOf depression? Baby blueLapis lazuli, cornflowersAfter the rain, MusicLet blue wash throughReawaken, refresh, coolAnd soothe, its good foryou…..the colour blue.© Joy Armstong

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-79352886448803976352007-08-13T15:46:00.000+01:002007-08-13T15:48:31.633+01:00

Shut up, shut up!Don’t patronize, tell meWhat to do and whenA cerebral earthquakeShook me, almost took meBut I’m shaken, not stupid!I speak – to myselfI shout – at your stripesI hear - crunkling plastic crisp around the roomI look - unchanged, stillSmell the sameStill wearing fragrance du Gloria VanderbiltI’ve always been tallNow I’m shortYou look down on me, pity meRage at me, stroke meTell me

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-36309691157953572512007-08-09T19:11:00.000+01:002007-08-09T19:12:10.110+01:00

Long summers spent collecting in the sun;Remembered days, compelling by their lightLike distant windows on a winter night.A far-off figure lets his passions run:Brown Argus, Grayling, Brimstone, Green-veined White,Like memories, more bright as they recede;With net I chased them over clumps of weed,The killing jar expectant, empty, tight.Less agile now, I stretch and press my handsAgainst the high

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-48760746217699396112007-08-09T18:51:00.000+01:002007-08-09T18:52:57.493+01:00

The cow thought nothing about the rain.She chewed the cudwhilst moulded to the grass,keeping the patch underneathwarm and dry.Rain poured down like silken threadswetting her body, her ears, her lashes.Every so often she shook her head.The cow thought nothing about the rain.She chewed the cudwhilst the clouds cried upon her.She watched the herd,Some stood, some lay -rain watering their endless

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-16835233554592573892007-08-09T18:47:00.000+01:002007-08-09T18:49:59.948+01:00

Trousers tucked in socks,sensible shoes, shabby jacket, workman’s drab,Dennis Lumsden climbs his aluminium ladder,silver stairway to the stars.To the glass clad constellationshe so lovingly tends. With meticulous handsDennis nurtures two hundred symbols of bygone days.Uniquely conserved,like him,in an era of disposability.Dennis is a misfit, a clandestine chimera.Avoided during sunlit hoursby

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-51082426882851764892007-08-09T18:43:00.000+01:002007-08-09T18:44:53.143+01:00

Ice cold, the blade hoversabove her arm’s pale skin.High enough to be hidden,yet low enough to remind,the ageing lines scream out.This one for being fifteen,another for not being size zero.Needing someone to love,but he’ll never notice her,perhaps a baby would.Next day, comparing scarswith friends at school.© Cathy Walter, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-66322127354404474622007-08-06T17:07:00.000+01:002007-08-06T17:11:41.075+01:00

(Elvis Presley died 16th August 1977)When I woke up that morningThe Blues weren’t on my mind.Then the DJ started talking"He was the best of his kind"It tangled all my heart-stringsWhen I heard it on the newsIt was my birthday morningAnd I got bad birthday blues.Much later on that morningPoor boy blues got to my brainHe’d made it good by singingAnd left a permanent refrainThe Blues was over

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-3904862483306035562007-08-06T17:01:00.000+01:002007-08-06T17:04:02.179+01:00

Measured, mechanically mixed and bakedUntil yeasted fragrance pervades each aerial molecule.Risen near-perfection provokes the taste budsAs its crusted coat cracks beneath the bladeRevealing warm and yielding crumb.Savour the moment.Hold it in mind against the dayWe are not led into temptation.For resistance is futileWhen sweetened with gooseberry-jamminessAnd conveyed in butter-dripping fingers

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-78670982742131892632007-08-03T17:34:00.000+01:002007-08-03T17:36:03.355+01:00

(as witnessed on the High Street)Six mirthful maidens, making merry,Adorned in outre millinery,One wearing L-plates (temporary,It must be said).They've downed a quart of cooking sherry -Chantelle's to wed.Chantelle, completely off her face,Is weeping in her friends' embrace.Her swain's a total waste of space,(she sobs), a ned.He sees a skirt, he's off in chase -Would she were dead!Her friends

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-74999382771659621402007-07-30T13:55:00.000+01:002007-07-30T15:11:02.968+01:00

Haunting the high Himalayancrags and cold boulders alone,silent and stealthy,hunting where glass green and turquoiseicy waters tumble down rock faces,you will kill for your hidden cubshelpless, hungry, needing you.Soaring loneliness is yourslethal shadow-hugger,only eagles and lammergeyers witnessto your lithe power and singing strength.In unforgiving beauty an antelope trembles and dies.In

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-29183585440051036922007-07-30T13:53:00.000+01:002007-07-30T15:03:21.448+01:00

Looking at your smileRandom patterns in time’s sandsLives’ aches strung like sparkling pearlsPromise unfulfilled, destroyedMy brain whirls.Howling at the stars,In flight above your broken dreamsI see the fractured ice belowWhere voices from our childhood yearsStill echo.From bright-eyed boy to lifelessYour photos break my heart.© Margaret Lewis

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-67796564915735799652007-07-25T15:28:00.000+01:002007-07-26T18:34:11.965+01:00

Koi are swimming up the High Street.Overwhelmed by inundationThe river has broken through the concreteKoi are swimming up the High Street.Everyone is sick of wet feet,Or, trapped in houses, incarceration.Koi are swimming up the High StreetOverwhelmed by inundation.© Judy Manville, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-38241158385873967932007-07-25T15:21:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:38:32.499+01:00

Don’t you find it sinisterFlooding has a minister?They stand there in their suitsAnd imitate CanuteWe’re swamped and run out of waterWhich kinda like, messes with my head and everything, man.© L A Rowe 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-42381254655988943302007-07-25T15:20:00.000+01:002007-07-25T15:21:17.085+01:00

The paper, dark and glorious brownProtects the bar from damage wroughtAnd crackles as the contents warm,Sit snug inside the pocket torn.The journey home to secret placeBecomes an urgent chocolate raceThe mouth is wet, the body surgesTo please and satisfy its urges.The private place has to be rightNo need for succulantous frightNo one about, the seal is brokenAppraise the prize, juices awakenIt’s

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-28132690525731401222007-07-25T15:18:00.000+01:002007-07-25T15:19:19.423+01:00

So this, the dream that long has haunted me,Unwinds its strands into the waking day.Ephemeral visions that could not be,Live now a life that I cannot gainsay.Lips that I kissed, a hand that held my hand,Open hearts that reached across the abyssYou said lay ‘tween island and island.Do I dare hope that in that night of bliss –A night remembered also for its pain –Captives of their separate fates

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-54407044303318739962007-07-25T15:17:00.000+01:002007-07-25T15:18:00.238+01:00

My once still waters dance now with ripples,Light sparking in diamond hard flashesThat delight my eye with their bright movement.It does not dance for the wind, though that mayDraw a step or two. It is not the fishThat run like thoughts in the shimmering depths.No. It is a bird that has touched this lakeAnd laced its surface with threads from the sun;A bird of purest beauty that glides white,

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-48355183841779047992007-07-25T15:15:00.000+01:002007-07-25T15:16:58.016+01:00

He thought to bring it inThis flower of the air,But let it drop and driftTo the ground, to catch thereBy the pool where fish swim.It flutters still in breezeAnd breath, pure white againstThe thrift’s deep green. He seesIt in the evening dark,Pale as stars and as fierce,An other worldly gleamThat through his heart does pierceLike the song of the birdFrom which it erstwhile came.He thought to bring

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-12225695863095544062007-07-25T15:14:00.000+01:002007-07-25T15:15:07.783+01:00

Lying like a giantamongst skinned rabbits,your chest dips with the effortof each newborn breathwhilst away downstairs,clutching the precious Polaroid,I restlessly sleep.Woken far too early, I’m taken quietly to you, almost unrecognisable now beneath a snakes nest of tubes, as machines bleep and yesterday’s sudden elation turns into weeks of fear.Who could ever forget the passing of that child

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-22322543540019155392007-07-25T15:09:00.000+01:002007-07-25T15:11:12.164+01:00

With family despairing, and friends all goneBleary eyes, chipped nails, and robe undoneShe’s shopping and shipping and having fun,Clicking on eBay’s latest, greatest deals.With paying up front, no tally-man callsJust the payment of the credit card bills.Tesco and Next all deliver flowersTo wipe away her honey’s glowers,As the screen devours her erotically;She’s spending rather than making

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-1034442549393917232007-07-23T14:30:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:38:32.499+01:00

English is a wondrous tongue and full of funny quirksA little overdressed at times [aside (in brackets) {smirks}]The language is delightful for the reason of its size,Permissive of each variance (and for the Booker Prize)It’s hard to teach to foreigners, you really need to shout.We cannot truly say it is the fault of lager loutsThey would then percuss us up and hang us out to dryBut how this

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-69202491791732209952007-07-23T14:28:00.000+01:002007-07-23T14:34:00.744+01:00

The sky's so blue, but far too big for me,mere mortal, frail, soft being that I am,made small by nature's concourse overhead.See how I cower, rendered pale and wan,Indoors, inside, doors firmly closed, the roofclose by my head, not high and driving thoughtclear from my mind, replacing sense with fluff.I know my fear's irrational, the skywon't fall, and if it should these walls aroundwon't save me

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-51567117543261008292007-07-21T22:13:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:07:23.264+01:00

(‘I couldn’t stop it now. There’s no way to get out.’ – Pulp)Waitingfor you in dimmed light;cover turneddown in revelation, or welcome.A tune poundsthrough my headlike a soundtrack to the moment.If I hear the samesong in the future I’ll beback in this room again,waiting.Waiting to lose the one thingthat will help me gainmyself. A border will be crossed,I’ll be changedforever.I wave goodbyeto the

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-71406699501589370582007-07-21T22:07:00.000+01:002009-04-01T00:07:23.264+01:00

(‘An imitation of dignity’, From Despair to Where, Manic Street Preachers)Pink cheeks shining, set starchy smile,fixed in the moment by the flash’s glare,she squirms beneath the weight of eyesand gazes out in mute despair.Clutching, white-knuckled, her awkward paper,she’s trapped in the unforgiving framewishing that she’d not come, that they wouldn’t look,that her face didn’t cause her such

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-69168273502755643992007-07-21T22:04:00.000+01:002007-07-21T22:05:34.183+01:00

A spider follows sunlight 'cross a wall, the buzz of bees drifts loud from flower's bell, dry tangled thorns obstruction make and bar my passage through this corner of the world. Now I must search, seek out another way to reach my goal, that vision of my mind. A witch-light thought that, careless, haunts my mind has led me here to

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-52285707099826162502007-07-21T21:57:00.000+01:002007-07-21T22:03:28.780+01:00

The blood-red moon lies heavy in the sky bleak winds begin to chill the heart-sick soul and evil’s tongue gives voice to evil’s cry The horde comes nearer, voices raising high; a sound that terrifies, makes blood run cold. The blood-red moon lies heavy in the sky Wild howling of the pack is drawing nigh, the night is darker than a

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-16666228816203685072007-07-21T18:15:00.000+01:002007-07-21T18:16:42.761+01:00

motionless eveninglocked in heatdreamingwalkingin the dry townsoftly reverberant threat of stormpoorly understoodbut whispered stillin gilded earsa chance encountera precious realitysuddenfleetingcaught in shadowswhere starlikeeach of usburnsstarscloud obscuredcaught in a hurried stormchimes gentle on the breezeof warm gardensbird songcaught in a hurried stormthis path first shownillumined

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-24878478215924328922007-07-21T18:14:00.000+01:002007-07-29T12:52:08.057+01:00

I lift my head and out of darkness comeFrom my poor stance, my body bowed and bent,To stare upon this new light they call sunAnd raise my face to drink its nourishment.And all around me, others such as I,Awakened from their winter-sodden sleep,Stand up and turn their faces to the sky,Rejoicing in the welcome light and heat.Beneath the trees, amidst the rippling grass,We sway all day, the wind

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-11029024296914177662007-07-21T18:13:00.000+01:002007-07-21T18:14:05.499+01:00

I saw a movie once: the final sceneportrayed a woman shut inside a box;stood there with just a window for her eyes.The inside of the door had jutting spikesand blood was dripping out from underneath.The echo of the door remained, the shockupon her face immobilised in death;mouth open in a still and silent scream;eyes wide in terror gazing sightlesslybehind the window bars. I caught my breathand

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-75978672162872641942007-07-21T18:12:00.000+01:002007-07-21T18:13:09.243+01:00

little toddling boyeighteen months newwith your chucklesand chubbinesscuddles my kneesand runs off to playall blue eyesand a wispy blondnatural mohicannow singing cross leggedto the duplo on the floorturns head and smilesmy lovely boy© Jude Parsons, 1990

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-67105991690804731642007-07-21T18:11:00.000+01:002007-07-21T18:12:19.223+01:00

… you crash down,skates clunking on the concrete, skitter across the halfpipe,black hair flapping in your face … … silence as you sail through the air balancing arms, legs akimbo twist in slow motion… … before slamming against thegrinding rail, wheels jarringexecuting a three sixtyspin in mid-air ……

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-44970754372148803652007-07-21T18:08:00.000+01:002007-07-21T18:09:17.253+01:00

I still recall you as you used to be;Your v-necked jumper worn over a tie.The way you clipped the hedge fastidiouslyOr buffed the car up to a showroom shine.Your welcome smile when I knocked on the doorTo borrow once again the tools I lacked.The roses that you loved. How you adoredThe family that always loved you back.I see you walk with Amber at your heelsHer wagging tail beside your polished

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-75737997766070446902007-07-21T18:03:00.000+01:002007-07-21T18:05:12.836+01:00

She decidedTo make a stand;‘Contrary to expectations and current practice’Yes she would standFour square, and blow the rest.Brown eyed, long lashed,Trim legged brunette.A 'Weather lady'A leader in her fieldA forecaster.Her sisters were united.They would not stand,She alone took the initiative.Brave, courageous, committed,Not one to take things lying down.She, at grass roots levelNo 'Mulingar

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-16630922069961579952007-07-21T18:01:00.000+01:002007-07-21T18:03:19.154+01:00

It was hard not to laughwhen the hearse refused to start,making you late for church, again.It was hard not to laughat Father Brendan, cassock stainedwith soup and God knows what,left eye fixed on the coffin, righteye wandering and wild.It was hard not to laughat the assembled congregation,not just the grieving relsbut the Bag Ladies of Kensington,distrait and distraught at losingone of their

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-15937461466694049752007-07-21T17:35:00.000+01:002007-07-21T17:58:07.170+01:00

Our voices rise. My unmeant words –She grabs a plate – convulsion.Two separate pieces at my feet, The front door slammed behind her.I hold and mate the jagged halves,Their match exact and soothing;That intimacy, tongue and groove,A painfully sweet reminder.The join’s unseen, the surface smooth,The careless words unspoken –I’m back in that unfractured time,Not here, not now, not lonely.Must

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-82368045596642644582007-07-21T17:32:00.000+01:002007-07-21T17:34:33.862+01:00

Deep pink set in deep blue, inviting touch,and then unyielding sharpness, cutting tender skin.The shorebound watchers see the beauty, see the charm,not close enough to understand the harm.© Olga Wojtas, 2007

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-70892947927535052782007-07-18T05:40:00.000+01:002009-03-31T23:38:32.500+01:00

Robin Hood, Queen Victoria, Edith Cavell,Lord Nelson, Abe Lincoln and William TellHave one thing in common for which they are known –They’ve all had their likenesses fashioned in stone.You may not believe yourself quite as deserving,But never assume that you’re not worth preserving.It’s true very few achieve fame so colossal –But had you considered becoming a fossil?Let’s be frank. It’s not easy,

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-12219141889672721052007-07-17T20:07:00.000+01:002007-07-17T20:09:28.266+01:00

Plump wench, blood red, in sparkling crystal bowl,Congealing clot, solicitous, beguiles.Luscious, lip glossed, botoxed, enticing smiles.Dimpled pout where stalk, erect, enters soul;A brass in shiny vinyl kinkywear.Sweet crimson stains on eager sticky fingersThrust in ready mouth, where taste still lingers,A decorative emblem, goes anywhere.And yet, inside, a little heart of stone,Tossed in soiled

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1990401579976571270.post-462333415409051252007-07-17T19:11:00.000+01:002007-07-17T19:48:54.436+01:00

Reliving all the past is not his style,today is beckoning, and makes him smile.A visit to the park to take his ease.To sit upon his bench among the trees,and watch the ducks, the other birds, the swans.Some migrant geese came yesterday, they honktheir calls, making the watchers smile to hearthe sounds. He sighs, content. It's lovely here.He leaves the park, happy to know the flocksare safe and

jude parsonsnoreply@blogger.com0