Best Parallax Poems
love songs soul sung
endear young hearts
have stung ego
Why’d you dig that hole George,
are there rabbits down there?
Too many Lennie
like me they’re in despair
Don’t be afraid to look now
I’ll stand right behind
Ok I will!
George took out his gun all primed
If I seem distant
it’s not because I’m far
I’ve always been here
your binary star
Two for one was always
our dream spot in space
As George felt plasma
splat across his face
For the first time ever
Lennie’s mind came alight
Brains blew outward
behold what a sight
Symbiosis ends
when one half explodes
Locked in syndrome gone
no need to reload
Down the rabbit hole
lies that smoking gun
It may solve a dilemma
but can never be undone
Ever wonder why
fools stare blank upon skies
They just don’t see them
until they possess no eyes
By David Kavanagh
.
Every calibration I do,
Blur to emerge the one weirdo.
Every navigate does syntax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.
I creep with my scornful envy,
And I know why they do beauty?
Because of an anticlimax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.
All gassing awkward in my brain,
Forever missing you the green.
Fill in my cephalothorax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.
Is this the heart I'm meant to see?
Is this always what I would be
When you looked deep down into me
And I thought I was free?
What was human then?
The perfect lie?
The ways we'd always try
And fail to deny
Ourselves?
Each other?
Hand in hand
Soul in soul
An eye?
For an eye?
And tears
Despair the only sin
When we once
Were
Are your fears
My own?
Or have I always felt so nearly
Alone?
Is apathy the human chord
So softly strummed by
Someone else's fingers
Words so seemingly strange
In familiarity
Whispered
Over and over
Again and again
Until thought
Falls like fresh rain
And the same minor notes
Flicker flame deep inside me
What is hope?
What is hope?
Who are we to hope
To be?
You heed what’s preached, I observe beyond the pale
We play cat and mouse, searching out our holy grails
I see blackness and stars, with no end in sight
You discern an inner sanctum, and eternal light
Each of us ponder hard, unwavering in finding truth
Yours a god of creation, mine the square of all roots
We both seek similar answers, the meaning of life
Can either of us be nearer, in a world full of strife
What matters in the end, is tolerance of opposing views
If one line of vision’s blocked, then everyone shall lose
By
David Kavanagh
I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and
yet lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is our date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I had treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
I imagine my black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel
as may horn honks impatiently.
Green tomatoes sizzle
as I disappear.
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is a date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.
we fall and then rise
correcting parallax
changing tracks
becoming wise
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
I'm a doppelganger of myself.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you,
she says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
Is that your Buick?
Before I can answer, she asks:
Is that your hat on a rack at the back?
Before I can answer, she asks:
is this a crossroads movie?
I think it's a date,
Only this time you're the pitiful figure, she interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
This is it! I exclaim.
Our second chance.
A withering look.
In my story, you die young on the highway,
in a ball of fire.
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.
Parallax Past
I am alone
For sure, for now
Almost as ever was
Never again
I have me
I am field and plow
Always as it is, because
I am, again
Around once more
Parallax past
Of all, amassing
Wondering if all these years, too slow
Are after all, too fast
Trying not to lose myself
In passing
Astonished seeing wisdom in one so young,
we hastened to correct parallax of sight,
for did not this soul slowly climb rung by rung,
the ladder of wisdom, now at zenith height?
Our fault line is that we look at outer form,
whilst the soul within has faced many a storm,
life after life, reborn again and again,
revealing a gem that is now free from stain.
“thought rested awareness is not confined
escape oh hermit, clutches of your mind”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Looks
deceive
being but
an outer form,
concealing within
true essence of the self,
which is revealed in stillness.
The dweller of the void is free,
witnessing waves rising and falling,
knowing ebb and flow to be but a play.
Our views rooted in narrow prejudice,
derived from low animal instinct,
confined to cognitive impulse,
serving mind body combine.
If we flow, we are free:
stagnation anchors.
Shift to the heart
rekindles
blissful
joy.
22-December-2020
Perhaps my love’s lust,
a deep desire to entwine,
inflicting a benign burn.
In the womb of space,
two feathers orbit bliss beats,
mirroring divine intent.
How still is our stillness, if we as yet intuit
continuity of the sounds of silence,
within organic form with which we identify,
thus subconsciously inking wisdom imbibed,
with memory imagery and conditioned belief,
deludedly proclaiming prismatic hues as truth?
The way we look at other forms,
views appearance, not their heart’s storms,
failing to see God dwells in each;
within us too, He’s within reach,
thus the singularity field,
is God’s mind to which we should yield,
for which the way we may begin,
is to find Him in heart within.
By relinquishing mind’s thought crutch,
doing nothing, learning by touch,
in this way, feeling not thinking,
poised in awareness unblinking,
we reconnect with light of Self,
whence impulsed life flows by itself,
viewed as nothing more than a dream,
we once long ago chose to stream.