Best Parsing Poems
Part Two
SEVEN STARK WORDS
Seven alliterative blockbuster words struck so
they rhymed initially in juxta-positioning lineal parallels
pausing but in the fourth
to resume breath in the fifth
Leaving the interstitial morphemes in resonating ellipses
The economy of your parsing has wreaked havoc down the ages
in all trans-explicatory tongues
Tough-minded men come from afar
with other gods to serve
and sacrifices to make in the name of their Lords
bent your versification to limp rhyme
and left meaning a hung pursuit
in the hands of plagiarists professors preachers
who
not knowing nor divining the reason for your craftsman’s
concatenation of weighted phonemes
advanced theories for your elastic pregnant mind
strung myriads of pages in exegeses
each staking a claim to posterity
the villainous hanging on your lips
In a time devoid of papered learning for the poor
When to be born a Sudra or Pariah was a sin
When masters were those top-heavy manically-mantric Brahmin priests
Preying on the duped loyal sycophantic Vaishyas
wishing to earn karmic merit with their agricultural gain at their altar feet
such servant-financers as they by legions now lay their souls down
as even the long-gone royally leisure-dispensing Kshaktriyas
how would he who sought the spread of knowledge
not seek to encapsulate learning in mnemonic couplets
arranged according to rigid design
for those who could not count either
Ten fingers in the hand so
Ten the number of facets of a thought
a subject
a theme
even if theme subject thought were stretched too thin
Chameleons
Life’s only consistency is change
for “nature abhors a vacuum”.
Time, inexorably tinges each moment,
colors it in fading yellows.
Memory’s dog-eared pages,
entwined with nostalgia’s neediness,
produce an altered state,
an hereditary fraud.
We are, at best, evolved chameleons
shifting colors lest the truth hold sway,
parsing words to spare the victim
the gravity of the crime.
Muted voices slinking silently
along the edge of rage,
tongues flicking in feigned ferocity,
mumbled mantras blinded eyes.
Night falls behind closed eyelids,
heads buried in the sand,
sentinels of tattered futures
cursed by nature - colorblind.
John G. Lawless
8/4/2016
With pen in hand I begin another new day
My destination unknown facing come what may
Might this be the day I write the poem that inspires?
The one that once and for all silences all my decriers
If not, may my words at least have meaning for a few
For to write is a precious gift of unimaginable value
The pen dances across the paper with the greatest of ease
Parsing words and phrases as if the poetry gods to appease
And then as suddenly as the flow of thoughts and words did appear
They vanish and all that remains is a thoroughly dejected sonneteer
Here's hoping come tomorrow as I rise and take pen in hand
That inspiration will return and words will once again obey my command
But alas should they not I will do what I must to carry on
For as the pen is my sword so is writing my Avalon
Fugitive
Fleeing the confines of mind
scurrying over addled thoughts,
sorting through lifeless sermons.
Challenging the confines of conformity.
Fleeing oppressions oligarchs
loosing a flow of vitriolic viciousness,
hell bent on pissing off the world
signing on as the “devil’s advocate”.
Running off at the mouth,
parsing paths chosen - by the chosen.
Fugitive!
Worn boots, frayed cuffs,
sun washed shirt, ruddy face,
narrow eyes, impish grin,
peering into a future,
dancing with a shadow.
3/16/2016
submitted to – A Fugitive – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Julia Ward
Sunlight scarce, o' rainbow dove
I flutter wings a fifty five
just to see your weight up high
a snug,
in the clouds.
What parsing eyes, do thee enchant
a hue o' fifty fire ants
give or take a grand,
I wad my sense of wealth in color,
white is far too bland.
Someone spilled a sup of blue
a soup fit for three-hundert two,
if only it were true
that we could fill ourselves with color.
Someone see that bird up there,
whose rain arch bellows rainbow wings
and colors sing;
where there ain't no thing as hunger,
fill my stomach full of color,
my friend and brother
my sister, mother
grab my wing...
I'll take you to the play,
you needn't ever pay
...for a cup of love.
Written By: D. Collins 2/9/16
There is no better drug to soothe the mind.
Than ripping out a web of poetic rhyme.
We can go “all in” through contemporary art.
Spit it how we see it, without a word to parse.
With us, political correctness doesn’t exist.
The unblemished truth will roll off our lips.
Getting away with what people wish they could say.
Occupying a realm between Earth and Space.
We pen it exactly how it immersed from the brain.
Not parsing a word, or editing a phrase.
Take advantage of what we can get away with.
Keep stirring the Gumbo, and giving them fits.
Parsing time
Along the slope he leant
with his caved-in shoulders
not standing on end
one foot upturned
the other curled
a shrivelled cucumber sole
Which way did the past go
past the point where the wind turned tail
behind the shadow of curling light
or the precession of Mercury
If you see your tail swish
before any hint of thought could wish
How do you know if it did
If you didn’t see it topple the intent’s lid
Many the whisper of a word
will come calling in untrod chasms
by the waylaid tongue
Whose the nameless parole
the lexicographers culled
for want of another word
or two
If time travels in an unflat trapezoid
Which way will it be going first
Your way
My way
Or that away
Time is not Time
If it didn’t travel
Time then is unrealizable motion
What doesn’t move of its volition is dead
Time masters all life
If you kill every being on earth
Destroy every trace of every particle
On earth as on every other sphere
In this universe
or heavy dark matter
Likewise on every parallel universe
Time will go berserk
Running trapezoid wild
in every direction
for it’ll have nothing to relate to
Yet it’ll be the solitary inhabitant of the Void
Calling out to itself to void the Will
For it’d have had a past
A body to call its own
And you cannot kill a body
Which does not exist in Time
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2012
Democracy devolves into tyranny, Plato cautioned.
Flooded by the frigid torrent of factionalism,
will we certify his prediction?
Blinded by the prevarication of public discourse.
Numbed by the inundation of disinformation.
Crippled by the conspiracy of doubt.
The real deep state festers in our cortex,
a place where the charlatans of fallacy
invade,
a dwelling where terrorists of mind
take control.
But the terrain before us is vast.
The dense forest and effulgent meadows ahead are unmapped,
musky, fructuous forest floor perfumes the breeze,
The scarlet skyline of the dewy untrodden beckons us.
Abundant life is our rehearsal.
Can we honestly say we know for what?
Yet, such rapture is eloquent in our dreams.
Such reverie will arrest the parsing of our quintessence.
Our distortions are lifted when we are united
in communitarian struggle.
Published Online 4/2021: The Opiate Magazine
Also scheduled for print publication: summer, 2021
New year's day 2021
Disinclination regarding tradition
to make resolutions stance
adopted courtesy yours truly.
Though such proclamation
may smack of high treason
no matter convenience to season
and ideal time to leaven existence,
I discern no rhyme nor reason
to make a promise unable to keep
whereby only disappointment I reap
inducing tears whether awake or asleep,
thus Matthew Scott Harris utters nary a peep.
as he doth vigilantly creep
along the information superhighway
hooping to sow (sew) what he didst reap
re:pair so I can strut (wool ewe bull eve)
like a Mummer wannabe counting sheep
while he does sleep.
E'er since Pope Gregory XIII effectively
(furnished, generated, and
instituted his holy mojo)
introducing Gregorian calendar
approximately four hundred
thirty nine years ago
chroniclers of time - mostly
religious Norwegian farming bachelors
casually referred to brethren as bro
ejaculated (sometimes premature) invocations,
which echoed across
Lake Wobegon, said incantations
devout followers among populace
did likewise parrot and crow
generation after generation
whereupon enigmatic, dogmatic, charismatic
monk native to Burma
stoked one after another ego
artificial construct did ebb and flow
amazingly enough maintaining accuracy
with marginal probability of error
precision parsing seconds, minutes, hours...
would only tolerate absolute zero
variation regarding prediction
of weeks, months, years...
as sophistication of civilization did grow
allowing, enabling, and providing
jolly fellow bellowing ho... ho... ho
could make his round the world wide web
timely trek linkedin with timepiece
assembled with B Corporation approval.
certification of "social and
environmental performance"
a private certification of for-profit companies,
distinct from legal designation
as Benefit corporation.
The above plug an unsolicited commentary
regarding San Francisco, California
based eco friendly and socially conscious company
and recent employer of eldest daughter,
an engineering University of Pennsylvania alumna.
I came across an old McGuffey's Reader the other day.
Let me endeavor to tell you about it if I may.
Seems in days of yore, educational aims were more sublime.
Political correctness had yet to reach its querulous prime!
Rife with exercises for forming a solid education,
It was used by teachers and scholars for many a generation.
Between its covers were many down-to-earth stories,
Telling of the value of adhering to time-honored mores!
Can you imagine, it even mentions God a time or two!
Everything was written with a moral point of view.
The book taught that upright living was the thing to do,
If a happy and successful life was to ensue!
Copious exercises taught pupils proper articulation,
And great stress was placed on correct punctuation.
Among other things in which they were drilled to excel,
Was the parsing of words and how to properly spell!
I'm not too well versed on what today is taught in school.
Seems, tho', it wouldn't hurt to espouse the Golden Rule!
I would be willing to bet my very last dime,
That it might even help to reduce the teenage rate of crime!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Came from Baltimore by Pigtown
Where they like to lay the law down.
He rebelled against the ground rule.
Had to grow up in reform school.
Got acquainted with a curveball
Dealing pepper by the church hall;
Broke some windows, but he left the scouts impressed.
He was an OG All Star, and a first draft Hall of Famer.
He had manners like a gomer, but he played with no disclaimer.
Pitched in Beantown, till they tossed him.
They’d regret they ever lost him.
Joined the Yankees as a slugger.
Jumped on southpaws like a mugger,
Shooting rockets past the flagpole.
Fattest wallet on the payroll.
Made a called shot, and the papers did the rest.
He went from zero to sixty lodged in Murderers’ Row,
With women, booze, and money all just part of the show.
He led the A.L. in hitting.
Chased after ta-il, no quitting.
Played ring around the bases
In a dozen pennant races.
He scored doubles at the wet bar.
Belted homers before radar,
And suffered his publicity’s intrigues.
He was an urban legend; no one ever saw him on TV.
And in the house that he built, there’s a tribute to his number three.
It was series after series.
All the bookies have their theories,
Parsing records and statistics,
Charting sinker ball ballistics,
But in the end, most everyone agrees:
He never had to play the N*gro Leagues.
Her pale face is voided antiquity,
a paper-thin line
fallen fresh
from flowery fallacy
to hardwood floor, coiled
cold & blue in landing;
words, like little
droplets of April rain,
a distant deluge
of drought parsing orange
Hemerocallis petals
trenching
around her.
To see it unfold.
Bent at the altar,
Spring’s forgotten daughter can’t.
Serenading you with my sincerity
assembling praises in your name
your one glance falls in place
a thousand emotions it resurrects.
Dawn is the new dusk
you pretend and wave it off
but the beauty in it
like an elephant without a tusk.
I wander to find peace
to render apologies apiece
my state of mind eloquent of a mirage
and I stay true to this farce
reality sickens me to the core
bringing redundant conversations to the fore.
Dredging up new barriers
setting up new boundaries.
Parsing life stuck at this juncture
now I run slower
and a lot less hunger
our differences like embers
time smouldered them
now settled beneath the ashes forever
still flickering by power of faith
memories waiting for someone to remember.
See that vessel back there
Just claimed by the storm
The whole crew is expired
Some had not yet been born
There’s no sense parsing gestures
Or mincing words this day
Times like these, the best you can do
Is bundle up and walk away
I know you’ve heard the story
The news rolls on and on
The pulse of irritation
Grips you some time around dawn
And your fingers are like drumsticks
But there is no tune to play
Moments like these, you seal up your beat
And start to walk away
The curtain has been lowering
For quite a while by now
Generations pass in grief
As the eras will allow
It all blurs into one façade
One miniature shadow play
Shows like these, you grab your coat
And your ticket stub and walk away
I don’t know if I’ll make much sense
I’m pretty sure I won’t
On the fields of isolation,
Some break the fence and some don’t
I hope your crop grows sky-high
May fertile winds go your way
As for the rest of us in the bowl of dust,
Let us pack up and walk away.
A marble calm under the shaky gaze
was parsing the human pain. I would
lift the calculated grief from folded earth.
You feel badly bruised and racial war
becomes anathema. Past the age eyesight dwindles,
cannot identify the faces of dead.
O my God ! Bizarred bloated eyes filled
with blood were groping for the fallen walls.
Who had dug the garden with grenades ?
A theme hunger separates the hearts. When
desert was the bed for daughters and sons,
the fathers were shaking with hate.
The shine wears off the love. A different world
under the lids. Miracle does not happen.
We were searching for the doors.
SATISH VERMA