‘Parsimonious’ is
not necessarily odious
Though not considered felonious
it certainly is not melodious
Call it what it is ~ inharmonious
‘parsimonious’
generous…
with her syllables
Though curved like a question mark,
she walks without a Zimmer frame.
Will she ever veer from
the narrow,
nonsensical
dirt road?
She earns,
mopping, scrubbing, laundering, and currying.
She’s often gifted with
rice, tea powder, jaggery, sari, soap,
and so on.
Thanks to the munificence
of her mistress.
She saves and stores,
living in parsimonious penury.
She loses her delicious delights
in spending tension.
A schlock existence –
everything safely decays in her store.
There’s certainly a spark of work
(even at the dog-end)
of her life.
But when will she live on the earth?
First published in Native Skin, and then reprinted in The Literary Hatchet
Despair
The inexorable pain of unrequited love within a caring soul,
young dreams dashed upon the rocky shores of despair
and in one fleeting moment all is gone
to the loved ones about them.
All the wisdom of the universe,
between the pages of time at the fingertip,
all for the asking and the page not turned,
the question not asked the lessons not learned.
Desperate lives within the worlds of the mind’s creation,
lost to obscurity and oblivion inside the single act that cannot be undone.
The sweet experiences of life’s pain and pleasures of the Mind beyond endurance,
squandered by the actions of a harlequin of little forethought,
as to the ramifications of this parsimonious act.
The self-destructive self-serving imprudent act of taking ones own life,
in a moment of despair and the anguish of depression.
Suicide is forever.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
The moon I adore,
Your eyes are so splendid, I cannot loathe them;
why shall I weep?
Your smile is so quintessential I cannot detest it;
Why shall I weep?
I'II be the sun you will soak the life from;
To be the moon who never longed for me when I'm gone;
Why shan't I weep?
In wild vanity your curiosity hunts
What no greedy archer ever shot;
And pining under unrequited labor,
You’ll condemn your inclement lot.
In ceaseless tilling your brow
Shall toil endlessly under sun,
Till no sweat sits on your skin;
And return with no medal won.
For your parsimonious hand
Withholds the destitute's alms;
Making poor riffraff folks curse
The sting of your stingy palms.
Kindest Heaven's warning counsel
Patient gracious amnesty supplies;
Now open those hoarding stores,
And heed the unfortunate's cries.
Piglets and pigs are the picks of my pens
Practically perfect in ink
Parsimonious pip-squeaking partners
In pulchritudinous pink
Presumptuous porkers on pineapple pizzas
As porcupine people must think.
Submitted to the "Bite-size Poem #35" poetry contest
on February 4, 2022
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
The best artists are outlaws
Vandalizing our sanctity,
Our sanctimonious freight trains,
Our parsimonious neglect.
The best artists are culprits
Chiseling our school desks,
Scraping our bathroom stalls,
Doodling our notebooks.
Graffiti spray paints the struggle,
Scribbling defaces the pretense,
Defilement arrests the complacent,
Disfigurement sullies the platitude.
Defacers embody the dialectic,
The opposition to conformity,
The betrayal of uniformity,
The rebellion against authority.
The best artists are pariahs,
Trashing our temples,
Tossing out our moneychangers,
Driving out our shysters.
March field
snow patched scars
deer forage
green stubble flirting
the ground parsimonious
its fast food scarcity
Deer raise their heads
regard my presence, murky
Their eyes clear, deep, almond round
shaking something in me
solemnizing freedom
Nature's rated stature
flecked streamlined beauty
compact torsos
triggered taunt launching
A thought that trophy room plundering
could cut nimble hoofers
complicated narrative
the jagged edge of hunting
Deer holding my fixed attention
that slips from boxed corners
making space for reconsidering
to forego what's crushing
a blend to nomadic tramping
competing urges
Rippled cues of wishing
to know life in rhythmic movement
to singe bits of living
blurred escape
like deer in hurdle leaps
to flee,
light flickering vanity
that craves invisible spaces
Poem revised: April 22, 2021
Confined Versions Give
Parsimonious Opinions
Mute Atlas Hides Scene
I was a fool who made waste in this parsimonious world.
It was nonsensical of me to think that I could find comfort
outside the covenant of your love.
When I was famished you became my portion.
When my soul was distant from the truth and I was spiraling
down into darkness, you lit before mine eyes a flaming light of
wisdom.
I am redeemed.
You are my redeemer.
I am the river.
You are the source.
I am born again.
You are my deliverer.
I am a glittering reflection in the sun.
copyright Labyrinth of Life New Edition
Here is another gullible fool in a bad situation.
There she was plunking away the money in this casino nation.
The player was hoping to hit it big with this machine.
However, it sadly concluded as an ugly scene.
She showed no signs of stopping. She just carried on.
Before this woman knew it, her money was all gone.
How about comps? How parsimonious could the house get?
With only a few bucks, the player is full of regret.
Can she buy a cup of coffee? She does not have enough.
This turned out to be a night that was rough.
As any other loser, she gets in her car and departs.
However, she will return. The habit continues after it starts.
Since it only costs a cent to play,
you would think people could play all day.
However, it takes bigger bets to win.
So many players leave with chagrin.
This can be a parsimonious machine.
It has a bunch of buttons and a screen.
The images and the sounds can be alluring.
Long strings of bad luck can be enduring.
Before you know it, all your money is gone.
With no more left to play, it’s time to move on.
They try many things to get you down
to this gambling Mecca of a seashore town.
In many directions, the management of these places will go.
It has all been carefully designed to get your dough.
Free meals, free drinks, free rooms, and more.
However, they are not as generous as they were before.
Those houses are now in a precarious situation.
Other gaming places are popping up across the nation.
You would think they’d be upping the ante with their offers.
However, they don’t easily open up their coffers.
Business will not be so glorious
if they continue becoming more parsimonious.
If you want casino action, you no longer have to roam.
Slot machines can be played in the comfort of your own home.
A recent bill has been passed as a law in New Jersey.
Online gaming is now legally operating in Atlantic City.
Most of the gaming favorites can be played on a computer screen.
Let me warn you, those games are parsimonious and mean.
This is an alternative many players will eventually chose.
However, there is still the chance loads of them will lose.
The worst is brought out in people who lose their money.
Problems will be created and not solved. It won’t be funny.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.