Mere words are placed upon the page
Where ink conjoins with pulp.
And higher themes than tongues can wage
Are sought in parsing prose.
Language is the mind’s attempt
To cobble thoughts from words,
Yet seeks discourse on things exempt
From rationale’s employ.
‘Tis not a boast upon the breast,
That burden to un-bear,
But hope that scripting at its best
Does speak without a breath.
Parsing sentences today
one should never try to do
Well-constructed sentences being
~ the province of ‘the shrinking few’
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.
An empty auditorium, echoing with the voices of those long past
Life’s stage, we the characters, parsing the script in a caricature of truth
Phantoms of a thousand different productions, acts, scenes leave the frissons of their presence
We strive, strain, stretch for the higher, brighter, better, betraying verity for vanity
Etchings in dust, the drive to impact the path we’ve trodden
Power like water within the grasp of a clenched fist
Clasping, gripping, seizing, you find nothing but droplets left in your open palm
Ignominy strikes the weakest souls, stretched threads of consciousness reaching vainly
We long to fly, seek to ascend to the forbidden, transforming into what we were never made to be
Transcendent, elusive, suffusing our epic odyssey of alienation
Logic is a casualty of success, empathy a victim of independence
Careening along a runway, the test flight, hoping for the rudiments of wings
2/21/22
"The Rudiments of Wings"
for "This or That, Vol 10" sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Dedication to Service
Rather, whoever wishes to be great among you shall be your servant, whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave. Just so, the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and give His life as a ransom for many. Matthew 20:26-28
Today’s lesson on serving others can be found in the life of St. Katherine Drexel
Born into one of the wealthiest U.S. families of the 19th century
She could have lived an extravagant life inside the world of rich and famous
The young heirness might have chosen to be a chief benefactor parsing out
Sizable donations to good causes
Yet her understanding of the Good News led to a different choice
St. Katherine dedicated her life to helping those most in need
Her outreach stretched across the country as she embraced the mission of education
Most notably building schools for impoverished African American children
We are each born into different circumstances with variety of gifts
Most of us are not wealthy
yet we have an equal opportunity to live out this lesson of service to others.
Parsing our lives into pieces and bits
renders each one completely unfit
To make sense of our time here on earth
link them together from the day of your birth
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
There was confusion
no one seemed to be content
to leave the settling dust
to come to rest
and wish that somehow
he had just confessed.
And yet they plodded on
in hindsight’s quest
invited him as an
unwanted guest
demanding
that he do
his level best
empty all his pockets
at their behest.
But there was trouble
in the searches scope
of parsing every word
in venal hope
the papers that they drew
could then be sent
once they figured out
The Imp Each Meant.
John G. Lawless
©12/8/2019
Politicians
Written: by Tom Wright
10-17-2019
Politicians are so adept,
at the parsing of speech.
Due to this flawed thinking,
there’s a vast party breech.
Their association with lobbyist,
is shielded from sight.
Becoming a perk of the job,
to have palms greased at night.
Oneupmanship now prevails,
and most seek a head start.
But citizens won’t be served,
until compromise plays a part.
But once elected to office,
their egos make them kings.
They view their supporters,
as mere ignorant underlings.
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.
I
stare,
stare into
the flames.
Mesmerized.
I
hear the
sound of
creation.
The
snap, crackle,
pop of
creation.
I see
embers flying
like burning
stars
spinning
in infinity.
I
see time,
present and
past, while
contemplating
future time.
It’s all
in the
flames.
Parsing
existence.
Turning it
over, teasing
it out.
So much
to
contemplate.
Making sense,
trying to
make sense.
Impossible.
Impossible,
to know,
impossible to
understand
creations
meaning,
its raison d'etre.
Futile,
no way
of knowing.
I stare into
the flames.
Mesmerized!
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.
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
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
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.
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