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Parker Daniells Poem
As I stand
Contemplating the threshold
Hopeless nobles
Pouring superficial sorrows
Parked in seven black chairs
Legs Tied
With Zip-Ties
I observe
Dark shallow depths
A mountain of endless
Contaminated tissue
Extruding over the brim of trash
Conquering wounds
As I
Take my leap of faith
Stepping forward with
My nametag
Hello, my name is Love
I Am an addict
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2008
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Parker Daniells Poem
Skin pale white,
her hospital gown,
a moth filled wedding dress.
straps and shackles tie her down
like a corset;
more buckles and ties than Harry Houdini.
she frantically turns
toward the door
like a two year old
throwing a temper tantrum,
her hands wrapped around her body,
hugging her own hips.
Fingernails cut down to the cuticle
just in case she had any ideas.
Dirty blonde hair becoming static
as if she rubbed a balloon on her scalp
a head of tranquility, restless hair from sex.
Panting,
like a winded dog chasing its ball,
Her lips caught me off guard,
They were blue, not like
the cold midnight sky,
but a body
bound for hypothermia
longing for freedom from restraint.
That is my psychological diagnosis
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2009
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Parker Daniells Poem
Trailing behind the bunch was Her. One whose equilibrium is so far forward, she trips on
her own breath. Her head was hanging low in self-pity, luckily, her rollie backpack was
acting as the gravitational pull, keeping her pudgy feet pan-caked to the ground. She
teetered like the original drinking bird, looked just like her too: well just her swollen
fat ass. She was wearing a Disney sweatshirt. Really! Why do “they” always wear Disney?
Are they the only company selling quadruple large? The irony is truly magnificent. Here:
she is the ugly duckling, the evil stepsister, the turtle that never won the race, the fat
engine that never made it up the hill. There: She was given the glass slipper, saved by
her Knight in shining armor, given the kiss to remove the curse. She is a Disney Princess.
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2009
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Parker Daniells Poem
Mind
is a
teeter-totter
constantly
out weighing
my heart
from the tip
of the fulcrum
attempting to
persuade
as adolescents
sway their
friends to
drink this
or
smoke that
Feet
increasingly creep
like a ladybug
crawls to the
tip of leaf
ready to soar
towards the verge
of its demise
doing the
stingray shuffle
kicking off
unfastened dirt
Body
leans forward
from the hips
trying to uncover
the means between
the ends
taking two
steps back
hands held
to my chest
or
close my eyes
put a foot out
fall.
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2009
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Parker Daniells Poem
When I was young,
I was special,
not special in a good way.
always late everywhere,
always stuck in my world.
I could look at things
in the courtyard,
in the streets for hours.
lines would run
along each leaf,
or brick in the path.
Sometimes, I thought
there were voices,
not ones that would help
me save the world,
jumping building to building,
but two ants playing
tug-o-war over one twig,
hummingbird,
hovering in suspended time.
Some parents might worry,
ask Physicians to prescribe
new medication, untested,
but my mother said no.
She bought me a camera,
I shot things instead
of looking.
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2010
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Parker Daniells Poem
Usually, I just pass by
with a glance, read their
life story without making
eye contact so my wallet
doesn’t feel sympathy,
but this time, his cardboard
sign screamed at my heart.
It was as if his soul breathed
hope onto what he wraps
himself in at night.
His cried out eyes
had a thick layer of
fog over the pupil,
nostrils were cracked,
wrinkles grinned
dog fur white.
Yesterday, in Palo Alto,
I gave a homeless man
money,
my freedom only
cost three dollars.
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2011
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Parker Daniells Poem
It wasn’t until this evening while I was sitting
in the hospital lobby watching blood pour from
underneath my chair from the women behind me
waiting for my name to be murmured over the loud speaker
that I witnessed the depths our society is willing to go.
Directly across from me was Gertrude, I don’t think
that was her real name, but that’s what I called her Cyclops pouch
that was playing peek-a-boo with the 5 month old child bouncing
on her knee. The mother’s arms (if you could call her that) were
as holy as a tree after a woodpecker has established residency
and as blue as the vessels that carry blood to her heart. Maybe
the doctors will show her how to properly insert a needle when
she goes behind the curtain wall.
To my left were the Espinoza’s, a family of five,
maybe six, there was a boy playing in the parking garage by a van
with a rock, he was waving it around like a wand.
The wife was the one having problems, she does not remember
them, even if she did, she couldn’t say them.
It was as if I was watching a 2 year old communicate with no teeth desperately trying to
pronounce words that start with “S” or “F”
At least she was trying.
They couldn’t find their insurance card, she couldn’t
remember where she put it. She looked at her translator for assistance but
he was to busy rocking their child to sleep.
In the corner were the Muses, it did not seem like there was
anything wrong, as if their son or daughter dropped them off
hoping for something to happen to inherit the family fortune.
I think they were really there to oversee the moral of the lobby, contracted out by the hospital staff to amuse
and entertain frustrated numbers,
because that’s all we are, numbers on a chart board, names on a wristband, like cattle tagged by the ear.
Jean was the older one; she had toes like crochet hooks, crossing over and looped,
Gladdys was younger, wearing a green jumpsuit with a gold Greek Key belt,
she looked like a dried out Christmas tree on the street leaning beside the trash cans after New Years.
It was in the corner of my eye that I saw
a sheer bit of hope for our World. Jean leaned over to the father,
slipped money between the paint on his hands
and the babies bottom and said,
You have a beautiful family.
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2009
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Parker Daniells Poem
Figuratively Speaking
What do you want me to do! I want you to read to me
I yelled I "said"
at the top of my lungs to my dim-witted husband
resting my elbows on my knees turning my head away
hands over my ears to drown out the noise
Why don’t you do that for me? Because you didn't ask
I kicked Jesus to the curb, (Figuratively speaking)
So what if He believed words that
I was baptized, drowned hearts
I read The book,
beautiful words become justified
to her naked soul The steady drum,
trying to fill His voice
cubicles of space fills my head,
in our overflowing existence
bathtub; And that we share.
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2010
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Parker Daniells Poem
This morning,
I woke,
eyes crescent mooned.
In the kitchen,
I found a platoon,
army crawling between
pepperoni and assorted
veggies, gathering intel
for the commanding officer.
My tweezers clinched
between thorax and abdomen,
strapped him down by the neck.
It took three milliliters
from the syringe to
drown his insides.
His dog tags
read:
Red Aunt
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2011
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Parker Daniells Poem
It was the second Saturday of the month
In the afternoon, before lunch, we made love
It has become our ceremonial sacrament.
I entered her, and I thought,
Does she feel anything?
Beyond my curiosity, it was nice
An out of body experience
Propelling forward
Drawing back
Impaling her like
A surgeon engraves a patient
Making his mark
Just as I made mine.
So many Saturdays
Stealing the purity from
The marriage bed
Attempting to not make evidence
I mounted her
straddling her thighs
Looking at the family photo above the bed
Her horizontal skin adhering to mine
It is odd that I felt this way for her
As I laid on top of her
Ears rubbing
Necks caressing
Bodies uniquely intertwining
like octopuses
fighting over the same boat
We had to stop.
As I quietly left, tucking her under the covers
Leaving my forty-six dollars and fifty-eight cents
On the kitchen counter
for my services and
fresh box of condoms,
Placing the cum filled contraceptive
in her husbands slippers
Knowing he comes home from work tired;
hopefully as tired as I made his wife.
Copyright © Parker Daniells | Year Posted 2009
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