Poems by M. Parker
Faint as the dimmest star
glowing in a black sky of grass,
a firefly lay dying.
The pulsing glow, a pale weak green,
so soft its light makes me stare
wide-open-eyed in the dark.
Each slow glow, paler and shakier
than the last
like the shuddering breath of the dying.
Softer, dimming, slowly
as i hold my breath.
The black presses so heavily
on my dry eyes as the moment passes.
And the night continues unnoticing.
Everything paled by the rushing rain
speeding to the ground,
we watched to see the thunder stop.
Forced in by the storms
we sat 'round the candled table
babbling, laughing, and staking every claim we could,
while the flood waters rose around us.
Our babies are not our own.
We grow them in watery wombs (gardens of flesh)
and hand them over,
muffles their cries,
blink back our lies,
for society to dress them in black,
slap a gun to their back,
and teach them to kill.
To keep them, we need to be the 'possum in the road,
her belly torn wide and her babies
strewn on the hot blackness,
drying and hardening in the sun.
They are no longer safe.
The soft tolling of the iron bell told me that
as it danced its way through
the persistent fog.
I am my own birth mother,
the seeds of circumstance fathering pieces of me.
Some of me is born in silence
when i spread myself wide
to the sun and breathe,
some in raucous jamborees as I
dance and prance loudly to my voice
in the kitchen,
others still in the dark tearing moments, cacooned and smothered,
by any given striving thing.
I birth myself and nurture the newborns I approve of,
the others I have learned to murder.
Blue Black Blue Black
stripe the lines across the night sky.
The air dives through the trees
thrashing the leaves,
bending branches menacingly.
The empty flat silhouettes are dancing
a frightful dance to the screeching music of the wind.
But comfort wwashes in me
when I turn to the glow of our home.
Thin kitchen light falls from
the windowsill and splashes
on dark grass
and bleeds around the edges into soft black.
Shadows stretch and strain from this light,
falling at odd angles back.
Biographical sketch: I am a 21 year-old student of environmental
studies. Writing is a small hobby.
M. Parker recommends:
E. A. Poe Collected Poems by E. A. Poe
Reason: Poe uses wonderful words.
Recommendations for writers:
Try to capture the glimmer.