"parsing" poems
In a midwinter night’s dream
i found myself lost again,
or was it even this year ?
It may even go back farther
than yesterdays out of reach,
older than an ancient pyramid stone
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
flotsam of the ages adrift,
unknown for more than a thousand years
... waiting for so long to see beyond the bounds
High atop a slippery edge-cliff
i clung ―
Searching for a deeper understanding
of who i am;
Roosting like a starving bird of prey
with a broken wing
born alone ... holding on
With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
Staring way down deep in the pith,
into an internal pitch black abyss,
just begging to see beyond ―
Mindful it's so hard looking
into the eye of a storm
Intimately parsing the recurrent source
of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion, preventing dispersion
of the nimbus cold and dark
In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
emptiness,
A swelling silence what loudly knells,
leeching through a perennial ache
An abating voice within hollers unheard,
invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
relentlessly through the hollow pang;
Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
deep beneath the light
Awakening to realize ― once i was alive
and
i could feel me holding on to you
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
I saw the sun steep
into the seascape ―
lonely as a drowning
wave
on still-waters
the dimming of the day
rescinding evanescent daylight .
fading with the slack tide
lost at sea ―
a gloaming moment
let fall from
the remains of the day,
like some other passing
sea bird's molted feather
drifts away untamed
I sit silent as the driftwood
lingering at the watermark,
watching a random gust
erase the footprints
of another recurring day,
bearing abandoned memories
and vacant heartbeats,
atrophied in the drifting sands
and I see you walking
towards the abating
midnight sunset ―
but I know
you're just a mirage;
like the dimming afterglow
of so many waning moons
elapsed
ever-changing tides grow low
and promises made lightly
do ebb away
Scanning the distant horizon ―
a blindfold heart
mooning all at sea;
parsing a deserted shoreline,
wondering if love
is too late ,..
to stem the tide ―
harlon rivers
30 May 2018
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
The makers make
Everything
From everything
Hands into the void
Shaping matter
Parsing out particles
Passing electrical
Synapses to deduce
And reduce
Experience
To the simplest rules
Then changing the laws
Of science
Not god
But humanity
Making meaning
From the chaos
Imposing order
Through logic
The saving grace
Of this human race
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
The hollow wind funneled the voice
of the distant night-train crossings,
awakening a familiar silence
hanging from the vast wilderness sky
A restless heart hearkening the echoes,
imagining a runaway Pullman
flew away off the rails, airborne
on the winged wind headed north
Winter pausing for a moment
in the shadows of familiarity,
as if parsing the unspoken breathings
in an echoless surrendered sigh;
uncertain if tacit words set free
could ever allow a heart broken
to feel whole again
There is no absolving voice
that whispers in a solemner tone :
Death has no mercy ―
love remains marooned in the wake ,..
and it feels like the world’s gone mad
letting time be the arbiter of perpetuity
The fading dream of a motherless child;
a wish to be held maternally
fell to the ground with a thud,
breaking the silence,
dissipating formless as the shape of water
Muted cold lips so full of questions
morphing into fugitive sighs
come the unsettled night;
when shadows disappear like frail memories
that passed too soon to grasp,
thickly palpable as the warm breath
a winter bird alone on frosty branch
There’s no fear in braving the darkness
in the winter wilderness of life borne alone
There’s no way of knowing what you’ll find
down that long empty road back home
Life just flashes by silently before your eyes
through the windshield
of countless miles and miles
And there’s nothing you can do about it ―
It’s like hearing the moment of truth in a lie
when all I was looking for
was how I got here in this now,.. yesterday
only finding a hopeless poet
scribbling slightly stained pages,
spilling a bitter sweet dream ...
harlon rivers ... February 2018
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
. . .
. . . .
. . . . . . . . .
i stare at a docile ocean
waveless sun accosted
dark and shadow edged
tinned with men's brave
history of misconception i
'Dragonne'.
'Colossuus'.
'Cetaecean'.
- Leviathan ?
As sure as hope setting sail -
Past shoal, past shallow,
So each chase begins.
Lines parsing out,
Expectations coyly
Embroidered,
Entwin-ned.
- Leviathan ?
Pray please this narrative be drawn :
Truth for sake of safe harbour;
Stillness without caution;
Softly ripening dawn;
Jupiter and Venus descendant,
Celestial promise anon ?
- Leviathan .
Violence
the casual violence of life
the worst kind
not casual really but whats violence anyway
few knew why why ask why the few
once the dice flipped get
its a flying a mind a dunzo game
gravity responds we hope hope together sake
to gether
we short the freaks short em' all them freakin freaks freaks
i want you I want yours
i want to take you over
take control take over
29' run kontrol all night day
long time end time
everthing happens forfurfor fit ur
once and done (nature) forfeiture
reason or ur other or ur another or ur a altogether reason
or simple GP drunkworld
reason (nurture)
surprise my ripest faither - less
5 rise 10 run huh
up the down and dumb
dumb ber right left left right thum ber
number one number
numb - ber
one ones
another
come
under
the
(tumb)
.
All Rights Reserved.
James R. Morse, NYC 2013.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
***A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)
one poem, written by two authors***
~~~
**Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.
From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.
The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value**
(written by S.D., a woman)
~~~
(written by N.L., a man)
unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected
the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own
every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing
a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship
all these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,
instantaneously compromised
but,
***it is upon the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality
while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:
every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the
princes of principles,
valence and value
that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,
her character
this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky***
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
words drift away unfettered
from whence they came,
passing like undreamed clouds
– pragmatic eyes to the sky
in a searching stare –
unsought thoughts disappearing hence
a fog bow fading into sunlight
there are days when
it comes out in my silence
there are days when
it falls down in my tears:
muse – muted in poet's pause,
heart and soul whispers
laid bare unwritten
behind parsing eyes
disregarded words let loose,
ungarnered
the way low hanging fruit
falls benign — unharvested —
shortsighted insight
from a bird's eye view
silently fermenting traces
and unfiltered memories
come and go unheeded words,
discarded like the passing
time of our lives
at times it's ludicrous
to follow down
lingering footprints
left behind callous:
when the shoe won't fit;
slogging across eroding
time-worn stepping stones
scattered on this twisted line
these feet have been walking down,
trying to make a getaway
from myself
walking away from the memories
like so many indelible footprints to escape
– while dreaming stardust into stars
in nameless constellations –
reaching out from the inside,
site unseen,
trying to experience
the empirical shape
of stifling silence
in a theatre made by chance
distilling the gifts and burdens
of trying to live a worthy life
only I'll see...
harlon rivers ... September 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
I chronicle in rhythm and rhyme,
Scribbling, jotting, imaging the times:
I dug down to Lucy,
And China's Great Wall,
Compared Viking raids with personal tirades;
Asked God questions, questioned Jeff Sessions,
And all of that where-with-all.
I've called wrong out, and written about
Our scandals, all fancy or true;
I've offered you solace,
Even opened my wallet,
And grieved when it was due.
I've been self-righteous,
And sometimes right selfless,
When parsing my love for you.
But now it should end,
I've less left to send,
And so love I bid, Adieu.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 4:25 PM UTC
Silence speaks —
its say beheld in its
own truth laid bare
Its voice is deeply felt
but rarely revealed
in the tight economy
of considered words
it quietly whispers —
The reality it bares,
soundlessly eroding with a
shameless emotional deluge
that rivers through
the poet's heart
When you feel alone
in a crowded room,
you overhear the drone
a racing heartbeat ...
When you're
going down the road
feeling bad, chasing
the centerline,
reckoning some kind
a life passing by
out the rolled down
window ;
hearken in nature's
tone poems
blowin' in the wind
It was thence
i came to know
my sum of simple truth:
Organically self-wrought
Environmentally molded
from the clay of life
a survivor of many
a passing storm
Season's change,
water seeks its own level
The silt does not get to say
how far down stream
the river carries it
and we still wind up
in the same old place
parsing the watermark
stains of time
and a poet — is not a word
i'll longer use to describe
who i've become
harlon rivers ... December 7th, 2018
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Call me a chump
But I’m with Trump
When it comes to Carson
He can’t be accused of parsing
When he says pathological
He’s being pedagogical
Using the man’s own words
Which completely under girds
What the man said
About the thoughts in his head
And it’s no more than logical
He said he’s pathological
We must wonder hard
If he’d still go that extra yard
To practice his absurdity
I know the thought’s occurred to me
Cuz if you take a look
Inside his true confession book
You’re gonna be amazed
As he recounts the different ways
He showed off his temper
With his mother front and center
Then a friend or relative
Who he tried his best to shive
It may sound like a joke
But thank God the blade broke
Then there’s the guy that he rocked
With a solid steel padlock
But no one can recall
Because the tales he tells are tall
Though he insists they’re true
But those who know him asked, "Who knew?"
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
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!
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.
We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.
J. Sandy
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
AttributedMarkdown: Native Markdown Parsing on iOS
==================================================
here is an asterisk
here is some italic
prealkdjflsfdj
>> Markdown is intended to be as easy-to-read and easy-to-write as is feasible.
-- [Daring Fireball](http://daringfireball.net/projects/markdown/)
### Usage:
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NSString *rawText = @"Hello, world. This is native Markdown.";
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
By scratch and scrim and keys, a poets write,
Parsing the eyes drop, lancing the buried ear,
Under the hewning gaze of hazel trees night,
Streams forded, moon and yew stepping, stare.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
Chain link fence with barbed wire greeted the visitor to the dream.
We could not enter so we walked around Nature’s extravagant garden.
We followed a narrow thread of a trail which
stitched its way through the green fabric of the forest.
The ground, underfoot, was a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, bits of bark, and pebbles.
The air was saturated with the scent of moist evergreen compost,
a silent shout from a hillside defiant with life.
We passed trees dressed in velvety moss sporting calico patches
of green, yellow and bark.
Fronds of green were about us, everywhere—a climbing army on the hillside
taking a break from their labors.
The trail adorned itself with dainty flowers which would never know life in a vase.
Above it all stood towering sentinels guarding their occasional fallen comrades.
Their arms held multi-leveled lacy branches vibrating in the breeze, like
the fans of an exotic dancer parsing out glimpses of the sky.
At the end of our trail lay stones; abandoned enormous toy building blocks
piled imprecisely at the end of play.
Beside the stones, behind the fence, we spied silhouettes, patches of sky and trees
mirrored in emerald reflection hugged by the silently crowding undergrowth.
At center stage, a tiered gray rock supported a bridal gown of white-flowing water,
like a department store display of a June-bride manikin.
In fact it was a Sunday in June; we on the other side of the fence.
We were told that the park and the pool would not be open till the first of July.
Somehow the trees, the water, the ferns, the flowers, and my heart knew better.
J. Sandy
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
By scratch and scrim and keys, a poets write,
Parsing the eyes drop, lancing the buried ear,
Under the hewning gaze of hazel trees night,
Streams forded, moon and yew stepping, stare.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
We want things to be easy
I look back on time and wonder
How could they be so strong
While we carry signs and grumble?
The world is a museum of invention
Yet we grow weaker each day
We have built our shelter
But our minds have gone astray
Once upon a time
A man looked to the West
He only needed freedom
And without he could never rest
His spirit arrived before him
With its silent call of courage
He never worried about time
In dust his dreams would forage
He didn’t know the words
Entitlement or welfare state
He had a horse and wagon
In the back rode his fate
He broke the hour glass
And kept moving on
No pause for help
Only his word to rely upon
No comfort in the cold
Or parsing words of nuance
Instead they tilled the land
And became men of renaissance
The pictures of old wise men
And words without a face
I wonder if they would laugh
At the state of the human race
A story teller of the past
Who lives on as we complain
An odd looking sort
By the name of Twain
Another painted a ceiling
While laying on his back
For years he toiled
With the artistry we lack
These are my heroes
Not a man screaming in the streets
Demanding more leisure
He is no better than the elites
They lived apart in distance and time
With years between shared utterances
They lived without going viral
Only hoping for history’s remembrances
As grown men show you their palms
Demanding them to be filled with coin
Every result to be guaranteed
The fruits of another to be purloined
Can you see what has happened?
Can you see the rising tide?
No man who makes demands
Can ever be denied
A politician’s waste
In the name of a good deed
Today we fired another
Tell me… where will it lead?
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
~
By scratch and scrim and keys, a poets write,
Parsing the eyes drop, lancing the buried ear,
Under the hewning gaze of hazel trees night,
Streams forded, moon and yew stepping, stare.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
Despite your sorrow, your grief,
your smile stayed sweet
giving warmth as you
maneuvered through the world,
a solitary, inner orphan
since that awful time a few years ago
The heavy pain you carried
that wouldn't let you be
The unanswered conundrums that
resisted parsing for one so young
Yet all along, there was the inherited voice
lying quietly within you
like a sleeping bird's
awaiting the dawn
desiring to sing again
in splendorous tones
a new day's joyful awakening
February 3, 2015
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
These days, it’s getting harder for me to hear, though
My hearing is perfectly fine.
Words, speech, rhetoric, proclaimed in our
Homes, schools, churches, media and lives,
Filled with anger, pain, rage,
Endless debating, name calling,
Attacking, yelling, shouting,
Drama and diatribes.
A new willingness sweeps the land, offering
Gratuitous unfiltered honesty.
A truth sport that calculatingly
Cuts off at the knees,
Sending the newly scarred and
Wounded soul to walk away, with
A knife in their back.
What unfulfilled need justifies
This anger, frustration, rage,
Blaming, shaming and finger pointing,
And the creation of new effigies by endlessly
Dissecting and parsing every word and phrase?
Have we become little more than
Hurting people who hurt others?
Are we just reacting in kind with a
Pent-up frustration that has nowhere to go?
Are we really so fearful that
Things aren’t going as they should, afraid
We’ll never get what we want, or scared that
We’ll never have what we need?
Could it be that we are unconsciously
Caught in a vibration of drama, and
Easy prey for the hidden plans
And agendas of others?
Or, have we become slaves of an ego
That willingly fills our minds with
Unproven certainties to
Give us what we do not have but want?
Maybe, strangely, we are
Seeking a connection in the
Only way we know.
Hoping our shrill voices will
Convince the universe that we matter,
As we misguidedly attempt to make
Some difference on our piece of earth.
This isn’t life!
Yelling never convinces a single soul
About the rightness of a cause or the
Correctness of an action.
It only drives us further apart and
Makes us dead to ourselves and each other.
Perhaps it's time to remember
The wisdom of the ancients,
Spoken so long ago.
In compassion there is virtue,
Blessed are the peacemakers,
What is given is returned
A thousand fold; and,
In the measure we judge,
We shall be judged,
Love the Gods and
Do no harm.
These days, it’s getting harder for me to hear, though
My hearing is perfectly fine.
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 4:50 AM UTC
In crowded halls, ivy clad, walk the sleepless zombies - the walking dead.
They’ve come to grapple, the chosen few, in trials by pen and pencil too.
Long ago we quietly agreed to trade studies and stress for a lives of ease.
The fire of competition burns within, a pyre fueled by challenge and adrenaline.
We’ve been grinding from morning’s light to dark midnight, fueled largely by tasty caffeine's bite.
Sleep’s a distant memory, that’s been swapped for all-nighters, notecards and highlighters.
Professors who’ve taught us now plant briar-like, trickster-questions, to fraught us.
Have we synthesized it all - the labs, lectures and quotes, the chapters, quizzes and notes?
The hours we’ve spent, dissecting texts, parsing equations, crafting essays - pay off now.
Or don’t - the clutter of fact, theory, and tensors will separate the scholars from the pretenders.
But fear not, dear reader, for we’re tough, seasoned cowgirls and this is just another rodeo.
True, we chew erasers not tobacco and ride desks or lab stations, not bucking broncos
But some are thrown, bruised and scarred - finding their future careers discarded.
We’re required to hand-write our test essays out, a trap that negates AI with age-old foolscap.
We know the challenge, we’ve studied and crammed, to tackle the hurdle of ‘top-tier’ exams.
Beyond the stress beacons the sweet release - of holiday parties and presents that please.
But perhaps the sweetest possible tease, is the promise of slumber and weeks study free.
Dec 10, 2023
Dec 10, 2023 at 10:54 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Republicans start to shop
If their candidate’s not on top
And their poll numbers suddenly drop
Because they’re labeled a flop
So those who used to push
For the heir apparent Bush
Are sitting on their ****
Wishing they had Hindu-kush
And that new-jack Rubio
What is it they think he knows
That allows his cash to grow
They will reap just what they sow
Now let me mention Teddy Cruz
Who hasn’t paid his dues
And when asked he has refused
But that should be old news
Although Carly Fiorena
Has a tough demeanor
Trump once asked, “Have you seen her?”
When he wanted to demean her
And then there’s Dr. Carson
More Don Rickles than Johnny Carson
Soft spoken spreading arson
With incendiary parsing
Now that I have your attention
Though it may earn you dissention
Some I just choose not to mention
They’re beyond my comprehension
So that leaves us Donald Trump
Someone that they’d like to dump
But he says, “Kiss my ****
See he’s energized and pumped
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
One Thousand hands holding
One Thousand suitcases stuffed suffocating
One Thousand costumes and memories tethered to expectations,
One Thousand pieces left behind that
would not pass inspection like
fragments of self and habits to lean on,
One Thousand pairs of waiting eyes wistful and worn and wondering about
One Thousand ways to say goodbye,
One Thousand stories swimming in minds
reasons to stay devouring reasons to depart
parsing apart
One Thousand unfinished thoughts
stacked upon each other as layered
remnants of crumbling towers,
One Thousand coterminous beginnings and endings swallow
One Thousand middled narratives,
the taste of
One Thousand lives flavors the air
circulating in
One Thousand lungs huffing the
breath of
One Thousand neighbors estranged and silent save
One Thousand unsynchronized heartbeats
bleating and bleeding and belching
One Thousand rhythmic intricacies into
One Thousand hands holding
One Thousand suitcases.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC