"parsons" poems
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore
reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)
bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
*blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!*
duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields
meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)
baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
They say marriage is all about compromise. If that's the case, newlyweds Kia Parsons and Billy Bunning are off to an excellent start.
The UK couple had different visions when it came to their wedding cake; the bride wanted an all-white tiered cake with cascading sugar flowers. The groom, on the other hand, wanted to incorporate his love of comic book superheroes into the confection. So they met somewhere in the middle:
Julia Baker of Tier by Tier cake design created the cake for the couple's August 14 wedding in Milton Keynes, England. One side is the traditional-looking cake the bride wanted. On the other side, icing curtains reveal the logos of Marvel characters Captain America, Spider-Man and Iron Man, as well as Batman from the DC Comics camp.
"I loved every minute making this cake, as I knew it would be something that people would be surprised at and appeal to all the Marvel fans!" Julia told The Huffington Post.
In all, she spent 40 hours on the cake. It took 12 hours to make the sugar flowers, and the cake-baking and building took about 28 hours.
Needless to say, Kia and Billy were thrilled with the finished product.
"Julia did such a fantastic job and we were completely overwhelmed by how brilliant it looked!" the bride told HuffPost. "From most angles of the room, the cake looked like a traditional wedding cake -- just what we had wanted. It wasn't until the cake was moved for us to cut that our guests realized there was a hidden extra. Some didn't even realize until the photos went online after the wedding!"
On Tuesday, a photo of the cake began going viral when it was shared by the Life Of Dad Facebook page.
"I was surprised at how popular it was and how quickly the pictures circulated on social media," Julia said. "I have plenty more ideas to work on and I am calling these 'double-take cakes.'"
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth
www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
Love bug, lady crush, peeking through a midnight sky,
Deep Purple, Smoke on the Water, before a
glimmer in her eye,
90's girl, child stars of, The Disney Club,
Timberlake, Spears, Aguilera,
Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls dominating,
every air wave,
Victoria Beckham, her Parsons inspiration
fashion designer she'll fight her way,
to the top, so much power in her name,
yet even stripped bare, she'd be a star,
her talent to sketch, draw and drape,
falls on knees bent, if only we pray,
to even have an ounce from her display,
I know few like her, love unconditional,
we're the writers seeking solace,
an unforgiving pain,
life taking so much drain,
in the light of day this pain brings forth,
an edge to your art, a masochistic feel,
creating itself a soul untamed.
You write to remember, you sketch your dreams
hopelessness turns to desire,
the dark cloud of youth,
dissipates in the air,
knowing there is a way through,
treachery and despair.
My dear, you may some days,
feel in that gutter trying to,
catch a star,
but today you shine, as bright as
a diamond in this very same sky,
we see across continents,
each night that we pray.
Release the grip, lessen the pull,
fly and fly,
sore heights so high,
you ain't ever coming down.
© Sia Jane
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
*We lose so much talent to addiction
Some of you may not care, but I do
This is my tribute to them*
**Alan Wilson
Canned Heat
Jimi Hendrix
The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Janis Joplin
Jim Morrison
The Doors
Brian Cole
The Association
Billy Murcia
New York Dolls
Danny Whitten
Crazy Horse
Gram Parsons
The Stooges
Gary Thain
Uriah Heep
Elvis Presley
Gregory Herbert
Blood, Sweat & Tears
Keith Moon
The Who
Sid Vicious
*** Pistols
Lowell George
Little Feat
Jimmy McCulloch
Wings
John Bonham
Led Zeppelin
Darby Crash
Germs
James Honeyman-Scott
Pretenders
Pete Farndon
Pretenders
Paul Gardiner
Tubeway Army
Gary Holton
Heavy Metal Kids
Phil Lynott
Thin Lizzy
Andrew Wood
Mother Love Bone
Brent Mydland
Grateful Dead
Steve Clark
Def Leppard
Johnny Thunders
New York Dolls
David Ruffin
The Temptations
Kristen Pfaff
Hole
Shannon Hoon
Blind Melon
Bradley Nowell
Sublime
John Kahn
Jerry Garcia Band
Jonathan Melvoin
The Smashing Pumpkins
Billy Mackenzie
Associates
West Arkeen
The Outpatience
Nick Traina
Link 80
John Baker Saunders
Mad Season
Bobby Sheehan
Blues Traveler
Wes Berggren
Tripping Daisy
Allen Woody
The Allman Brothers Band
Carl Crack
Atari Teenage Riot
Layne Staley
Alice in Chains/Mad Seasons
Kurt Cobain
Nirvana
Dee Dee
Ramones
Robbin Crosby
Ratt
John Entwistle
The Who
Howie Epstein
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Jeremy Michael Ward
De Facto
Tim Hemensley
GOD
Dave Schulthise
The Dead Milkmen
Rick James
Kevin DuBrow
Quiet Riot
Ike Turner
Gidget Gein
Marilyn Manson
Jay Bennett
Wilco
Michael Jackson
The Rev
Avenged Sevenfold
Paul Gray
Slipknot
Mike Starr
Alice in Chains
Amy Winehouse**
*We are not bad people, we just have bad ways
Yet, not many understand*
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
"If you're the least bit sensitive, this world will eat you alive."
Is it any wonder then that so many of us want to die?
But I gave up a long time ago on suicide
Such an ignoble way to say goodbye
So if I must go, I want to be beaten by some ******* while defending a woman's honor
Shot by an oppressive father for attempting to liberate his daughter
Gunned down by the government for standing up for the rights of another
I guess you could say,
I have dreams of becoming a martyr
"Only the good die young"
Only through self-sacrifice can you become
Deeply ingrained in humanities' collective brain
I want to make a difference
Before I grow old and insane
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Lincoln
JFK
Jesus Christ
Gandhi
Joan of Arc
Tecumseh
And then there's Socrates
Somebody help me, help me please
I want so badly to die for the sake of a belief
But it's all so ****** up now
Twisted and torn
Sometimes I wish that I was never born
And there have been others who felt the same way
Vincent Van Gogh
Rothko
And Hemingway
I know it's not fair of me to say
They all lead lives wrought with such pain
Like Bradley Nowell
And Kurt Cobain
Some saw it coming
Like Mark Twain
Freedom really is a double-edged sword
After Jack Parsons blew up he left us his words
His mom OD'd shortly after having heard
Greatness can only last so long in this world
And what of Albert Camus?
Was it really unplanned?
And that poor old Nietzsche
Came so unglued at the end
And fate is really something
How can we comprehend
Some lives are surely doomed
From the moment they begin
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
they sentenced anarchy to death in 1887.
in the wake of the Haymarket Affair,
they tried in vain to hang a fifth figure
on a chilly November day,
attempted to fit a noose
on an idea that's bullet-proof.
solidarity.
liberty.
equality.
a refrain that remains in remembrance
of Engel, Fischer, Parsons, Spies,
and every man, woman, and child
whose life was robbed by the State
before his or her time.
a mantra celebrating the universal
qualities capable of unifying humanity
even in the face of an apparatus arraigned
to divide
and segregate.
we march in Chicago and Seattle,
in Toronto and NYC,
continuing the fight they began
for dignity and a living wage—
our burning rage growing to a conflagration
as we wave black flags and reclaim
the city streets from killer cops
and corporate oligarchs.
authority an illusion we will shed
in the tides of black and red, united
against injustice.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
"Oh!" my wretched soul aloud sighed
In lamentation over its solitude,
For in vain its happiness hangs
Thus cannot rest more on earthly bliss.
And countless of homilies have I heard
More oft than dialy bread
From different parsons, pastors, and persons sent,
Yet melting merriment merry meet.
But just too well too late
The Holy Spirit to me spake
That the choice is merely mine
To seek true hope from Jesus's pouch,
That whether in him believe and happiness have
By walking faithfully on paradise course
Or reject him and eternal regrets get
By charging on with lunacy on perdition's
Path. Please, let me alone with godly choice
To know what joy salvation really brings
Through what Christ alone in Calvary did
By giving what verily matters to the world!
And to this new unquenchable truth aligned myself
Not to misplace again priorities first; instead
Gracefully and obediently walk toward that home,
Where my mansion be a stately stead.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 5:59 AM UTC
Mr Parsons made it sound exciting.
But mum told Joan that she was wicked.
She wasn’t allowed her dolls for a week,
a week she spent bemused and resentful
and she refused to poo for three days
until mum relented and gave her Barbie back
– but the rest would have to wait.
It had begun with Mr Parsons at Sunday School
with the story of the blind man and the mud and the spit.
We’d sat on the adult chairs in a circle
Me, Joan, Gemma, Charlie, and the Brown sisters.
knee to knee in a circle in the corner of the hall,
the one with the draft and the stacked chairs reminding us
that we were the remnant of a once thriving community.
He told us how Jesus made a paste of mud and spit
[Charlie thought this hilarious and spat at Gemma,
so he had to stand with his nose on the wall for the rest of the lesson]
and how Jesus slathered it on the man’s eyes and then told him
(unnecessarily we thought) to go wash it off.
It hadn’t worked first time – was that a first for Jesus? we speculated
and the second time the bloke saw people again
but he was told to keep it secret, which made no sense.
So that afternoon, after dinner, Joan got mud from the garden,
and pasted it onto Barbie’s legs which were abnormally long and made her topple over
and on my action man’s face on account of his ****** scar
which I thought looked cool, but was curious to see what happened.
She pasted it on Ken and Sindy too, but not for any specific ailment.
She followed the prescribed method, slather, wash and then repeat
(which I think she enjoyed a little too much to be honest)
but after the second wash there was no sign of any healing,
perhaps because, like mum said, she was so wicked,
unlike Jesus of course.
I’d never seen mum go that colour – she was livid,
she told Joan to go wash the mud stains off her hands
and to put her dress in the wash.
Joan couldn’t be Jesus and it was wrong to think she could.
That sort of thing wasn’t for little girls.
The next Sunday Mr Parsons seemed a little miffed.
He and dad and mum sat in the hall, knee to knee for ages.
I thought we were for the high jump,
but afterwards mum looked like a school girl caught stepping out of line.
Mum was very quiet and at dinner dad said that she had something to say
- to our horror, she apologised in front of all of us
and she told Joan it was okay to try and do what Jesus did.
It was what he would have wanted.
We were so ashamed for my mum
- neither of us tried to be Jesus ever again.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 2:57 PM UTC
Durable Medical Equipment
Standard kit; four wheels and a hand
brake, tubular construction in sober
parsons black with a lick
of chrome fittings, she’s low
to the ground and tight
on the turns with a basket
up front, padded kneeler in back,
our Mardis Gras float, I’ll ease her in
behind the Krewe of Mona Lisa and Moon Pie
while you slosh hurricane and wave
to the joyous, drunken throngs.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
I live on a diet of foo fighters and remorse.
I am 22 feet tall.
I looked to her face, she disappears into thin air. "Pop." When she returns her face is not hers.
My fingers are mountains, my hair is cattails and my belly rumbles for the moon.
I am 5 feet tall.
The Phoenix lands on my headboard and speaks calmly "nevermore." I search for Allen but only find Parsons and Ginsburg.
My eyes are emeralds, everything is red. My legs are Christmas trees, my arms are machine guns. Both red.
I am 17 feet tall.
The moon is gone, captured away. Night is gone. I wither away, from starvation.
42 feet tall.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
The minute I wake
I've one more minute to take another
to wash
One minute to dress
one minute to pray and confess
One minute I guess as I go out the door that my keys left behind me,for
one minute I swore.
One minute's as good as the next minute at best but the minute it strikes five o clock is the best.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
When we met
You were impressed
with the mention of my PhD -
- just a fact-
not thrasonically.
I was impressed
when you were not intimidated.
We share -
a poor background
inner city insanity.
An insatiable desire for
knowledge
and ***
I never knew that
Parsons, Mills or Weber
would open the door
of carnal exploration.
I introduced you to Vico-
While you taught me
my erogenous zones.
I never knew a touch-
could arouse such desire.
I never knew another person
could ****** so much intensity
over every curve of my body.
From Plato to Habermas
We filled one another with
temporal joys-
mentally connecting
physically exquisite.
I may be paid to teach
-your love took
me to school.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
In my hands I hold the key
that unlocks doubt,
uncertainty
and sets them free
and I can be certain that when I unlock
the thoughts that I have will run amok among the staid and stolid,those thinkers of solid reputation
and without hesitation I'll set others free in order that they can be the disorders of orderly society.
I have the key
I am locomotive
I burn the track as I'm on my way back
don't stand in my way
don't get in my face
I have the key
I'm getting out of this place.
I am prime location
'no hesitation,deviation or repetition'('Just a minute' that's a touch of Nicholas Parsons)
a nation unto no one but me
I have the key
I will unlock
block out surrender to misery
become a new me
come and you'll see
you just need a key
to join in.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
Just sitting
listening to Alan Parsons
Rubbing Germolene
into my arm
after a battal with the roses
in my garden
rubbing in Germolene
as my arms now stinging
trying to relax
picking up my pen
and writting words down
try to make sense of them all
as the fumes
of the Germolene ant nice
but stopped the stinging in my arm
Germolene
the gardeners
best friend
and makes you smell like
you've just come
from the gym
P@ul.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
At 8.20am on the District Line this morning
A bomb went off without any warning
The bombers target was Parsons Green
A leafy suburb of London not far from SW19
Parsons Green is usually a quiet place
Welcomes all people regardless of race
Today though it will be making all the news
Terrorist experts will be called in to give their views
Ensuing panic as people fled
Thankfully everyone is alive and nobody is dead
Bombers why did you choose Parsons Green ?
Your acts are cowardly, callous and mean
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 4:33 PM UTC
Mr Parsons made it sound exciting.
But mum told Joan that it was wicked. She wasn’t allowed her dolls for a week, a week she spent bemused and resentful and she refused to poo for three days until mum relented and gave her Barbie back – but the rest would have to wait.
It had begun with Mr Parsons at Sunday School with the story of the blind man and the mud and the spit.
We’d sat on the grown up chairs. Me, Joan, Gemma, Charlie, and the Brown sisters, knee to knee in a circle in the corner of the hall, the one with the draft and the stacked chairs reminding us that we were the remnant of a once thriving community.
He told us how Jesus made a paste of mud and spit [Charlie thought this hilarious and spat at Gemma, so he had to stand with his nose on the wall for the rest of the lesson] and how Jesus slathered it on the man’s eyes and then told him (unnecessarily we thought) to go wash it off.
It hadn’t worked first time – was that a first for Jesus? we speculated and the second time the man saw people again, but he was told to keep it secret, which made no sense.
So that afternoon, after dinner, Joan got mud from the garden, and pasted it onto barbie’s legs which were abnormally long and made her topple over. She then pasted it on my action man’s face on account of his ****** scar which I thought looked cool, but I was curious to see what happened. She pasted it on Ken and Sindy too, but not for any specific ailment.
She followed the prescribed method: slather, wash and then repeat (which I think she enjoyed a little too much to be honest) but after the second wash there was no sign of any healing, perhaps because, like mum said, she was so wicked, unlike Jesus of course.
I’d never seen mum go that colour – she was livid, she told Joan to go wash the mud stains off her hands and to put her dress in the wash. Joan couldn’t be Jesus and it was wrong to think she could. That sort of thing wasn’t for little girls ...
The next Sunday Mr Parsons seemed a little miffed. He and dad and mum sat in the hall, knee to knee for ages. I thought we were for the high jump, but then I saw that mum looked like a schoolgirl, like she had been caught stepping out of line.
Mum was very quiet at dinner and dad said that she had something to say - to our horror, she apologised in front of all of us and she told Joan it was okay to try and do what Jesus did. It was what he would have wanted.
We were so ashamed for my mum - neither of us tried to be Jesus ever again.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 10:26 AM UTC