John Parsons Poems

They pump and pump
The agony into me
With their insults and mockery, I slump
Down, tired of picking too many a blood-sucking flea.
...

In the Alpine forests
Of Burgundy, I build a log cabin next to a stream.
Everything I do there protests
This world's vanity, along the seam
...

We drive on and on,
Past Mineral Wells, urbanization, to Strawn.
A living relic, ancient
Almost, and eventually, archaic.
...

I arise out of my bed
Like zombie out of his grave
In a stupor. A blind stupor.
...

I thought it would never end.
All that I am

Hurted slowly like
...

Wavy and invisible; undetectable
Like the white-out on
Life’s display board,
Boredom, the muse of Anxiety.
...

Plath was correct.
Social perfection is martyrdom. You have no
Children, just a bunch of medals
...

Eyes stare down the hall
Without movement or signs of a soul
Within them. They just stop
Living; they're like The Scream
...

Treasure this, my love
It is for you. A fine gift
Of my devotion.
...

I am a palm tree
On a delicate Florida beach.
I observe everything. I see
People litter and drive Hummers. They have no idea what a leech
...