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Tris Pargeter archive

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Poetry by Tris Pargeter published in Vol 3 Issue 2

Near Sight

Buy Imovane Without Prescription, Sometimes, with mascara

Wand in hand,

I catch my own eye,

And have a moment with myself

As calm, blue-edged orb.

But then, close up, intent on

Applying dark potion

To the fringe with rare,

Myopic acuity,

I sense myself as

Trembling, black portal.

[caption id="attachment_210" align="alignright" width="300" caption=""Vacant" by Mateusz Lewczuk (click image for larger version)"][/caption]

Motherloss

Muffled poignancy.

Drawn fledgling and mortified

Into the end of the world,

Into the spotlight of Judgment Day,

An outline created of pathos

And tragedy instilled to this day.

It decimated our only little youth,

Personalities formed by grief.

We were green and stripped down early,

Cataclysm, not time, the thief…

Our spread-out child’s view of the world altered,

Now whirled around us, hurled right HERE,

We felt plucked out, dismembered, peered at and cut loose,

Were curiosities and squirming little dears.

It ensured that we’d continue to see ourselves

As flayed, insubstantial beings,

With unformed stick legs, nodules of knees,

And hot, blinking eyes, always seeing.

Cut off from the mother ship, despised,

Stunted, with fear now always,

Of being.

Dim memories now, more a blurry presence,

Guilt at this; she was a person?

Made of warm chest and centre;

A magnet that drew all our limbs together,

Defined all our disparate “I’s”.

No one speaks of her now.

She just flutters on within us, from our depths,

Is a wash of feeling, like color of ever-deepening hue.

We sense her and hold her just beneath our voices now,

In our womanly smiles; behind opaque, knowing eyes,

Are seasoned veterans of her lot;

Movers among men and children, we do,

And are more queens.

But moving tall and watchfully, a bit out of step.

There’s no one in front, just a freeze-dried centre of death,

That has made us clumsy inside, three little girls,

Shocked

With precocious knowledge of the end of the world.

November Music

A riot of birds chatting noisily

In the towering row of spruce,

Pulls me into April blue sky felicity,

In spite of the ice planet Hoth reality.

That cacophony of live,

Jumbled, blurry trilling,

Nudges a pure, quiet joy in me,

And in November, especially.

Sound and life in unison, overhead,

Plays my all season spirit.

And Winter isn’t really coming. Is it?

How could anything really freeze in the midst of

Music, Imovane no rx. Order Imovane online overnight delivery no prescription, And such a wild piece?

And so what if it does?

There will still be that glorious, burbling, Imovane no prescription, Buy Imovane online no prescription, incorrigibility,

In the solemn row of towering spruce.

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Volume 4 Issue 2

September 2011

Tris Pargeter archive