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Index of poems:
- And the Livin' is Easy
- Eggshell Man
- Mountain Song
- Photographic Memory
- Remorse Relieved
- Sleeping on the Surface
- The Watercolorist
New Year’s Day down by the river. A picnic, and watching water move in soft ripples Summer clothes pulled from plastic boxes, and worn on this sunny sixty eight degree day. Bare feet run on a sandy playground. Children riding their Christmas bikes in short sleeve t-shirts. Chrome on a new metal mechanism bounces blinding streaks of sun. A day for breathing blends of yellow grass and river water. Healing from sharp stabs of winter. Pretending it’s spring. We sit on the park bench after lunch and stare out into the broad expanse of glassy reflections. We feel romance, comfort and trust. The warm weather won‘t last long. So, we’ll look forward to the next time spring comes to visit a winter day, until the real spring blossoms in full.
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Eggshell Man
© Janet Brice Parker, December 17, 2004
something happened when you turned twenty-eight. after those peace corp years. after you fell in love the high school and college child your brother and i knew was slightly brooding slightly sensitive but you joked with us about your plants track lighting and your slender silhouette You threw your plant out of the window and we all laughed you and your brother and i we were all we had and we were tight you chided me you were always ready with a hug when you saw my tears you told me i was a cool mom you always called during those long worrisome high school nights you called to let me know you were alright something happened when i asked about your one true love it was not my business but it was my business to create the wedding of your dreams you spoke the language of your new world with your lovely foreign bride your son will speak a language i do not know now you are an eggshell man i walk on white sticky fragile cells i crack them over and over again when i try to be funny or when i ask about your days i call with sweat popping from my forehead before you answer the long silent lapses on the phone are deafening lonely sounds of eggshells being crushed by meBack to top
Mountain Song
© Janet Brice Parker, January 10, 2005
I dream about days on the roof. Surrounded by wooded scents. Moss and mushrooms. Tree bark and pine straw. Our house sunk deep into a mountain, with easy access to the roof. A place where I could spend hours. A house that was in complete contrast with it’s surroundings. Cold modern furniture. It made me shiver to look at a sofa with a rounded edge and one arm on the other end. Slick plastic and legs that were skinny upside down triangles. So, I stayed outside, Winter and summer in my favorite soft faded jeans. I thought about the enormous rocks on the side of the mountain and how they made me feel protected and unseen by the world. The vantage point from the peak of the roof spread out a town before me. Tiny roads, buildings, cars. A town I could look at and yet wasn’t a part of. I was strange, artsy, withdrawn. I didn’t like boys. So I sat on the roof, or climbed to the top of the mountain. I spent time on certain massive rocks and thought about life. Thought about being an only child and how I hated that. I reached the top where the water tower sat. I looked down from the top of the tower and remembered summer camp. I remembered the girls there who liked me. I fantasized about the iron beds and iron water. And songs that bounced off of the river.Back to top
Photographic Memory
© Janet Brice Parker, December 19, 2004
Years ago, I took a photograph. Not with a camera, because I didn’t have one. I’m glad now, that I was unable to capture the scene on film. my observation abilities grew that day. the panoramic view presented itself before me and I knew it was significant. I was young, but I knew. The room was cozy with a warm pool of lamp light enhancing a circle of faces. My great-grandmother lay, old and sick in her iron bed. My eyes wandered, and began recording that day forever. I took a picture of my aunt’s profile. Sharp features and long hair piled in a bun. She was backlit by a lamp. I rested my eyes on each relative in the room and took my pictures. The absorption in my brain was intense and forever documented. I go back occasionally and visit that room with it’s many stages of life gathered there. It wasn’t a pleasant day for me, but it was important. I look at the picture I took and no detail is missing. Colors and quilt patterns, knick knacks and do dads, light and shadow, linoleum floor flowers. They all belong in the scrapbook of my mind.
Remorse Relieved
© Janet Brice Parker, 2005
She sits on the tree swing waiting for rain. Her toes rearrange stale leaves and push dry grass into exhausted soil. Thirst grows as green withers in a pool of speckled sun. While suspended in rhythm, a massive canopy rustles with a light pattering that cannot touch her. Thick limbs and foliage delay a saving relief A rush of sky water falls, pouring from leaf to limb, down the swing's rope and into her waiting fevered heart. Her toes squeak wet grass and push deep into cool mud. She looks up, and drinks in torrents. Heaven's bath fills her eyes and replaces hot tears with worth and favor.
Sleeping on the Surface
© Janet Brice Parker
The folding together of her body among pillows, sheets, blankets. Like petals that close at night. Dark sky looks down and sets the stage for dormancy, unconsciousness sinking into absence of surrounding cosmos, earth, humanity, physical objects. She sleeps on the surface and avoids an invasion of deep sepia dreams. Too tired to allow distant comfort, too afraid to face intrusion. So she folds herself into a protective form void of motion. Aware of a dreamless sleep, on the surface, safe from a malevolent quagmire beneath.
The Watercolorist
© Janet Brice Parker
His pipe was a fragrant addition to his personality. Quiet demeanor, pleasant smile. A beacon in the crazy sixties when sepia clouded one’s thoughts and monopolized paintings. The top of the watercolor tube wouldn’t budge. “Always carry matches in your kit” he told us. Fire loosens the top and opens a radiant pigment “Don’t overwork it. Know when to stop.” "Add people, they make a painting interesting.” He liked people. “Go from light to dark.” Cadmium yellow swept across the paper. Clean, crisp. He gave us his “throwaway” art. A nicely framed collection to study and bring inspiration on days when I didn’t want to work. Outside classes. Lessons in more than art. A painting created with wildflowers, leaves and a burned twig. “No excuses for no materials.” He was a realist in his work and his thinking. A rare bread among tempermental professors who tore student’s work to shreads, stomped on it and shouted obsenities. Abstract expressionsts who “graded” our work, when shape, balance, depth and energy were so personal. Thirty-two years have passed since I sat in his classes, and yet his work is forever in my mind, and his influence is in my hands. In memory of Richard Brough 1920~1996
