Four Poems by Becky Parker

 

The Willow’s River

On a blistery morning, the graceful willow waves, unnoticed

by the pontoon boats that skim the river’s surface, dodging limbs.

A sound of laughter carries on the breeze.

An old fisherman

staggers as he clutches a taut line,

ready for his bragging rights to a tall tale about

the “Big One.”  

 

On a blustery afternoon, the cold willow shivers, unnoticed

by a speed boat fast approaching,

creating giant waves, its bikini clad passenger,

dances, her long hair whipping, as rock music blares.

 

On a balmy moonless night, the helpless willow weeps, unnoticed

while an unfathomable murderous secret

is tossed beneath the darkest fathoms,

with an anchor attached to roped flesh and sinew,

crashing like unwanted trash to line the stone river bed.

.

On the river, the seasons seem amplified.

Troubles end or begin

with adventures, renewals, mysteries, tragedies,

an enchanted bloom of love or a thorn of hate,

a sacred space conjoined of man, river and aquatics,

all watched by an unnoticed ancient willow.

Goldilocks, Resembled

It’s 2 am and as usual, my circadian rhythm has disrupted.

I am awake with achy joints, resembling an elderly Goldilocks,

stumbling through each room of my house, trying to get comfortable,

processing Math manipulations in my overactive hypothalamus

of lambs wearing dresses, who usually wind up getting devoured by an absurdly big bad wolf,

which messes up my count,

in my early morning fog.

I guess I am at such an age.

 

Outside, a car slowly glides by, lights on dim,

its driver rolls down the window, and flicks out a cigarette butt onto the pavement,

sees me staring through the blinds, and gives a two fingered wave.

I quickly lower the blinds, plop in the recliner, and turn on the TV.

In the distance, a siren sounds.

With the relief that I’m not the only one awake,

I close my eyes and sleep.

Misery loves company, after all.

 

 

It’s cold here

In the mountains,

a thousand miles

from the sea.

I miss the fire

that burned in your

words, so combustible

their embers scorched

my very essence;

forged from the ancient wisdom

of the Holy Text;

the drumming of your heart

beat against my chest.

Oh, to have but an inch of your FREEDOM,

flowing through my veins.

I’d play in the surge of the ocean’s swells,

dance upon Jupiter’s moons,

and etch my name amongst the stars.

Burn in me Fire,

burn, baby burn.

 

 

It’s time to catch the metro

I clear off my desk as fast as I can in my skyscraper building

wave goodbye to security as I rush out to trod the rain sodden streets.

Lugging my laptop bag, backpack laden with Tupperware and my latest umbrella,

hastily found under my desk for emergencies.

The brisk wind catches my umbrella, turning it spine side upwards.

Rain pellets my face like tears on a pillow, as I scramble for my jacket’s hood.

My suede boots snag a puddle on the uneven pavement, causing me to stumble

and my burdens to shift. I collided with

Superman, in his disguise as Clark Kent as he was rushing to save the world.

We bump shoulders, mutter polite apologizes.

He goes east and I go west, him on an upward flight to a fire on 5^th street

and me to sit in a crowded bus  for a 45 minute ride to an  early night,

drinking Kool-Aid and eating pretzels,

in my little flat, complete with a cat.

Becky Parker is a writer in TN. Her works can be found in Spirit Fire Review, Agape Review, Appalachia Bare, the Potato Soup Journal, the Rye Whiskey Review, Yellow Mama and SweetyCat Press, and upcoming in North Dakota Quarterly and Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal.