Archive for the ‘Parsed out cold’ Category

Ploy Awoy

Ploy Awoy – by Fat Guy (with beard – aiming low)

Who would ever
be this glib
to cut the rope
to rock the crib

and send the clowns
out for lark
and all for one
and one for dark

let this our anthem
sung in joy
tell them all
it was a ploy

Stones In A Twist

Our lives and loves are songs and we, the poets who write and sing them. Shadow Song


I create a palette of words from which my tongue and pen paint  images upon the canvasses  of imagination. 



Metaphor – abstract symbol manipulation. The highest form of culture. We abstract the essence of elements of our world (and our imagination) and manipulate them such that they create images in the minds of others in synchrony with our attitudes and intent.


Ideas like viri need an host to live. They can remain dormant for many years and spring to life within an appropriate host. We make some intricate marks on a piece of paper (or stone, clay or canvas) and leave it where others may one day find it. They pick it up and decipher it; interpret its meaning and the idea emerges;  rampant and infectious.


Beware then, the bitch that bore him WILL be in heat again!

Birthing Mirror

an inchoate blackness bled into the waning gray,
cloistering in its chiaroscuro brooding.
a restless sweep, its deliberate cloak, insinuating
that pallid geist onto the remains of our precious day.
Ardorous night; beguile, delight, I steal your restless soul,
with sudden attention, away with these accidental disguises.
she, a woman – I, not;
looking together at separate pieces
up along the streaming vision of our reflecting eyes
into that half-dark mirror, slicing twain;
that one infinite, inaccessible
this one less so…



Smiles came

and made me to cry

        and laugh

and then to sigh

with depth… and  insight

         into that kiss

that made me die…

in those two eyes

       caressing the night



Smiles that make me cry

laughs that force a sigh

tears that make me laugh

a kiss from which to die

eyes that love the night

and hands that carry light

arms that know no fear

ears to bring her near

a mind that sees the storm

to hearts that wont transform

and will that makes it real

for  sovereign souls to feel






Billy & Me!

When Shakespeare puts these words on Macbeth:

 I have lived long enough. My way of life
Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny and dare not.

He was studying  in the same venue as was I when I wrote:

You know how it is, chum now

                      numbing, senseless

Just plodding along, hoping

      stunned, empty

It tears at your insides

Makes you sick with fear

And not knowing what to fear

         haunts and hurts


But you, you’re younger

And those few years make the edge

You don’t feel it so much

         I still bruise and bleed

I’m going the hard way

With skin instead of shell

             no place to hide


An interesting philosophical position to work out poetically:

Age on the one hand weakens; on the other imbues deeper cognitive

awareness of the multifoliate emotional positions attained in the process.


“Now I may be, here standing at life’s doors,

As happy in my grief as you in yours”

© 2018 What's That On the Road – A Head
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