Parker Owens
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Everything posted by Parker Owens
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@northie: Thank you for re-reading this. Gary’s tension drives this forward, but it’s natural that he sees most of it in David’s group. But Zander and Andy are watching and perceptive.
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Rain after drought; sun after storm; direction after drift - both of these poems were contrast paintings in their ways. And both speak of hope after hurt. Thank you for your kind and insightful thoughts.
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Thank you for your comment on these. I feared obscuring any meaning with too much verbosity. Your thoughts reassure me I was on the right path. To hold fast until the dawn, to kick against time’s current to find the right soul... I hope those things came through.
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This certainly fits as a chant; the accused cannot find his way out of the inexorable, inexplicable verdict. Very dramatic and tragic, too.
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Oh, the black-edged, crepe hanging era still lingers, if only in different ways. If you were misdirected by Unborn, then I can smile. I’m glad you saw through it to the end. Thank you for your reading and comment.
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Four Varied Skyscrapers
Parker Owens commented on Parker Owens's story chapter in Four Varied Skyscrapers
This can be a very expressive form, worth exploring and experimenting with. Thanks so much for reading these. Each had a different genesis; number one in rhythm, two in frustration, three in metaphor, four in sorrow. -
Thank you, Gary. I've experienced a long drought, but maybe poetry is beginning to speak to me again. I'm glad you found Current to be as compelling as the tide that sweeps us along. I often seem to swim for those eddies and pools that let me linger in one place for just a bit longer - especially when the view is nice. Thanks again for reading.
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You are kind to read and remark on these. They came at the end of a longish drought. Thank you!
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After Rain How different was the lightning riven night from fair blue skies which stretch from east to west, for pain and heartache mocked my youthful breast with bolts that struck the promise of delight to leave it charred and withered in my sight, a barren place devoid of hope or rest and me, exposed, no bower in which to nest beneath the clouds that lowered from the height. The years would pass before I saw a glow, your dawn on the horizon growing
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Thank you very, very much. I really appreciate your comment. This was one of my favorites.
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Am traveling over an hour to hear a carillon concert. Rain threatens, but I hope it holds off. Here is what it might sound like...only outdoors.
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You are very kind to read and comment on these somewhat melancholy reflections at Concord. It seemed that the whole point of remembering had been forgotten - or perhaps the memories were taken quite for granted. Emerson would wonder at us, surely.
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These words speak so eloquently, and with such sadness. The impossibility of some questions, their inability to yield to computation or logic or reason, these can injure the spirit. I offer you my hand for your weariness, and for your spirit.
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Thoreau lived in a way utterly alien to most of the people I encountered that wedding weekend. We would be like visitors from a different galaxy to him, perhaps - yet all the more terrifying as we claim language and heritage in common. I danced at the wedding - what would Thoreau have thought about Sinatra?
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I couldn’t help wondering about how we would seem in the eyes of the people we remember from that place. I particularly thought about Thoreau, and what he would have to say about us now. Thanks very much for reading this.
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You have it exactly. My head - and perhaps my heart, too - was definitely with the ghosts of those who made Concord’s name, and not its current occupants. Thank you for visiting with me; and the wedding which followed was quite lovely.
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I traveled to Boston for a large family wedding. The morning before the ceremony, I had time to kill, and decided to escape the urban summer heat and go to Concord, home of Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau. There, too, are historic sites, where British redcoats faced a ragged militia in a running skirmish which ignited the American Revolution. I found directions to Orchard House, home of Louisa May Alcott, a writer of considerable following. My great aunt, who
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Scattered and Afterlife
Parker Owens commented on Valkyrie's story chapter in Scattered and Afterlife
I love both of these. You evoke images and backstories that let my imagination explore. -
And you know I - and all of us - will be thinking of you.
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Mark and Bobby are being increasingly open about themselves. Good for them. It’s high time Amy had a moment of insight; nastiness has a way of following one around for life. And now, the Talk. Oh, boy.
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Scott’s clearly dangerous. Bobby and Mark might try to take matters into their own hands, but how many others will get hurt in the meantime? However, it was nice to see Amy taken down a peg or two. Or three. I feel kind of bad for Josh, though.
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Bobby, too! Scott really doesn’t get that making a couple of other people miserable isn’t a recipe for a happy summer or happy life. His social skills, um, suck. But that makes me wonder why he’s staying with his uncle for the summer...
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Mark has a trusted adult he can talk to. He’s lucky. Not every outed kid does. I can’t feel any sympathy for Amy, as she will soon descend into poverty. You turned the screws a bit tighter...
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Well, Scott is certainly a nasty piece of work, and Mark’s sister isn’t much better. I suppose she doesn’t realize that telling mom kills the goose that lays all those dollar colored eggs... and Mark may be awfully close to letting his secret slip. Great chapter.
