The Parsleyness of Being

Primeval laws render the parsley always green.

I do, however, hear a sneaker falling off the foot
of the Joyous Mystical She-Drummer above. It will stay lodged
amongst the rocks for centuries on end
until it’s swept by waves
into moss-ridden caves, and sees its life
forever (barely) spared.

I hear the shrivelling of wasps, dying of thirst
on stalks of wild bamboo, while flirting back
towards the tensed embrace of nooses
made with blades of grass.

But still, why should I tie my fate at the knees
with golden gypsum?

I refuse to allow my faith be buried deep
in bedsheets of winter, much like assemblies of cedars
are fated to wrap in sugar all the mountain’s sides.
I refuse, I refuse, and don’t you forget it.

At last my time has come –
the phosphorus in fish,
the kite climbing towards the sun on a spaghetti thread,
the only voice that spoke in the steppes
of Raspberry Peak.

You won’t comprehend me,
not even by rattling the hourglass,
not even by multiplying two by three,
not even by serving tennis-ball soup
(topped off with the sneer of an atheist),
not even by the hypnotic sinusoid of a beating heart.

Never, forever no!

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This poem is part of my book The Competitive Edge – A Collection of Poems

Read also: The Competitive Edge (title poem) | The Consumer | The Parsleyness of Being | To the City of Hopes and Steel | The Corridor | The Immigrant | Nine-to-fiving | Morning Skies | Into the Big Blue-Gray

My intro

image credits: @csbegu / Canva