Spring Songs

i.

A raindrop’s life is short,
no time for sex or sport
and worse I must report:
the ground it must abort. 

Compare this to the gnat
long weeks an insect brat
on bitten blood grown fat,
ends in a messy splat.

And what to make of man
whose time the years may span:
a charted course he ran
that rarely went to plan.

Much longer lasts the sun,
which has more time for fun;
when our old world is done,
it’s hardly just begun. 
Continue reading

Telling Time

I know that time of year has now arrived,
and not because of calendar and dates
or other such inventions so contrived
to tell how quickly hours must meet their fates.
Perhaps I feel a rising of the blood
as daylight sends the evenings in retreat,
while northward stream migrations in a flood,
enticing mates with melodies so sweet. 
The disappearing snowdrifts whisper soft
of secrets to be kept beneath the sky;
pale beasts encountered with the sun aloft
in voices raised together do they cry.
If only you were vernally inclined,
on mossy beds we'd linger, intertwined.

©Copyright, Parker Owens, April 2018  
All of Parker's work can be found at GayAuthors.org

Spudhunter!

[In an England without potatoes, Tim is a spudhunter. He’s the best. Really – the very, very best.]

Get me a plate of triple-cooked chips! Perfect, salty, fat, golden chips. Money no object.

Tim licked his lips. That was more like it. He stared wide-eyed at the message projected onto the side of the living room in his quaint – not rundown – cottage. No more bargaining with tightfisted clients over a scoop of mash or the worth of one pocked, frost-bitten tuber. Life as a spudhunter was hard. Continue reading

Bearing Gifts

Even the smallest things can make a difference…

The kiss reminded him of chemistry lessons in school, when if the right two elements were put together, they’d explode. Alan leaned forward to peer at the TV screen, drinking in the men’s beauty, their ardour and sexiness, and the rightness of it all. Even his faded, ancient sweats momentarily swelled in the crotch. Then a lifetime’s worth of regrets, hidden secrets, and loneliness welled up; tears oozed out, one by one, until slow rivulets flowed down the lines in his face.

A groping hand found the hanky in his pocket. He mopped up and blew his nose fiercely.

He turned the TV off, tossing the remote onto the other half of the sofa. “Why start watching the film, you stupid sod? You know that sort of thing always sets you off.” He sniffed hard. “And it’s worse this time of year.” Continue reading

It’s been a while…

Hasn’t it just. 👀 So, have I spent the time writing? Yes, some of it at least, only not for here.

High time, I thought, for an update and to share some recent marvellous writing news.

First, the news.

Back in March of this year, I wrote a post, Making another milestone about my first ever publication in a literary magazine. Inversion is one of my rare experimental pieces (prompted by a Retreat West writing course). It’s close to my heart and represents one of my first attempts to write historical fiction, so I was super excited when Sundial Magazine accepted the piece. Continue reading

Quantum Fondness

Some distances are hard to comprehend
for mortal minds make nothing of their size
no matter how the measure’s made to bend,
they can’t conform to what the brain descries.
Across a mighty chasm photons flee
before the twinkling eye can hope to wink,
yet just how wide can synapse spaces be
which let a man consider, muse or think?
And though I understand some thousand miles
Must separate our present-bodied flesh,
Swift prescient thought makes real your laugh and smiles
Enough the weary spirit to refresh.
Connection will all journeys stand bestride;
mere continents cannot true friends divide. 



©Copyright, Parker Owens, 2020;  
All of Parker's work can be found at GayAuthors.org

Sweet Summer

I will come to you at morning,
your light playing on my frame;
your warmth undressing,
bright smile caressing,
and no color is the same
when I come to you at morning.

You will follow me at midday
to a soft, sweet gasped surprise;
my body burning,
full-hearted yearning
for what you ask with your eyes
when you follow me at midday.

I will kiss you in the evening,
reawaken what is still;
yet re-inviting
our blest uniting
so that I might have my fill
when I kiss you in the evening. 


©Copyright, September 2020, Parker Owens.  

All of Parker's work can be found  at GayAuthors.org

Barred

At the close of this Pride month, let’s take a moment to remind ourselves how necessary it continues to be.

A fiction monologue.

What day is it tomorrow? Thursday. No… Friday? … Wait, wasn’t it a Sunday when this all started? Can’t be bothered to work backwards. Too long ago. Makes my head hurt for no purpose. What’s the point in knowing anyway? Doesn’t make any difference. What you expecting, you stupid fucker? Fish on Friday? A Sunday roast?

[Sigh]

Can’t see my calendar marks in the dark. Don’t even know which wall they’re on in this all-enveloping blackness. Can’t even see the measly, barred excuse for a window. Not surpising really, given how high up it is. And it doesn’t exactly give a view of the sky. Just another sodding stone wall. Dingy grey murk is the new sunlight. Almost forgotten what yellow is. Colour in general. Black is the absence of colour – remember that from school.

[Sigh]

Hang on… thought there was to be no more sighing? Doesn’t help, does it? Continue reading

Anthem for Pride

Is there within the human frame
some enmity in-built
to ambiguity which came
with Adam decked in guilt?
Why beg for black and white
when all the garden seems aglow
with every color of the 'bow
that shines beneath the light?

So furious do moderns rail
at polysemous man;
rejected, quite beyond the pale,
for straying from the plan
so fervently compelled
by generations long grown cold,
their photographs now cracked and old,
yet thoughtlessly upheld.

For what in earth or heav'n above
surpasses in its scope
abundant, many-colored love
which shines with radiant hope
on all who breathe the air
and sing whatever song their soul
was giv'n at birth to make them whole,
the darkness to repair. 

Copyright, June 2021, Parker Owens. All of Parker's work can be found at GayAuthors.org.