My God, I lost control, I had a fit.
This flesh is weak, those urges deep inside,
It was the Devil made me do it.

Those months before in bedrooms barely lit.
Those wild nights, each night a wild ride,
My God. I lost control, I had a fit.

Oh kiss me, lover. Kiss, caress this tit,
My breast, exposed—aching to be a bride,
It was. The Devil made me do it.

Oh yes, that’s it. Oh, God, how wet this slit.
Oh find me, lover, let me help you guide.
My God! I lost control, I had a fit.

And now our baby’s here—you must commit.
God, no! Don’t leave me now—you must abide!
It was the Devil, made me do it.

I spilled your baby’s blood, his throat I slit,
On him I fed—in my infanticide.
My God, I lost control. I had a fit.
It was the Devil made me do it.

Parker Allen Stacy, IV
7/31/09

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

Parker Allen Stacy, IV
7/25/2009

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

And, with a pounce—in the blink of an eye—
Up she’d be, strolling past my dad, asleep
With the New York Times spread out on the sofa.
Padding to her favorite corner, our cat
Would settle in, outstretch one paw, and scratch
One last time before licking her whiskers

Rhythmically, yawning, then, folding her whiskers
Along her face, tuck her chin, squint her eyes,
Then allow them to close. Through all this scratching
And pouncing and settling in, my sleeping
Father would hardly stir. He and our cat
Sharing the sun-warmed, sectional sofa.

And though it was mid-day, past the sofa
I would try to tiptoe. Some weekends his whiskers
He’d let grow in a bit, unlike our cat,
Of course, who had no choice. Below his eyes
Puffy bags often rose from lack of sleep
During his long workweek when he would scratch

Through his to-do list tasks beside a scratched,
Plastic airplane window. Did our sofa
Call to him then, those Friday nights? Was sleep—
Deep, restful sleep—his thought, stroking his whiskers
Absentmindedly then tugging at his eyes
Likewise? (Kitty—that’s what we named our cat,

Not a very clever name for a cat,
I know—had no such lists to scratch.)
Was he able to see, in his mind’s eye,
When choosing that plush and clever sofa,
How its color would mask loose fur and whiskers
And how peaceful in it he’d look, fast asleep?

Today, there’s no cat claiming my sofa
Where, oft, the scratch of my graying whiskers
Recalls my own youth…blue eyes…drifting…sleep.

Parker Allen Stacy, IV
7/21/2009

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

*~*~*~*~*

Notes:

• Merriam-Webster’s dictionary defines a sestina as: “a lyrical fixed form consisting of six 6-line usually unrhymed stanzas in which the end words of the first stanza recur as end words of the following five stanzas in a successively rotating order and as the middle and end words of the three verses of the concluding tercet”

• A more full description and discussion of the sestina form is available on poets.org.

• This is my first attempt at a poem written in this complex form. (Please be gentle.)

The dust and silken sand are caught in wind
Which seems to know no mind and yet it knows,
Knows all mankind, knows why we choose the rose
To give to her when courtship doth begin.
It knows of all our gardens, all our plains
Whose produce and whose flesh sustain our life.
And tasted salty tears from every wife
And mother spinning dust and silk in vain.
It whispers through the corners of each room
And gently pushes open unlocked doors
And finds a gentle soul attending chores
And leaves a gentle swirl of dust to broom.
The wind hath been the source of savory rhymes
But sweeter still: the tinkling of its chimes.

Parker Allen Stacy, IV
7/18/2009

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Just picture this day
Back in Forty-Two—

When a man who was trained
To soar in the sky
On his first Father’s Day
Felt evermore high!

Pumped up with pride,
Floating on joy,
Awakened by coos
From his four-month-old boy.

Kissing your hands,
Your neck, and your feet;
A happier pair
No one could meet.

The love and the smiles
From his son and his wife
He thinks to himself:
Yes, this is the life!

Parker Allen Stacy, IV
6/21/2009

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

This pain, this weighty ache, they say:
This, too, will pass away
Pass away
Away

And the cheers: such praise has made my day!
But this, too, will pass away
Pass away
Away

And you, my love, though I beseech thee stay
You, too, will pass away
Pass away
Away

And I will follow, follow all the rules, what all the rules say
And I, too, will pass away
Pass away
Pass away
Away

Parker Allen Stacy, IV
6/14/2009

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

(Note: The mini-poems below were sent via text message with a restriction of 160 characters or less. There were no line-breaks in the originals, but they have been added to some here, to add shape.)

Six stones sat silently, still
Listening as a leaf lightly rustled,
Slid, stopped, rested, then skidded away.
One stone sighed, the rest nodded.
A cat stretched.

— PASIV 4/17/2009

A rusted mailbox with its flag lowered slouches at the end of a long, rough driveway, waiting for a letter that, each day, does not arrive.

— PASIV 4/18/2009

As my father steps onto the deck to turn burgers in the winter night, a gentle, fluffy snowflake floats down swaying & lands on the exposed bars of the grill.

— PASIV 4/20/2009

They meet & sit & sip hot drinks;
Each one wonders what th’ other thinks;
Hopes 2 seem unique & bright;
Tries as well 2 keep it light;
Praying 4 a kiss good night.

— PASIV 4/20/2009

In silence, in total darkness, she sits on the ground, legs crossed, arms relaxed, and breathes.
After several minutes, she’s fully relaxed, he is there too.

— PASIV 4/21/2009

Howmanyquirkyyears HaveyieldedAprilsnow? HowmanyhaveIleft Untilmyfinalshow? Howmanyquietdays Untilyoumakeyourchoice? Howmanysilentnights UntilIhearyourvoice?

— PASIV 4/22/2009

Christmas morning I tiptoed past your room & downstairs & made coffee & toast for us as quietly as I could. After an hour I went to wake you, but you were gone.

— PASIV 4/22/2007

When skies are lit
And thunder hear,
There’s none that I
Would rather near;
Than you my sweet, my love, my dear;
Oh darling, how I wish you were here.

— PASIV 4/23/2009

While walking o’er a shaded bridge
I enjoy the soothing, steady bubbling of the brook below, which gently fades to naught while I continue my traverse.

— PASIV 4/26/2009

… down a dark, uncertain, lonely path.

— PASIV 4/26/2009

2 the beach! Yes, yes 2 the beach!
We’ll pack 2 swimsuits each.
Oh, golden days spent riding waves;
& balmy nights with candle lights
& dancing in the streets.

— PASIV 4/27/2009

What a joy: an ice cream soda with two straws;
Sharing a laugh in a darkened theater;
A high-five after the 8-ball drops;
A long, warm embrace with both arms.

— PASIV 4/28/2009

I am a paper kite this morning floating;
Lifted effortlessly by the spring breeze;
Held in clear skies;
Barely tethered to the earth w/invisible line;
Peaceful.

— PASIV 4/29/2009

I saw 3 ships w/ 3 sails each;
Sailing 4 a distant beach;
One that they will never reach;
Fore wicked storms yet will teach;
THEY’re gatekeepers of the beach.

— PASIV 5/1/2009

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

And in my slumber, lo these months,
The world around me changed.
So I decide to go explore:
See how it’s rearranged.

I came upon a luscious green,
Set just before downtown,
Where verdant trees cast thoughtful shade
On grasses newly mown.

And see a couple, years ago,
Beneath this very sun,
Whose quest—their café’s perfect home—
Say: Dear, we’ve found the one.

The patio is warm and broad
Where spring’s sweet breezes flow:
A nifty observation deck
Where amblers are the show.

Some tables linger, chatting on,
The remnants of the lunch:
A birthday trio, folks with babes—
Subdued suburban bunch.

And just inside a placard lists
Their Mediterranean fare,
In front of which the owner stands
And greets his guest with care.

I ask him if his café’s name
Was taken from The Faith
And though it rings a bell, there’s no
Connection so he saith.

So I proceed to ask what’s good,
First-timer as I am,
And ponder quick his savory list—
And then request the lamb.

I settle in a corner chair
And take a great, deep breath.
The springtime air is warm and sweet
With hints of baby’s breath.

An unassuming wrap arrives
On dishes white and plain,
But bread so soft and seasoned lamb
“Delicious” can’t explain.

Been ages since I’ve had this dish,
And never quite so good.
I ponder if perhaps their trick
Might be a seasoned wood.

The owner has a special treat—
Perhaps because I’m new—
He proudly offers, on the house,
Their Turkish coffee brew.

“The mother of all coffees,” says
He with a great delight.
And though ’tis but a thimbleful
He’s absolutely right!

Who knew that just a simple shot
Could pack that kind of kick.
Its flavor rich and balance sweet
And very, very thick.

I kick on back and contemplate,
This sated butterfly:
Emerged from my cocoon, ’tis not
The world that’s changed, but I.

Between the heat and stimulant
Tonight will see no rest.
Perhaps, since now I’ll be up late,
I’ll find that noisy nest.

Parker Allen Stacy, IV
4/30/2009

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

I have been told, by so many,
That we each have a single mate:
A soul mate—a single person
We are destined to be with
In this life and the next.
And I have been told, by so many,
That I will meet my special someone
When I least expect it—
When I turn around one day
She will be there.

And I sat and squirmed and struggled
To read and focus on my book.
Instead, I heard the knock of
The air conditioner and felt its chill;
And heard you rustle a bit, settling in;
And I felt the impersonal hardness of my chair;
And I noticed others come and go in the lot;
And I heard all those words of all those many
And wondered if I should stand and turn and ask:
Are you she?

Parker Allen Stacy, IV
4/23/2009

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

William Carlos Williams, 1934

*~*~*~*~*

This Is Just to Say

I have taken
one kidney
that was in
your side

and which
you weren’t really
using
too much

Forgive me
go to the ER
from that tub
of ice

This Is Just to Say

I have drunk
all the milk
that was in
the carton

and which
you were probably
saving
for cookies

Forgive me
it was refreshing
so creamy
and so cold

This Is Just to Say

I have sent
your son
whom you love
to war

and know
you were probably
hoping
for grandchildren

Forgive me
he was courageous
so strong
and so young

—The President

This Is Just to Say

I made soap
from your mother’s fat
that was in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for collagen injections

Forgive me
it was lustrous
so rich
and so creamy

—Tyler

*~*~*~*~*

Copyright 2009 Parker Allen Stacy, IV. All Rights Reserved.