The HyperTexts

Nina Parmenter

Around three years ago, Nina Parmenter decided that she was letting life get in the way of poetry, and that something should be done about it. She started a blog at itallrhymes.com, learned some poetic forms and got reading. In the past twelve months, her poems have been published at Lighten Up Online, Snakeskin, The New Verse News, Light and Ink, Sweat & Tears. She has also written a childrenís book, which has so far been read by at least five children and her Mum. She lives in Wiltshire, UK with her husband and two boys, and works in marketing.



Pixie and the Sea

There is not much
between Pixie and the seaó
only the cold wind
and me.

There is no grist
in her glances now,
no air left for telling.

Her world is the cling of the sand
and the tide
swelling.



The Exhalations of Stones

We are the exhalations of stones, they said.
We know it because we know.
Tell your children of the cool breath
that fashioned their bones.

We are the sense of senseless things, they said.
We feel it because we feel.
Let the faithful shape the new law
from their imaginings.

You who blow doubt across creation, they said,
should quiet your tawdry lies.
Ours is the rock the air the spirit the peace the world.
Yours the damnation.



Brassy

In the brassy air of October,
I stand with my lines distinct.
My colours are sharp; moreover
my mind and the Earth are linked.

I stand with my lines distinct
now that summerís brief blur has passed.
My mind and the Earth are linked,
the seeds of beginnings are cast.

Now that summerís brief blur has passed,
my colours are sharp; moreover
the seeds of beginnings are cast
in the brassy air of October.



The Quantum Fox

Have you seen the quantum fox?
A fox in flux! A paradox!
His whereabouts are rare because
heís in his den AND in this box!

This hokum locus tends to vex
the best of usóthe mind rejects
the concept of his flightiness
as fiction or a foxy hex.

But fictionís just refocused factsó
a lens that bends, a parallax.
The fact remains that Foxy lacks
a fix, til someone interacts.

See, should you pry inside the box,
youíll find a fox, or not a fox,
at which point, quantum nonsense stops
and everything is orthodox.

Originally published by Snakeskin



An Atom Is Small

An atom is small with a minuscule core,
and electrons in orbit, electrons galore!
But how it builds mountains, I'm not really sure...
See, only a fraction is matter,
and the rest, I would guess, doesn't matter.

Me, I am vast with a dream at my core,
and ideas in orbit, ideas galore!
I think I am real but I'm not really sure...
See, only a fraction is matter,
and the rest, I would guess, is what matters.



Mariner Girl

Take me away, said the mariner girl,
From the islands of ought-to which circle the sea.
Let me be lady and lord of my world,
and let all obligation sink gladly from me.

The valleys are flowing with nonsense and noise,
as the hills raise their heads to command and cajole.
The air is a millstone which crushes my joys;
I must sail from the land, or Iíll forfeit my soul.

Send me a star, said the mariner girl,
to blaze through my darkness and show me a path
through the waves, to a place where my mind can unfurló
just me, and the sea, and my brave little craft.

The currents are flowing with maybe and might,
and the swells are a surge of why-not and just-be.
The salty-skinned air gives a kiss of delight
as I sail from the land and join hands with the sea.

Goodbye to you, restless mariner girl,
as Iíve neither a boat, nor the courage to sail.
As the land keeps me bound, so the sea claims its pearl,
but your spirit shines on in this dream-spinnerís tale.



The Lighthouse and Me

I was crushed,
but then I felt the rockís soft calling
and I came, squealing and bawling,
to this lighthouse by the sea.
It nursed me
and my backdrop faded painlessly,
so now, all that remains of me
is me.

Days are long,
and the nights are loath to hurry.
Heedless, I just sing and scurry
in the most obtuse of hats.
I am peerless, I am blissfully
festooned with flecks of marmalade;
my unchecked foibles ricochet
from wall to silent wall,

and the lighthouse looks away.
I just tweak it, tend it, mend it,
and the lighthouse doesnít bother
me at all.

Waves may gnash,
they may rattle at my landing,
but we have an understanding,
this impassive tower and I.
Caped or naked, drunk or painted,
floored by thoughts or seized by fancies,
or just wooing stars with shanties,
I can twitch or growl or cry,

and the lighthouse doesnít judge.
I just tweak it, tend it, mend it,
and the lighthouse doesnít hear my
thoughts at all.

Though at dusk,
fighting capture by my cobwebbed mind,
Iím sure I hear the lighthouse speak
sometimes.
Once, I swear I heard it say
that NOBODY can hear my thoughts!
Itís wrong of course,
so this is where
Iíll stay.

The HyperTexts