Odious Potions: Verse by Wally Lee Parker

Odious Potions

verse by

Wally Lee Parker

illustration by

Robert H. Brandt

(first published in 1984 – all rights reserved by author)

            I’ve been working on this poem off and on for thirty years.  It gets a little closer to where I want with each revision.  It contains neither perfect rhyme nor perfect meter.  Both those have fallen victim to the message.  And if there truly is an underlying message, it’s simply this; whether your addiction is to alcohol, drugs, obsessive love, or to absolute perfection, the wake of pain that ripples out from one type of addition is difficult to differentiate from the ripples left by any of the others.  All can be destructive not only to self, but to everyone else around.

            If you see any truth in this verse you might be tempted to ask how the hell I of all people should know about things like this.  Any person approaching the biblical three score and ten ought to have some clue as to the way the human heart works.  If not, they’ve actually been dead for some time, just a bit unaware of the fact.  As anyone of any experience can tell you, no matter how scarred, boiled, skewed, or otherwise damaged the heart may become, it still has needs.  And as someone who has held the hand of many a patient as they crossed over, I can tell you with all certainty that the far from perfect human heart is very definitely, figuratively as well as literally, the last thing to go.

Odious Potions

My lady’s a dream,

a witch in the wind,

A shadow that floats

in clouds of pretend,

An ember that glows

neath dark indigo

And rises as smoke

till reason is blind;

A hunger that dwells

the edge of my mind;

This most witching woman

of all womankind.

She conjures my dreams,

invades every thought;

A mystery in flesh

— this love I have sought.

Yet her love combined

with spices and wine

Does taste of a bitter,

deep gnawing ache;

A brooding and angry,

cold hungry ache;

So hopeless and endless

and ever this ache.

With beguiling intrigues

my mistress compels

Black powers to rise

in beckoning spells.

This enchanting witch

with a drop or a pinch,

With a dash, a splash,

a snippet or twist

Contrives a love potion

no man can resist.

These spices she blends

no man can resist.

And what of her power,

incanting a hex,

To sting a man’s heart,

to torment and vex,

To rend with her blend

of desire and sin

The soul that succumbs,

entwined and resigned,

To worship this woman

— her body and mind,

To worship this woman

so darkly enshrined.

So dark and so spectral

is her heritage

That surely not mortal

is her parentage.

For this brooding flower

of rapturing power

Blooms deep in the garden

of my hopeless love;

Blooms deep in my need

for her heartless love;

 Her selfishness thorns

tormenting my love.

In this garden of tears,

baneberry and sorrow,

In yesterday’s garden

— no hope for tomorrow,

She practiced her art,

the thieving of hearts,

And tasted this tattered

emasculate soul,

Shattered by witchery

— artful and droll;

Discarding the shell;

consuming the soul.

A caldron is bubbling

her tart witching brew,

It rises come-hither

as vaporous dew.

A balm for the lonesome,

my opium flower;

Fetching, possessing,

and potent with power;

Willowy, winsome,

and dripping with power;

My night blooming flame

of unearthly power.

Lips brushed in poppies’

bright opium hue,

She urgently whispers

her tempting taboos.

Lips peppered precise

with a splashing of spice.

Rouged to the blush

of an opium flame.

These rubies they taunt

with glittering flame,

And spittle forth lies

to provoke and inflame.

So coldly she plies

her tart witching spice,

Toxicants that enchant,

tantalize, and entice

That deep in brown eyes

of bright, brittle ice

Not a trace of concern

 for what this portends;

The schemes she envisions,

the lives that they rend.

These odious potions

she mixes and blends.

Against my bruised heart

she dash her hurt

— Vast tangles of lies

that so disconcert.

She’ll cry for her pain

and hide from her shame,

But never has time

to listen and hear,

But never has time

to let me come near,

But never has time

to show that she cares.

Though poisoned of heart

and weakened by pain

And chilled by the fall

of somber salt rain,

My garden still grows

the seeds that I sow;

The need for the sting

of her witching spice;

The dream of her love

regardless of price;

My love for brown eyes

of bright, brittle ice.

My lady’s a dream,

a witch in the wind,

A shadow that floats

in clouds of pretend,

And this brooding flower’s

unearthly power

Blooms deep in the dark

of my foolish heart;

Booms deep in the wants

of my starving heart;

Where unyielding needs

are eating my heart.


Links to Other Verse by Wally Lee Parker

Fossil Fires

Night Sounds

An Ode to Red Beer

Love on a Summer's Night