Mick Parsons Poetry | A popular American poet

Mick Parsons is a contemporary American poet and writer whose voice blends grit, lyricism, and deep observation. He is the author of several acclaimed collections, including A Treatise on Unseen Stars (2025), Growl & Mud (2024), 92 Tanka (2021, Basement Books), and the chapbook God’s Tired Plumbers (2020). In addition, he has produced other poetry collections, chapbooks, a short story collection, and even a novella, showcasing his versatility across literary forms. His work has appeared in a wide range of respected journals and magazines, such as SmokeLong Quarterly, Impspired, Moon City Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Thimble Literary Magazine, and Poetry Flash, among many others.

Mick Parsons 

Parsons’s poetry is marked by an earthy realism and a willingness to confront the overlooked corners of human experience. Whether writing in the compact precision of tanka, or in expansive free verse, he infuses his lines with honesty, raw emotion, and a keen sense of imagery. His voice often bridges the mundane and the transcendent, reminding readers that beauty and truth can be found in unexpected places—from the working-class world to the cosmos suggested by unseen stars. Beyond the page, Parsons has been a cultural presence in the Midwest, organizing open mics and literary readings that give voice to emerging and established writers alike. His commitment to community and artistic exchange underscores his belief in literature as a living, breathing practice.

what makes a fire troll 

some passengers reminisce over coal 
looking at the burner fires 
scared like it's a giant black steel oracle 
 
they want me to feed their nostalgia  
the way they want me to shovel coal 
back broken but smiling, make them feel 
 
better about the dead flora and lack of birds  
along the river  
 
they argue over the physics of steam 
something they remember from a 2nd grade textbook 
insisting there is no steam power without black rock 
 
lording their superiority over me 
with over-priced cocktails in their hand 
trying to dodge the heat  
like movie action heroes dodge bullets 

Lines for a Friend in Hospice

On my honor, always rude in the face of death.

Years of mourning taught
the necessary uselessness of tears.

O Great Blue Heron, tell what news today 
from the wild cosmic salmon?

Inform them
we are slowly becoming great leatherback turtles

but that we have not given up

on the possibility of wings. 

Ask the wharf possum if you can find him 

The moon doesn't look like it spins 
because we too are spinning 
the river currents leave trace evidence 
like footsteps: the wreckage left 
by the collision of motion against motion. 
Don't ask me what I think. Ask yourself. 
Or a squirrel. Or the wharf possum, 
if you can find him. None of this this  
will be here in a few currents. What 
will take its place will be just as lovely, 
just as confused and badly in need of a haircut 
and just as dizzy from the moon. 

a treatise on unseen stars 

all storm showers and dark and the threat of more 

 this the lonely hours 

he early hours 

 if I still drank I'd stop off for a beer and a shot and welcome them 

the lonely hours when the bar lights begin to dwindle as dying stars 

on a night when faith alone holds the stars undying  above 

far from the reckoning rain 

for the empty short dog in the river 

Smoking my pipe near the north end of the wharf 
my prayers waft skyward on tobacco smoke flatboats 
burned by the big boiler setting over the lock. 
 
Empty, we both float having learned 
this world melts for want of vivid dreams.