Saturday, 29 July 2017

The Far Canal













-The Far Canal-

Between the buttercups and thistle,
The zephyr whispers of colder days to come.
Bright daisies and clover,
wild roses climbing over the hawthorn bushes
like an old lover,
entwined and comfortable.
meandering waters slip bye man made banks of certainty,
between Cyprus and Popular arboreal sentinels.
the gentle ebb and flow,
of craft along these placid shores,
like ripples in a channel of time,
wafting languidly over long strands of green nymphs hair,
moving lugubriously beneath the shimmering mirror.
The bow, waves.
Warmth of summer days,
triumphantly breaking through these clouds,
nestling amongst the nettles,
while lark song rhapsodically stirs the air,
the bees humming harmonically along,
enjoin in natures sweet song.
I feed upon this nectar,
bolstering myself in loving unity,
a buffer of remembrance to warm this hearth,
and spike a toddy for colder days to come.
Channels of warm solitude,
half remembered in these wanton days of doubt.
Tossed and turned,
my heart sits at the waters edge once more,
and dangles it's toes into the cool water,
that flows between them,
gently washing away all my present woes.
These days recalled
like some handsome lover,
crushed between the tousled cover.

God, and all at once,
along this far canal. 


© Richard Michael Parker 2001

Sunday, 25 June 2017

Ashes and Dead Coals














Ashes and Dead Coals

Hope is a string of pearls, hurled onto the floor,
torn between the desperation and the craw.
Measured days of heartache,
spoonfuls of opium scented flowers,
strewn in careless abandon on bloody tiles,
fake smiles, tossed to lions;
Strangeness, stumbling between the shards,
nothing left inside the hearth,
but ashes and dead coals.


How do we string those pearls together again?
When all the threads are broken,
how does the heart find the courage to endure?

In the garden of love there are two pools,
one of joy, the other of sorrow,
one past, one, tomorrow.
Libations in the lamentations of betrayal,
The arrows dipped, slipped into the wound.
To bathe in cool streams of past regret,
dreams, turned in upon themselves.
From root to seed, that ancient tree still bleeds.

Finding the time to breathe again,
The wailing edge of sorrow,
a bough without a song.
Deep ray, the dawn comes,
and with her, bright lark,
resplendently reborn from out the dark,
settles upon your heart, with joy, once more.

Strings of pearls threaded through ancient eyes,
matriculating in the school where love never dies.

© Richard Michael Parker 2017

Grief


















-Grief-

It is called mourning. Grief that comes from out the loss, intimate loss, and though we seek to deflect it, deny, or in anger, fail to accept it, still, in the end, it is loss, it is love. A love that demands the truth of our sincerity, a sincerity in the grace of that loss.

Those deep bonds of love, the intimate vulnerability of the heart, where trust is an absolute, leave us open to the truth of the deepest sorrow, just as they have allowed for the greatest joy. They gnaw upon the marrow, as easily as the ecstasy they employ.

When we lose those we have loved, the depths they have dug into the fathomless oceans of our heart, swallows us, until we too, crushed in the darkness of that infinite blue... become those depths.

But this is not a sign of failure or weakness, abnormality or affliction, rather, it lends it's colours to the truth of the love we have shared, the trust and the care, the infinite womb in the oceans of our mutual tenderness.

How can one who has ever lost and loved ever come to a place of forgiveness, acceptance, or the dawn of renewed hope once more, except through the door that leads through the dark night of the soul? One who has lost, in love, and grieved not, loved not.

Grief is a room where all fear to follow, for it is dark and hollow, holding nothing but the sea's that we swallow; still, it is a room with two doors.

On the outside of one, written in large dark script, is the word, 'Loss'. On the inside of the other, written in equally dark script, is the word, 'Hope'. Only, In that darkened place, the sanctum in the sorrow of that infinite space, it is hard to read the writing, without a light.

© Richard Michael Parker 2017







Friday, 14 April 2017

Spring Cleaning















-Spring Cleaning-

They were sweet and torrential!... The fitful sleep of a carousel that whirls after long years of disuse; cobwebs swept from out darkened corners, the dust brushed and removed. From time to time I stop and pick up some fine bone china ornament or a decorative figurine, a memory of all that has been, and fly, but for a moment, into some long lost forgotten sky. Then all at once your suns deep ray shines it's ceaseless way into the recesses of my mind, and I am home again, the dust swept away in an instant as I open the window from whence you have shone your loving balm upon my soul. Spring cleaning is such a moment of bittersweet revelry, and though the songs of distant days echo their sweet tunes in fragrant hallways, half lit stairwells, nothing will quell the turning of the season, and the warm thaw of winters cool heart. I close my eyes and walk into your light, your warm fingers stroke these threads with imperceptible delicacy, a new day has dawned, and warmer suns beckon me on.

© Richard Michael Parker 2017

Saturday, 30 April 2016

Words...





















-Words-

These shapes and feelings, the efflorescent stealing's of my heart, the rhyme upon the tip of this feathering quill, a skill, deftly stroked upon the soul of another, my lover, whose eternity wraps her arms in the gossamer airs of night, to twinkle through the filigree's of starlight, that play upon the pages of these scripted verses, born for all the ages we have ever known, forsworn by every gratitude to each that was ever grown, a twin heart, beats time within my own. These cymbals of love, that sound upon the parchment with scratchings of earth and fire, resound within a hearth, stoked by the coals of this living desire, mark time, in sweet rhythm upon my heart, the sounding bell upon the depths, from which each feathered dip does swell, to crash upon the shore of every word that sings of this love, and speaks for two, a fusion of rebirth, forever bespoke upon wings reborn, flown between the crashing waves, the smouldering tide, the seething page, fervent words, drawn from out the ink well of this love. Words...

© Richard Michael Parker 2016


Sunday, 24 April 2016

Prince





























Prince

I think it is also that he left us such beauty, bared his soul and resonated with our own, often in less callous times. Years of hope and tenderness, before the full blush of summers harsh sun had whorled it's wicked way with us. The passing of these iconic personalities, finger scars, or more tremulous hearts than those we may know today, and so too their passing becomes our own, a thousand deaths, passing down passageways we have long since left, yet, indelibly they remain our own, filled with the remnants of all those passing moments, feelings, emotions we have known. An ocean of song, sung in a common soul, though we be different, each drop a part of the whole. In the end, every moment, every emotion meant something to us, and so in passing, perhaps, those emotions that were so vital in that time pass too... for that, though we be grateful for the beauty and shared remembrance, it is hard not to be a little sad. As someone sagaciously said: "We don't cry because we knew them, we cry because they helped us know ourselves."

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Monday, 18 April 2016

Loves First Dawning Ray




















-Loves First Dawning Ray-

You are the earth in which the seed is sown,
the silent dark, receiving every ray,
you are the night, the supple round, the fertile loam,
the coddled warmth of summers glow in endless May.
Wrapped in golden hue, this suckled honey,
lapped upon the morning dew we lay.


You are the ashes from the forest of the fallen
the rankled cold of winters solemn deep
you are the crown on which the soul was swollen
the hope renewed, the promise that we keep.
And ever has the world unfurled her glory,
though oft that climb atop seemed all too steep.

You are the silence that bends before me,
the rolling wave that greets the salted knight,
the curl of dreams, the whisper in the hollow,
the lavish realm, the promise of the light.
Each ripple curved upon the yielding lip,
to slip into the fulsome sheath aright.

And when the yawn of death is over,
you are the revelry, the sprightly risen tune,
the morning star, the lark-full luscious clover,
rekindled in the spark'd hearth renewed.
For every day, the dark recedes, my lover,
you are the blessing of loves first dawning ray.

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

The Willow's Song





















-The Willow's Song-

I heard the wind chimes call,
your tender breath blowing through the willow;
How soft the moon,
the elegant sweep of your hands
crushed beneath my heart and the pillow.


Was it only yesterday we sat alone?
And turned the fated rocks,
every tortured stone,
tilled from out the sodden peat
the mangled scar'd fray
of every sunken beat?

And turning... still,
the silence and the warmth of every crook,
pressed into the nook of my soul,
your emerald heart
glowing in the still night of your yearning.

How fickle this spell
that breaks upon the dawns first ray.
How low the moon,
her weary sunken brow borne far away,
caught between the rapture, and the day.

I heard the wind chimes call;
And all that frightened woe,
will not wash the sound away.

© Richard Michael Parker 2016



Artwork: 'Hope' by Milenka Delic

Sunday, 7 February 2016

Teardrop


























Teardrop

The danger with disappointment, especially when it has accompanied sorrow, is projection. The sanctimony of the artful mental manipulations of the mind, mendaciously matriculating from the college of the soul. Grief is a dreadful taskmaster unless it is confronted, and while we presume to believe only in all that has gone before, that blistered light that once shone as stars in the nebulous universe of our unfolding, to seek to avoid the vacuum that shapes and controls even the greatest of these spheres is a dreadful mistake. No one wants to see the dark, especially when one projects such light as a mask, but to avoid the truth in the nature of that balance is simply to abdicate ones life journey in favour of a fantastical illusion, an illusion so powerful it blinds us to the truth of it, whilst subtly eking between the cracks. Sorrow, uncontested, becomes a bitter sword wielded by the blind. We say to ourselves, 'We, are light, They are dark, We are in control, they are chaos,' the eternal polemic becomes a battle contested in ourselves and projected upon the world, until all are separated in a sanctimony of dis-equilibria. The courage to face the shadow, the fear, the darkened remnants of our own grief, allows for the transcendent moment to redress that balance in an authentic manner, so that we are no longer forced to project a false polemic upon the world, and love can once again form new stars in this universe we all share. All else is illusion...

 © Richard Michael Parker 2016