Thursday, 30 December 2010

The Tempering


As the leaves and ruddy ground are swept into the snows of early winter, hiding the rotten Fall beneath a canopy of a chill white blanket, I am left to contemplate the Realization of being passed over. Like a pebble, washed smooth in the lonely bed of this ice cold stream, wantonly lying down, anonymously, beside some stranger, unnoticed, beneath the waters torrent.

These ragged edges, chipped and broken in the spring wash, the rush of the Summers heat , the tumbling Fall, eased once more, resting beside a scorched hoard of stones, at the bottom of this harsh mountain. Chips and shards, chipped and scared, fallen, beneath its wintering shadow.

Nothing hides the emptiness, when the void has been hollowed in the remnants of your heart. Yet, the distraction of a warm soul, rocking beside you in that cold place, can seem as though, for a moment, it is filled again. A simulacrum of possibility, a chimeric happenstance of hope, easing the sombre moments, with the tipping of the touch in the eddy's of that wandering and aqueous memory.

Even in this place...one cannot hide. Be seamless, unseen, unheard amongst the denizen throng, this hearts soft beat tapping out the song of its longing. never to be known, never to be seen again.

How in all the world, does a poet discard his memories?

Draw back from the firmament, the ligation of his soul, and find a resting place with eyes half full, half closed, to the reflected glory of this hearts desire...The shimmering melody of that winter moon, the cruel cool glare of reflection, that peeks into his soul and shines the truth of the lost heat of that summers touch...Is there nowhere he can hide the sorrow and the shame?

If my heart were a flame, it would melt the steal with its rupture. Yet, it is but a watery grave, swallowed by the quenching bath of that steels hardening, Tempered, brittle now, close to shattering.

In time the edge will be sharpened, and the cut will be keener for the memory; but now, in this place, in this foreign land, this sea of eyes, it merely looks to hide beneath the cool waters of that winter stream, awaiting the spring melt, to wash it clean again.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

A force of nature


A force of nature

I never saw a Hurricane ask for permission
or watch a storm edge along the fence line.
In the gathering twilight, as the sea surges,
will we stand at the waters edge and say;
"this far, and no further".

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
Half a world sold,
catching up to move forward.

As the rising tide swells to burst,
to dash upon humanity forestalled, and worse,
will we wait in long lines,
rubber stamped to submission,
sheepishly tied to a stake of contrition,
or rise like a force of almighty nature
and crash on the gash of a poxed legislature.

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
Half a world sold,
catching up to move forward.

Rage!, Rage against the manacled mendacity,
a forged tempest that sweeps an age aside,
overturned, overwhelmed, over.
Leaving the righteous, and justice behind,
to reside where no liars or greedy can hide.

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
Half a world sold,
catching up to move forward.

I never saw a mountain top explode without fire,
or rain upon the land without righteous desire.
Did the north-wind stop at your borders?
or its icy grip slip, as you barked out your orders.
For when that glacial blast tore,
at your heart and your toes,
were there tears in your eyes,
were you stunned where you froze?

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
Half a world sold,
catching up to move forward.

I never saw the earth wait for a ticket to rumble,
or fracture on time, or plan the quakes tumble.
When the balance is so out of kilter the law,
is to redress the dynamic stasis and score.
courage, for every generation to come,
courage, for all that has been and was won,
courage, to take up your heart in this fight,
courage, to win back the day from the night.

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
All the world sold,
sectioned, cut up, and bordered.

I never saw a Hurricane ask for permission,
or watch a storm edge along the fence line.
did you?

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Tuesday, 7 December 2010

Winter Moon



Winter Moon

Oh sunless sky,
cold winter of this barren heart
when did you leave this pitiless place?
why in death did you depart?

leaving but a remnant
a shadow of your light
to shine upon a mirror
to mock me in this cold hour
shining bright
without your warmth
or soak of heated touch
a silver'd echo
in the long night
of the broken hearted.


© Richard Michael Parker 2010

 


Sunday, 5 December 2010

Bonded



Bonded

This Penetrating wind,
sensate gusts,
formless unions embraced,
redoubled in soulful resonance.
How does one separate a unity?
Bonded at the roots,
connected through all eternity.
Time and space,
distant illusions to an infinite soul,
a shared remembrance of two made whole,
one soul, housed in separate forms,
metering out the hours of our passing,
waiting.
Life to life,
moment to moment,
caught in an eternal present,
forgetful of this timeless unity.

No death, nor passage from this gray world,
no distance, or time, nor separation,
no harsh words, or bitter scorn,
no damned plague, nor heart forlorn,
no broken bridge, nor trust divided,
no sullied lives, nor minds left chided,
could ever break this ring, united.

Its truth, was in a kiss revealed,
its time, within two hearts concealed,
forgotten but for a little while,
rejoined by soul-filled fated guile.
These soulful winds, each penetrated,
restoring love, reverberated,
recounted, in each soul retold,
reborn anew, this love of old.
Each waking moments skintight bliss,
manufactured in this kiss,
was formed in loves bright bonded hearth,
and schooled in smelted parted bath.
In silence... both souls entwine,
and whisper of a love divine,
A majesty, both full and wrought,
in unity, both halves are caught,
and wrapped around, each one together,
the fulsome coil of timeless tether,
completed in this ring tied knot,
to birth new hope, in spring begot.

This Penetrating wind,
that soulfully resonates between the spaces,
speeds time, to broach those distant places,
leaving all those hard woes behind.
Impassioned memories,
the birthing pains exposed,
a sufferance of repose.
Yet, tight is the bond born of suffering,
the fiery trials, the endless yearning,
redoubling fortitude in the burning.
No bond born in so frightful a forge,
could ever be broke,
or rent by wanton tongues that first bespoke.
The tarnished remnants of remembrance,
chipped away, polished in the light.
Loves revelation of golden unity,
a ring of glistening luster,
dazzling and bright,
unbroken,
whole,
a bond of remembrance,
a unity of soul.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Thursday, 2 December 2010

A Simple Poet


A Simple Poet

I am just a simple poet,
who dreamt of a better way,
if I failed in translation,
or my words did not strike a chord,
try not to think ill of me,
I can only offer what is in my heart,
imperfectly, full and overflowing.

Yet these words seem a pale shadow,
cast through a turbid mind,
between the light and the hope.
If they evaporate upon the wind,
and form some cloud of shade,
may it rain down upon you,
sometimes in tempest and squall,
at other times in gentle mist,
covering the parched ground,
with a filigree of dew,
soft and moist, a balm,
against the harsh Sun of reality.

Every word I have felt,
every emotion has coursed its weary way,
or sped upon this hearts fleet rapids,
tumbling over tumult and waterfall.
In sunlight, sometimes the rainbows arc,
The roar is heard even in the dark.

If you find yourself here,
and on some placid bank, thirst,
sip, quench that emotive desire,
in nestled pools or somnolent steams;
But when wading into those waters,
remember me, as they flow past,
for it is a life that passes you,
a flood of heartfelt yearnings,
shared for those I have loved.

I am just a simple poet,
who dreamt of a better way.
Do not say of me,
'He failed in his dreams',
but rather, sit and sup of your fill,
and let me flow ever onward,
past the boulders of your judgments,
and the critique of your damns,
for you bathe in my tears,
drink of my blood,
shed for you over all my years.

This flood that has beat within my heart,
with love, always love.
Yet I am but a simple poet,
and these are my waters you drink.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Friday, 26 November 2010

Did you not know?




Did you not know?

Love came to your door,
did you not know?
Did you not recognize the knock?
Was it so foreign to you,
to hear that soft beat upon your heart?
Love walked into your house,
lips pressed upon your own,
saw that the door in your heart was open,
and walked inside, leaving nothing to hide.
Every drawn curtain was flung aside,
love unlocked every door,
opened every window,
until the dark and dim-lit passageways,
dazzled in the day glow,
fresh gusts tumbling through the halls.
Where the hidden dreams and broken dolls were stored,
the dolls without limbs or clothes,
the dreams crushed beneath departing woes,
could you not see the silver thread,
the iridescent salve from the broken and dead.
Did you not see how the sunlight shone?
and watch as the dust sparkled,
captured for an instant in those shimmering rays,
swept before the gusting winds,
along those too long dark passageways.
Was it so strange,
to have that light play within that space,
to dance along the corridors so long left unlit,
and you, hid, behind those locked doors,
Just as you were locked,
behind those closet doors in your youth.
Did you hear the lock fall,
and the chain crash upon the wooden floor?
When that knock came, could you not recall?
and when you closed the doors again,
was the darkness as welcoming as it seemed before?
Did it coddle you in slumber?
When you close your eyes,
can you still see the shadows play upon the walls,
through the slits and gaps in those doors?
Love rests upon the wooden step now,
with the tattered railing,
unkempt and peeling, from the years of neglect.
It is warm out here,
the sun glimmers in bright streams,
and falls upon this place.
Hands cupped in the orange glow,
elbows resting upon soft seated knees.
In the calm of this setting sun,
you can glimpse a patient smile,
full and enduring,
shining in the constancy of grace.
Come, sit for a while,
you will find it is still warm.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 




Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Autumn





Autumn

Vivid vibrant greens meld with the rustic oak,
whilst the evergreen pines pause,
between rivers of dappled leaves,
flowing upon the halcyon balmy grounds,
of lovers golden dreams;
Crisp apple mornings
Smack of the frosty cool winds of life;
Silken webs lie naked,
frozen into silhouette upon a sapphire sky,
that sets a thousand paintings into motion,
and stokes the flaming wheel,
that arks this glorious heaven.
Until as ruby red,
he falls,
lays dead;
from whence the silverine ghost arisen,
slithers her separatist path,
across the great mourning,
softly,
silently she rests,
to beckon yet another,
exalted dawning.

© Richard Michael Parker 1987

 

Wednesday, 10 November 2010

Love is a Gift





























Love is a Gift

Love is a gift,
unwrapped in the giving,
tied in a bow of surrender,
clothed in a package of trust.

It slips between the fingers of a grasping hand,
and drips upon the heartfelt ground,
at times soaking us in pools of desire,
muddying the earth on which we stand,
a bog of desperate flight,
an endless race in which we tire.

In the desert of the greedy heart,
it weeps between the grains of a shifting sand,
and slakes no thirst.

It cannot be captured or withheld,
nor forestalled by any wall or tower,
such is the omnipotence of its power.
It flows through every yielding heart,
and conquerers every demon,
every viperous snake at the start.

In timeless transcendence,
it sparks the fervent seed,
once planted, held gently,
grows beyond every wanton need.

In the fabled land of love,
light adorns every corner,
no shadow is cast,
but by the objects of our own design.

As we glide between the spaces,
the unfettered places.
These gaps we have created
between the remnants and the walls.
Love shines.
Its golden light, playing,
between the columns in these halls.

As we dance within its glory,
flickering in the light,
of our own allegoric story.

The mottled sanctuary of every soul,
is born between the shadow and the light,
and peers out behind a curtain, cut,
for eyes that seek respite from that night.

In the darkness, a pinprick of light,
is all that is needed to beckon eyes that have opened.

Love is a gift,
unwrapped in the giving,
a revelation without demand,
a sweet intoxication of the spirit,
infused with the perfume of its tenderness.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010  



Artwork by Peggi Meyer Graminski

Monday, 8 November 2010

The Gnarled Tree

The Gnarled Tree

The Gnarled tree grows,
Twisted and rent.

A sprout in the undergrowth,
amongst the weeds and thorns,
torn leaves, a tattered sapling,
bullied by the underbrush.
A tenuous rise in forlorn skies.
Stolen light, from the tall and bright,
the majesty of a family,
born in good earth.

Not a straight limb to be found,
on this dark and perilous ground.
Roots of desperate fingers,
clinging to the rocky outcrop.
Squeezing and fighting,
between the spaces.
The dappled light shines,
hope!

No chance to grow,
no right to keep going.
Gnarled and knotted,
in agonized contortions,
a sap laden ascension,
struggling beyond the canopy,
broken and bleeding.
Yet in the struggle,
it has grown strong.
Strong enough to stand the wind,
barking at the tempest,
armour thick and stout,
to endure the licking flame,
whilst all around fall to the fire.

Alone it has survived,
fed by a heartwood soft and supple,
adaptable and triumphant.
In the Spring light, another,
sweet succor for tormented limbs,
Entwined in a flowering glory,
with Seeds born anew.
A living testament to an ancient story.

The gnarled tree grows,
twisted and rent,
its heartwood,
supple and true.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Sunday, 7 November 2010

Phoenix

Phoenix

Dark pitted abyss
beckons below
Lugubrious and slow
I am sucked Deeper
D
o
w
n
into the quagmire
My souls dull ache clouds all reason
Noumenon is blackness
vacuity
solemnity
it is all pervasive
Lost in this turgid miasma
I am nothing
and in nothingness
I AM!

RMP (1987)

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Tuesday, 2 November 2010

Only love remains


Only love remains

When that fire flows through my soul,
surging through the gates,
burning away this endless longing,
it is beauty that remains beyond the pain.
The promise of springs lush new growth,
brings hope to Winters soul.
I wish only to give of that beauty,
free in form and flow.
To be beautiful in your eyes,
is the envy of my heart.
To watch you gasp as i rise,
and to know that all i have done,
all i have won,
was for the beauty in your sight and soul.
The trials, the scars,
the battles of yearnings endless years,
brought before your temple,
and laid before the alter of your love.
If i could take the ugliness,
that remains in this wretched heart,
transform it, raise loves standard,
and ring the bells of beauty,
i would surely do so.
For to burn it out,
and from the ashes,
grow such a rose of this love,
that every captive eye would weep,
in remembrance and admission,
is my hearts true calling.
Yet those thorns cut deep,
and still have not withered, nor broken.
The blood still seeps upon the stem.
Yet, i will not tire, nor fold resigned,
nor rescind, from this desire in my heart.
For beauty wants nothing,
but to give of itself,
and in the giving,
find its reflection returned.
You are my fire, my love,
and in your flame,
only love remains.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2010


Sunday, 31 October 2010

Winter Sun















 Winter Sun

As morning breaks,
shattering the dreams in this lonely place,
and your warm delicate hands,
slip beneath the covers,
moistened fingertips,
sliding over my soul, your skin;
It is I who feels each tender stroke,
the tremor within.
As your body opens to the memory of me,
entering a suckling reminiscence,
licking at the peeks,
and slips over the fullness of our love,
the fire that enters you, enters me.
When you walk in that distant place,
along the narrow paths of memory retraced,
your feet tread softly upon my heart,
and sink, slowly into me.
A wanderlust of bare feet,
soft pads pacing an endless retreat.
When that ache of longing stirs,
in the womb of our warmth,
it is i who stirs, within you,
yet in absent silence,
I am Winters cold sun,
a light without fire,
shining warmth on no one,
but you.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2010



Artwork by Leonid Afremov

Friday, 29 October 2010

The Fire at Night



The Fire at Night

It is as if the starry night itself has transmitted its cool evocation into your flaming soul, and you lick at the stars as they twinkle upon your brightness, splaying themselves between the flickering light of your orange flame, tinged with the purple hours of silence; The spaces between the waves, the remnants of the forgotten embers, that feed the flickering fire in the numbing cold of that fallen place.

Space...without a trace of you, seems endlessly blue. Yet the deep blue canvas of that emptiness, beckons a palette of golden light, filled with flame, searing into the stark sky; licking at the torment, with blood hot notes in luminescent hues.

Scorching tongues of effulgence, snapping at the blues. Whirling streams of white hot schemes, and denizens of rancid dreams, torn from the corpulent mass of the fractured reams of sententious artisans, whose only fire was that stolen from the funeral pyre of this love.

Someone should have mentioned, that as the log burns to ashes, the flaming phoenix arises, and devours the remnants of the darkness in resplendence...arisen, the dawn awakens. Shafts of fire, slick upon the landscape of this hidden desire, forge transcendence, with flaming wings of sapphire and gold, rings, not for the timid but the bold.

Arise! hearken through incandescent eyes, and see the fiery wreath devoured, beneath the luminescent skies, blazing in the glory of that resplendent dawn, on wings replete, no longer sullied and torn, nor boiled within the cauldrons pit, but power, unfurled, to crack the mordant's spit. To smash the remnants of that vanquished foe, beneath the blazing sun, a testament of every righteous blow.

Yet-lo, on wings reforged in dying embers below, grace redoubles itself, and in gentle strength sweeps away the ragged teeth of that spark'd place, and settles for a while, to hold with trembling hand a humbled face.

No power comes by light of day, nor bares the chastened heart, without forgiveness in loves sway, reborn in loves sweet art; Yet those that seek the fires wealth, the sacrificial game, prepare your heart in times of health, or reap devouring flame.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

 

Sunday, 24 October 2010

Crazy Love


Crazy Love

Stormy skies in huddled masses,
brood between the mountain passes,
The silver winged Garuda,
this carrier of the just,
set down upon a distant land,
of tremor, fear and trust.

The action born of courage,
with love, for all to see,
brought close the fiery maiden,
to her man of fate, and free,
But she had fled to other realms,
for fear was sown without,
a rancour born of other whims
instilled in her dark doubt.

Some agent of malevolence,
had whispered in her ear,
with tawdry psychobabble,
born of jealousy and fear,
it set her own fears racing,
of a time set in the past,
where cloistered manacles,
had suffered liberty made fast.

And so she ran, and hid from grace,
though he be filled with love,
and fled unto a secret place,
his own true morning dove.
He looked for her, both night and day,
yet naught would he have found,
until designed to fly away,
'the fates', will, would redound.

For kismet would not be denied,
nor fail for love and courage,
and so in deep regret and sighs,
they both converged to assuage,
the deep and dark malevolence,
that rancour had instilled,
and set it right, to meet perchance,
the salve of hearts fulfilled.

He wandered back, through drizzled rain,
his heart was rent asunder,
and though he loved her endlessly,
he knew her flight was thunder,
for it had crashed within his soul,
and lightening struck his mind,
he was resigned, to let her go,
for all of loves sweet kind.

You see, he knew this one great truth,
that true love knows no shackles,
it comes from out a place of couth,
a gift that fires and crackles.
It flows between, two free souls,
and makes of them one heart,
the fire, it feeds on mutual coals,
the warmth of loves deep art.

For she too, found her troubled mind,
did wander for a while,
so off she sped, some things to find,
to pass the time in style,
and led by fate, she left that place
to walk into the night,
to seek some solace and some grace,
and calm this wretched fright.

Some great and over arching force,
looked down upon two lovers,
and moved the fated lovers course,
from forlorn, to each others.
At first, he was not sure,
the night was wet, the lights were dim,
he blinked in disbelief, then called,
she stopped, and turned towards him.

He staggered for a moment,
on that corner in the rain,
so long his beaten heart,
had simply echoed out her name,
then all at once, there she stood,
before him in the flesh,
a little tremulous, discreet,
corporeal none the less.

His beating heart resounding,
his words they came, but lightly,
her own dear heart was pounding,
yet fear had gripped it tightly,
but all at once, in loves true light,
the reticence, it tumbled,
at first the eyes, and then the arms,
into each others, stumbled.

So on that fateful cornered night,
two doves both born of love,
did find themselves betwixt the light,
that shone from realms above,
to bring both hearts again in joy,
together, through dark milieu,
and shine into each heart-filled eye,
loves golden light, twas once blue.

They held each other tightly,
on the corner of that road,
a meeting place of minds and souls,
to lighten loves dark load.
To free again the truth they new,
when first they did perceive,
the flowering of loves first heart,
they thought would never leave.

Then hearkening, she did depart,
trepidation though, remained,
for neither had returned the art,
their lips were never stained,
with all the truth,
that only lovers know is in their kiss,
forsworn, forsooth,though fate had bent,
the kismet kiss was missed.

Two days of sufferance and silence,
both lovers did endure,
he sought divine guidance,
she pondered loves detour,
what were the odds that they should meet,
upon that fateful hour,
the dark and dim rained cornered street,
illumined like a flower.

Yet all dark rancour, was not as yet,
cast off, and set aside,
for evil had her ear beget,
and born it full with pride,
she would not reconcile her trust,
nor answer his sweet plea's,
for fear in her was wound and trussed,
from distant shores disease.

Determined now to not abandon love,
nor his sweetheart,
he asked for wisdom from on high,
from whence he was to start,
and woke after a fitful dream,
and settled on his course,
to win beloved's honeyed stream,
lest both live out remorse.

He booked his flight on silver wings,
then gathered up 12 Roses,
and sped off to her haunted springs,
to shine the love with poses.
He did not hesitate
or wait for anyones permission,
he simply stormed the gate,
and wrestled on without contrition.

Past the armored guard,
that waited down below in pairs,
onward through the gates,
up through the corridors and stairs,
until at last before her place of work,
he found himself,
two guardians before the door,
to deem him worthy of loves wealth.

The final test was won,
and so he entered her sweet gate,
and told her he had come,
to give her love and not berate,
she sat there stupefied,
that he had mastered every trial,
and found her in that lonely place,
armed only with a smile.

She baulked a moment,
then found her courage had returned,
and rose to leave the foment,
to seek some salve from that which burned,
for in her heart, conflicted fires,
the evil crop of jealous seeds,
were fearfully enticed again,
entranced in her to bleed.

He stopped upon descending stairs,
and beckoned her by name,
she turned, to find 12 roses,
and a heart wrought full aflame,
yet gentle were his words, and deeds,
with patience and with poesy,
she took the blooms her heartfelt needs,
her cheeks full flush and rosy.

They crossed the street,
and sat inside a cafe for a while,
two hearts did beat,
with wonder of loves power, gift and guile,
each took a hand, and gently,
all sombre doubt was slain,
cast down into the pit of hate,
where rancour will remain.

There eyes were locked, in seas they swam,
while lips embraced completely,
and sumptuously slipped
upon the shores that tasted sweetly,
with moaning sighs, and tears, and tongues,
two lovers knew the truth,
that God, and fate, attracted both,
there bodies were the proof.

No words, or foul demonic deeds,
could separate this beauty,
no pseudo-analytic seeds,
could breach loves honored duty,
for even if a 1000 miles,
be wrought between these lovers,
the kiss of truth, embracing love,
is found beneath their covers.

The doubts and fears were shattered,
and departed from the scene,
in haste, loves passion entered,
washing spite and hurt all clean,
and filled both hearts with hope,
that they might loyally endure,
the separated nights,
to persevere, with love made pure.

So once again,
he left on winged steed into the day,
In trust, to God and fate,
there love would find a way,
To recall, faithful Penelope,
her loyalty so true,
remembering the Odyssey,
that modern days still brew.

My love do not forget my eyes,
nor how my lips then tasted,
do not, forlorn, sink down in cries,
or think this love is wasted,
remember how these actions,
reverberated in your heart,
and faithfully recall our love,
embraced, with kiss, to start.

For i will live forever,
in that heart-filled blessed day,
the intimacy of swimming eyes,
will never go away,
and nor will you within my soul,
my one true fated lover,
for each of us, in each, made whole,
in deeds, souls, minds, each other.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Saturday, 23 October 2010

Poets can't be a Business



Poets can't be a business

So the tax man said 'Poets cant be a business'
it must be the risk involved in self employment,
is too great for the poetic,
for the government to take a chance.
So 'the man' decided that Poets cant be a business!
Arms manufactures, prostitutes, Oil producers can,
Bankers who lose a trillion pounds at the bookies
costing us a million jobs in the process,
and crashing the world economy,
they can be a business,
but poets....no!.....poets cant be a business!

Yeats, Keats, Shelley, Byron, i'm sorry lads,
but your out of business!
Shakespeare, just stick to the plays that pay,
then YOU can be a business,
but poets, no!.... no, im afraid you cant be a business!
The Arts have never brought in any revenue here,
they never sat a seat on a stool with good cheer,
or filled a drinking house with music and beer!
they just aren't lucrative enough you see.
So Poets!, No....no...they cannot be a business!

If poets were a business where would it end?
every man jack writer and his friend,
would settle for 1 meal a day,
wear three jersey's to keep the cold away,
and scream through some virtual mailbox,
just to have his say!
No...no!, poets...Poets cant be a business, you see,
they might be in the business,
of looking out for you and me,
or living off their words, or wisdom, self sufficiently,
but they cannot be a business!...for free!

They simply can-not-be-a-busi-ness!
because if they were a business, well!
too many eyes might be watching,
too many minds might start pondering and wondering,
why it is that simple men cant live free,
but those who hold the reins of this democracy,
offer jobs and gratuity to friends and family.
No....i am the Tax Man, and i have spoken.
Poets cannot be a business, not in this land,
this 'green and pleasant land'!
poets, No!...Poets,...they cant be a business!
can they?

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Tuesday, 5 October 2010

Only Words


Only Words

What does it matter what i write
they are only words
and words cannot bring my love back
they cannot hold her hand
or caress her cheek
enfold her in the sultry airs of an endless night
or swing in a gentle breeze
they cannot sit across from her
laugh or break bread
or stare into her sea green eyes
with wonder and surprise
they feel nothing of this loss
when i held her hand gently in my own
stroking each finger
each tip
they cannot hurt when she raged
or feel the joy at being in her arms
or see her blush in the morning.
as these tears fall in endless streams
what will words do with the seas i fill?
what does it matter what i write
they are only words
and words will not bring my love back.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Pirates and Ghosts


Pirates and Ghosts

I do not know where to begin, or end,
everything in between seems lost somehow.
Tangled in a forest of blue,
I too am lost.
It took me days to pick up a pen,
I dropped it next to my heart,
and kneeling down, I found I had to start again.

Left to look into the open spaces,
seeing only visions of Phantoms,
knowing somehow that this haunting,
will always leave me empty.
Gaps in my life, vacuums,
sucking me in, when I recall your jealous kiss.
A kiss, that made my heart weak.
Your smile, the endless vivacity,
your guile, the envy of all to see.
The way you tasted; Peaches in summer.
Your fragrance of sweet magnolia.

Supping at the table of my soul,
filling that hole,
the hollow in my heart,
the 4am silence,
the inverse space,
in the remnants of that place.

A shadow world that has lost its Sun,
growing ever colder in the distance.

I tried to find the moment of our passing,
but it happened in frames.
Snapshots of carelessness and conceit;
Fears of jealously and deceit.
In the end we were killed by ghosts.
Phantoms haunting the present,
jealously guarding their soulful hoard;
Pirates stuffing our hearts into their chests,
buried in the depths,
The Jolly Roger hoisted,
over the remnants of our love.

...and still I sing, in the quiet of that night:

'I will not give up,
this Love I will defend,
I will not give in,
True Love knows no end.
Love conquers all.'

 © Richard Michael Parker 2010



Artwork by Peggi Meyer Graminski

Friday, 1 October 2010

Colder

Colder

Where did you go?
while you wandered in that snow,
was it cold?
did you feel my lips, or delicate finger tips,
play upon your still frame,
in that frozen place;
Did you remember my name?
Did my soft lips embrace your warm mouth,
passionately sucking a heat between us?
Did your body, pressed down,
trapped beneath the fire and the ground,
slip in the wheels of your mind,
round, and round?
What were you thinking?
when your tiger eyes rolled in the heat,
and that porcelain skin shattered,
searing the succulence of your sizzling meat,
screaming at the church across the road,
while you came, like it mattered.
When you ran home, melting,
desperate to hold me, to feed me your fire,
to stoke the hearth of salacious desire,
did you stop even for a second,
to wonder, how do you build a snow cave?
As you wander now, in that winter wasteland,
beaten by the drifts of frozen snow,
did you ever stop to think;
You just might not know?
how to heal a broken heart,
or mend those desperate scars,
or give yourself a loving start,
from out behind those bars?
did vanity have its way with you before me?
did pride cripple your soul before i got there?
It doesn't matter,
because as you slip again beneath the icy surface,
drowning, as that ice sheet widens,
thickening above your breathless body,
it will be the cold numbing forgetfulness that takes you,
breaks you, like the little girl inside,
who drowns every time her mothers love is denied.
But I didn't forget;
These blazing hands, that fought the fire,
and wrenched the living coals from out your soul,
ripping the white hot steel of desire,
from the belly of that corpulent hole,
were forged to break that icy flow,
to reach beneath the shattered surface,
into the icy depths, where love lingers still.
To pull you screaming, like a spanking babe into life.
knowing that winter ends,
and the snow melts into spring again.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Tuesday, 28 September 2010

I long to read you poetry in the morning



I long to read you poetry in the morning

I long to read you poetry in the morning;
to watch you half slumbered,
eyes still seeing another world,
walking on a sun shot land,
in the dim light of another moon.
slowly awakening with a mellow breeze,
blowing away the cobwebs,
singing in the trees, of this love.
I long to read you Poetry in the morning;
An orange sun glowing in your tummy,
as my soft low voice whispers,
'remember me'!...slowly,
A smile shooting from your toes,
the smell of coffee, and musk,
all the way up to your nose,
the sweet scent of the evening's dusk,
lingering on the bedsheets still.
I long to read you poetry in the morning;
Softened joy spread across your face,
hypnotically holding you with my voice,
washing you with my words of grace,
you, moaning, like you had no choice,
spread, like the soft morning dew
on the lush grass of spring.
I long to read you poetry in the morning;
To watch the ocean in your eyes,
stir those calm waters into peeks,
as my wind, sweeps, gently across your surface,
and plunges into the depths of you.
I long to read you poetry in the morning;
and have you feel my resonating chest,
reverberate beneath the sheets,
rippling into your soft warm frame,
waves lapping against your alabaster shore,
my heart, in lilting tones, echoing your name,
the silken sands, seething with sighs, 'Je t'adore'.
I long to read you poetry in the morning;
then throw the book to the floor,
and kiss you deeply, longingly, forevermore.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

 
Amy Knutkowski's Artwork

Monday, 27 September 2010

Daydreamer


Daydreamer

Did you wonder where we had gone?
did it cross your mind,
as you crossed the road,
buried in your feet and thoughts,
at the middle of your intersection.
'I wonder where the patter of those footsteps has gone?'
the ones that used to walk beside me,
sometimes racing ahead,
at times shadowing me,
like the back hoofs of a slow horse.
Well, We are all still here! attached;
Stopping the traffic,
removing the obstructions,
guiding folks around you as you walk,
with your head down low...
peering through the earth at the sky on the other side.
if you look up,
you just might find the same sky,
but see it from a different point of view,
and if your lucky,
and if the earth hasn't moved too much,
while you've been away,
you might just see me too.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 



Artwork by Julie Bergmann

Sunday, 26 September 2010

I will not ask you


I will not ask you

I cannot ask you to feel pain for me.
I cannot beg that you ache,
or demand that in the silence,
you burn and break.
I cannot tease that time from you,
or stir your gut like a simmering stew,
nor force you like a rusty screw,
to turn your heart inside out,
with all the fear of loss and doubt.
I will not do that to you
I will not make a martyr of a lover
or ask you to watch as I walk
or wait while I talk, with another.

When all the wasted time is totalled,
and those moments in which you came,
and went again, are remembered,
it will be the bleeding of time,
the ebb of carelessness,
that finally, washed the sands away.
The lost minutes, seconds
hours of avoidance, the silence,
that spoke loudest of all.

So I will not beg, nor wallow
or ask you to sit in this eternal sorrow.
I will not ask you to join me there,
I cannot, you see,
because I've loved you,
and I care.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010


Artwork by JoyusLion

Friday, 24 September 2010

La Mer





























La Mer

Come to me my love
into this sea you have woven within me
the bright and florid depths
filled with salty issues I have wept.

Come to me my love
and sing sirenically
of shores not yet spoken
and dreams not yet broken
of an oceans rhapsody.

Come to me my love
in the sway of each ebbing tide
shot with loves light
the arrows of our sweet delight
illuminating all the world inside.

Come to me my love
leap upon the bow waves of this rolling flame
the ever living play of passions fervent game
two dolphins swept upon each other
to slide in languid motions
through the depths, my silken lover.

Come to me my love
the swirling maelstrom of your grip
born between the tidal constancy and rip
shorn of every tether you have known
blown into the stormy heart that we've sown.

Come to me my love
sway in languid lengths of bliss
the delicate dance of your lovers kiss
to tangle dulces limbs desire
entwined within each other's fire.

Come to me my love
and I will sing to you of sea's
the shanties that do mermaids please
of pirate chests and crackens roar
the dragons rests, and fathoms more
in dulcet tones of evening breeze.

Come to me my love
upon a mirror's surface
and watch the flash of green
disappear into the depths unseen
Apollo in his resting place
and we on sands in sweet embrace.

Come to me my love
and never be apart
gambol in our playful waves
my one immortal heart
then we shall swim eternally
into this loving sea
in elegance and beauty
True Love entwined and free.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Wednesday, 22 September 2010

From across the sea



From across the sea

In mists of Autumns echoed grace
unto a warm and hallowed place
a rose both kissed and grown in love
was sent on winged steed above
and carried to a far flung land
to fall into a lovers hand
on dusty shores of earth and blood
reminding her of loves first flood
for though this man is far away
his heart beats in her chest this day
and shows itself in each sweet petal
a silken bliss of raptured fettle
Two lovers yet, both kept apart
did beat with one triumphant heart
in time to be enjoined again
their Sun and Moon united then
for fate would not allow two lovers
to suffer under single covers
or dash upon the rocks their hope
so once betrothed, they would elope.
Remember this in times of sorrow,
each petal silken sings 'tomorrow'
and weaves a scent of sweet design,
recalled within this bloom divine.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Tuesday, 21 September 2010

Wings

Wings

A sonnet of love, born on wings...
wings that flew,
drew you to me,
enfolded in a rhapsody,
a deep forest of intimacy.
We entered that gate,
of a dark fate in a distant land,
where only the bleeding ground remains,
a land with no sky,
just the crushing earth redoubled,
so when I flew, Love,
into that blue....did you go too?
or sitting on the ground,
did you forget how to fly?
Love waits for you still!
drenched in the warmth of a yellow sun,
will you fly?...will you come?
or will you bleed upon that heartless ground,
and mix your blood with the forgotten.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 


Malgre Tout
















Malgre Tout

One drink,
One more i say!
One more to quash
and wash
the smell away.
The acrid odour
of loves mephitic sway.

-Do i love you?

And i loved you!-
Hanging there,
Framed,
I care not,
I do care,
all words fallen deaf and lame,
never,
never the same!
-And i loved you!

My Drink?
Poison!
Poison i think,
or some bitter tasting longing,
that sucks lugubriously
from that festering sore,
where once a heart wept.
-And i loved you!

You,
who bore the semblance of a muse,
and fucked me heart,
me soul-
Till as virgins gush,
the spanking babe was dust,
all hidden,
Blown by loves farce and smitten.
-And i loved you!
Still,
I love you.

© Richard Michael Parker 1987

Saturday, 18 September 2010

Je t'aime




Je t'aime

Have you ever fallen so deeply in love with someone
the very thought of them possesses you, obsesses you?
You seek every morsel from the table,
every scrap, each half eaten remnant,
until,in a final, unbridled, unhinged
reciprocation of that rabid affection,
you tumble, without reason,
into a rabbit hole of ecstasy.
The flame rises from the pit,
consuming you completely.
The mere presence of the idea of them,
sends your palpitating heart, racing,
threatening to pull it from your chest,
bursting in a blaze upon the ground,
consuming all in an ashen flame of wanton desire.

The absence of them,
The eternity of that dark and desperate place,
flings your soul, flailing, into a pit of despair.
A place where the knot in your gut,
rises, lifting into a choking lump in your throat,
around which hangs a noose of your own design.
Screaming as it tightens.
Echoes of a gathering storm,
a foul and pestilent tempest,
that rolls in from the edge of insanity.
forged in the distance of time and space,
that empty place between you.
...and you know if it lengthens,
when you drop from that gallows,
it will break your neck.

Love comes in waves.
Crashing over you titanically.
Leaving you awash,
in a sea of uncontrollable irrationality.
You sleep,
but you don't really sleep...
you dream in a rolling sea of a foaming tide.
You long in your dreams for that breath,
the breath of your lover upon your chest...
the glint in the half light of his eye, captured,
as he blinks through the tempest,
and winks at you from across the bed,
the pillow his head now rests upon,
in the shimmering twilight of your minds eye...
staring...
in a whirling haze of kisses and sensual embraces.

You find yourself waking up,
in the half light of a half night,
a one eyed tremor ticking in your mind,
wondering why you are alone,
when the only thought you have,
in that moonlit space,
is of this mans hands holding you,
firmly rooted, enfolding your softness,
as you, pushing into him with all your might,
rage, with the fire in your blood in that second sight

Then, When you finally have him,
when that torment of distance is broached,
and desires bridge, spans, times great divide,
those first, wet, exploratory kisses,
lashed in an unquenchable fire,
slip, and dip, in a swirling maelstrom of desire.
Your mind, cocktailized,
every hormone dumped into your trembling frame...
when that finally happens,
you realize that you have never been touched before.
You are a virgin again.
Every hand, and every man, who ever came and went,
slip into the night, shadowy phantoms...
lost in a remnant of a fractured past,
shattered and dulled,
by the sensual bliss of this mans kiss.
This, sex, that rises in tides,
crashing upon some ecstatic shore of transcendence,
blinds you, binds you,
as a sea is bound to the seething hiss upon the sand.
The blinding epiphany of it, illuminates,
not because of the way in which he now touches you,
or how you yield to him...
sinking your folds into every tautness,
for if that were so, any man would do...
no!...it is the core of you, awoken,
the primal essence erupting,
wildly aroused beyond all and any reason,
there is no reason, no mind, no will,
just an epiphanic moment of irresolvable ecstasy,
a divine gift, a primal union of heaven and earth,
thrusting itself through your core,
every nerve, every sinew, every fiber of your being,
trussed and bound deeply inside this man...
you are in him, you are him, he is you,
the lines and demarcations blurred eternally,
His pleasure erupting inside you as your own,
erupting inside what is left of you;
In that moment of sublime coalescence,
the gift, is the essence, of the get.
For Love has joined the game,
and you know with a certainty,
you will never, ever, be the same.

The rich and heady waters of love,
decimate the walls... torch the town,
rape and pillage the sanctity, the certainty,
all will, strewn in a corpulent rubble,
beneath its flaming waves.
Every petty sensuality, exposed as shadow and sham,
to disappear forever in a fever of truth.
In the dazzling light of complete surrender,
a trust divine, two souls entwined, Love Rules.

Every tawdry orgasm,
each and every titillating simulacrum,
becomes a pale and impotent shadow,
caught in the dazzling light of this numinosity.
It demands everything and promises nothing...
but without it, nothing is all thats left.
Without it, no one can write of pleasure,
and truly understand what pleasure means.
Without it, there is no life...
just a dull pettiness,
a failure of existence,
a wasteland of wasted moments.
Without Love to stoke the sensual hearth,
all Eros is death.
Death, born on the wings of fleeting desire,
shattered in the depths of a void without fire.
Love, life in the heart and soul of another.
The 'other', your lover,
In that man, whose hands are a memory,
strangling your every waking moment,
choking the air from that place,
in that face of forgetfulness,
blue, in the distractions of you.
You try to forget,
but even on that gallows drop,
you cannot stop.
There is no forgetting Love.

je t'aime

© Richard Michael Parker 2010



Friday, 17 September 2010

The Cleaner

The Cleaner

Fingers brushing inside me
slipping over corpulent flesh
drawing forth the memories of refinement
and firing the souls of half remembered epiphanies,
ripping them from some silent hearth,
fueled in the dark,
by a light that glows true and bright.
Love...
brought into a present, tense,
and relaxed,
beneath your sculptured fingers of bliss.
Delving within the locked rooms,
the hidden corridors of a dusty old house,
flinging wide the curtains from aged windows,
sweeping in an instant,
the cobwebs, and dust-devils,
from that chaliced palace.
You are the cleaner of my soul,
wiping away the torrid years,
and filling the reckless hole.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Tuesday, 14 September 2010

Does She?

Does She?

Does she love me?
I do not know...can we ever know?
does she care when this belly aches?
when this snake coils around,
all those mistakes!
when i wake with a start,
and that golden dream departs.
does she feel it too?
when my gold turns to blue.
when i lie awake,
my head spilling over some great waterfall,
does she stall?
thinking of me but for a moment,
before flitting ceaselessly onward.
Does she feel this too,
at a distance,
does it break through?
like some spiritual amputee,
as the chainsaw cuts into the tree.
does she understand?
this pebbled shore im left on,
is not my land.
as she waved into the sky,
smiling as she said goodbye.
taking bits of me on high...
leaving me in pieces down below,
my heart and mind tossing too and fro.
Does she Know?
a shipwreck every morning i awake,
no solace in this anguish,
a doubt i cannot banish,
and still, no sign from yonder shore.
does she love me?...Does she know the score?
Does she...?

© Richard Michael Parker 2009

Monday, 13 September 2010

Trash

Trash

A plastic cup, submerged, still and lifeless,
only meters from where an old green bucket
lay nonchalantly on its side in the slick oily water,
the ground littered with carelessness,
a gathering wasteland of old detritus
discarded pasts of present joys left
for future generations to confess,
the arrogance and ignorance, bereft.
The packaging of innocent decadence,
littering the grounds of a manipulated recompense.
The over abundance of a formulated struggle
a strangulation of individualist egoism
imbalanced consumerism, bereft of mutual identity,
cut adrift from a temporal reality.
The severed ties, remain like chaff in the wheat.
Unwinnowed, inedible, in a collective retreat.
As the leaves fall upon the Autumnal ground,
the remnants of summers past,
lies littered in human folly,
unable to decompose,
the cacophony of a discordant mindset,
a rhapsody of disharmony
in natures cyclic symphony.
The human tree that sheds and shits
endlessly upon itself,
This dis-composition of effect,
stripped away from it's causes,
a decomposing social fabric,
evident in the trash left behind.
Unable and unwilling to cleanse itself,
of half remembered, half forgotten,
tokens and totems, remnants of an ill bred past
an imbalanced offering to our children,
future echoes of regret.
Time enough to clean it up,
time enough to wash it down.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Sunday, 12 September 2010

The Old Wooden Bridge


The Old Wooden Bridge

Where the silver birch
and the rotunda meet
by the trickling stream
you will find wild trout
suckling at the waters lip
surrounded by bull-rushes
rustling with the oaken leaves
delicately warbling with young chaffinches
in their first summers flight,
dancing in the treetops of light,
swaying to the beat,
of the wind waves,
heaving through the branches and the heat.
There, i will sit,
upon the old wooden bridge,
in the forgotten corner,
to watch the squirrels, red,
forage amongst the detritus,
the undergrowth,
the manicured ground,
littered with remnants
of passing days, halcyon nights,
hoping too and fro,
between the discarded past
and futures bright dance;
A wasteland of remembrance.
Sometimes,
to stop at the waters edge,
to sip at still rivulets,
in the afternoon heat,
blissfully bounding ever onward,
over root and bark alike.
in this corner, preen and green,
quietly nestled in the midst of a modern age,
Sometimes, the ancient archive, is alive.
Natures purest ways, the Iskonski,
existent in peaceful slumber,
a restive remembrance
amongst the cacophony,
of an unbridled chaos,
littering futures,
with a present carelessness.
Yet, natures ancient ways, remain.
Where the silver birch
and the rotunda meet
by the trickling stream
you will find wild trout
suckling at the waters lip,
under the shade,
of the Old Wooden Bridge.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Saturday, 11 September 2010

Angelic Sleeper


Angelic Sleeper

Angelic Sleeper,
with the soft warm body
of a familiar concubine.
Wrapped in silken elegance,
a quiet repose of divinity refined.
Three burns you have suffered.
The first, born of iron,
betwixt a sufferance of repose,
the last, surging through your aching muscles
in the final ascent of the mountain,
peeked with a cross, in the fading light of day,
flecked with oranges and pinks, mauve hues,
weaving there gracious spell throughout you.
Released from the fires torment,
licked at in the descending twilight,
allowing the earth to pull you down,
down into its communal womb,
the hive of sanity within the chaos of doubt.
Left only the fading scars of past remembrance,
the aging ruddy relief of dazzling ennui,
and the ache of that final climb of Grace,
a climb that eased the sombre notes,
etched upon the anguish of your face.
A mirror of your own soul,
shining now, clean again,
the dust, wiped from the edges and the surface,
reflecting true images,
transposed in just relief,
upon the silver of its shimmering surface,
to catch the light that once you bore,
and shine it onward, evermore.
Liberty, a state of grace,
born not from a desperate race,
away from something,
but an embrace of all that once was,
a free flight, with replete wings
into a dawns delight,
where our dreams, tinged with harmony,
echo the light within us that forever sings.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010



Tuesday, 31 August 2010

A Razors Edge

















A Razors Edge

The walls we built,so tall, so stout,
our sentinels of endless fears,
bastions of lonesome doubt,
recede once more through countless years.
To peek above the torpid ground,
the rocky outcrops of fractured minds,
they do not make a single sound,
just sit there waiting with there kind.
Until some fearless soul decides,
to dig them out, from seasons past,
to find that in that hole resides,
their final resting place at last.
Will we fly into that open sky?
and shuffle off the shackles grip,
or bound below, sink down and die,
a 'razors edge' in one last slip.
A choice forestalled,
is quickened here between these walls.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Monday, 30 August 2010

I want to be your skin


I want to be your skin

I want to be your skin
to envelop your body completely
to line every inch of you
and disappear into every intimate crevice.
To peak into blushing rosebuds-
sensate titillations.
I want to be your skin.
When I slip into the cool water,
to tighten upon your taught frame,
your muscles heaving against me-
pushing me out,
pulling me in,
with each rippling undulation.
I want to be your skin,
Squeezing between your thighs-
slapping me against the tide-
I want to be your skin,
as you rise from the waters edge,
dripping upon a burning shore.
I want to be your skin,
as you lay languidly upon me,
laying me down upon the sand,
squeezing me into the earth,
pushing me breathless into your yielding folds.
I want to be your skin,
as the sun melts me into you,
sliding in sweaty slips
upon the sips of the warm air,
that play upon me,
as I mould myself into you.
I want to be your skin,
as you rub oil onto my crisp, sun drenched bliss,
tingling with each sizzling stroke of your fingers,
easing me into you ever deeper,
yielding into the deep surrender of you.
I want to be your skin.
To feel you smile,
as joy floods you from within,
erupting upon your face,
and stretching me into a giggling mass of joy.
I want to be your skin.
To sweat sweetly through each pore,
opened utterly, leaking you out of me,
cooling you within, without-a moments hesitation.
opening to your sweet unguence,
every fluid of you flowing over me.
I want to be your skin.
The rising fire from within,
the waves, the tempest, the storm,
the lightening, the thunder.
The heavy breath of your chest, stretching me,
in long powerful heaving drafts,
your hot breath, rushing over my tremulous lips-
full and sensate-
the sensate soul-state.
I want to be your skin.
As you wash me down, lathering and lingering,
cleaning every speck, every spot,
each blemish of the day, washed away-
easing each anxiety,
as I feel your muscles relax beneath me,
slowly towelling me dry,
pampering me with your powders and sweet lotions,
in long languid motions.
I want to be your skin.
As you lay me down upon the bed,
curling up, clasping me in a deep repose,
the silken sheets slipping over us,
raising every nerve to a heightened ecstasy,
burying me in a huddled mass of you,
sighing as we dream together,
inseparable in the night of a tantalizing dream,
a dream of enraptured bliss,
a skin-tight kiss,
I want to be your skin.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010




Tuesday, 24 August 2010

The Girl with Golden Blazing eyes

The Girl with Golden blazing eyes

Filled with undertakings
as every dream of mine had fled
i was shaken by my misgiven mind
as this heart of mine was bled

and i dont know if i could take it
if only sadness filled this art
you see i found a girl who wanted me
with a slow and easy heart

and im stood here now by the side of the road
wondering where i left the light
knowing there will be another day
but wonderin if there'll be a night
and if this flower fades before i go
will it fragrantly remind...
me of a sunny day with a beautiful girl
the one with Golden blazing eyes

and here i go....tumblin through your skies

then all those passages i'de taken
along with dark and dim lit sights
filled all my relief, with a bitter grief
turnin all my days to nights

and if i keep on looking backwards
will this moment never end
cause i looked all around, and i looked again
looking for my long lost friend

and im stood here now by the side of the road
wondering where i left the light
knowing there will be another day
but wonderin if there'll be a night
and if this flower fades before i go
will it fragrantly remind...
me of a sunny day with a beautiful girl
the one with Golden blazing eyes

and here i go....tumblin through your skies

so i went out to find an answer
for why ide turned along that road
and at the crossroads of my forgotten soul
i found old man carry'n a load

He said son, do you think you could lend a hand
I said, sure i can spare the time
then i opened my eyes and found ide turned around
and that old man's load was mine

and im stood here now by the side of the road
wondering where i left the light
knowing there will be another day
but wonderin if there'll be a night
and if this flower fades before i go
will it fragrantly remind...
me of a sunny day with a beautiful girl
the one with Golden blazing eyes

and here i go....tumblin through your skies

So if your caught by your misgivings
and you find your self alone
look ahead instead, put the past to bed
or you'll reap the seeds you've sown

and if that girl should walk beside you
on a day of pure delight
dont turn on your heels, or forget how it feels
to be alone on a rainy night

or you'll be stood here by the side of the road
wondering where you left the light
knowing there will be another day
but wonderin if there'll be a night
and if that flower fades before you go
will it fragrantly remind...
you of a sunny day with a beautiful girl
the one with Golden blazing eyes

and There you'll go....tumblin through your skies

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Friday, 20 August 2010

Foolish Romantic

Foolish Romantic

What need the world of fools such as i,
cars, money, and intimacy simply pass me by,
scoffed at by every twinkling eye,
and in the end merely left on the sidelines,
saddened, alone, and shy.
Every success reserved for hardened hearts,
or the blessed, and the grand,
or the ruthless desperado's at the start.
Not a glance, nor a simple kiss to cherish,
left only this island of solitude on which to perish.
No trust from the good,
who see the darkness in my eyes,
nor from the bad,
who try to hide their bitter lies.
Left to walk this razors edge,
a scornful rancour,
heaped upon a truculent pledge.
I walk alone,
the edge grows ever sharper,
i cannot stop,
a choice made ever darker.
Though sometimes in that dark,
i make my mark,
a searing second sight,
of resplendent futures,
dazzlingly bright;
yet now, just now,
this loneliness seems to me too much to bare,
without a soul beside me to even care,
how, or why, or even where.
A simple caress, a gentle kiss,
and all the sensate intimacy i miss,
A cost so great, this cut so deep,
the chosen fate seems all too steep.
What need the world of fools such as i,
a foolish romantic,
couched within a never ending sigh.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Thursday, 19 August 2010

IF












IF

If I were a planet how would I exist,
would I understand my balance,
when threatened, would I try to resist?
If I were a river that flowed to the sea,
would I move so I may rest,
when damned, would I let it be?
If I were a man who molded my life,
would I reshape my destiny, when defeated,
would I look for a wife?
If I were a fire, stoked to burn true and bright,
would I lick at my mentor,
when dowsed, would I burn through the night?
If I were a poet in the arms of life's love,
could I fly by myself,
would I dream from above?
Yet all that I am,
may be seen by your heart,
for 'IF' is the course,
where this love's set to start.
  
© Richard Michael Parker 1997




Saturday, 14 August 2010

A note from Richard
















A note from Richard

Love is a dream within a dream,
a rapture filled symphony,
swept upon a mellifluous stream,
to capture that which once was free,
and free again in different light,
to sweep away the shadows hasp,
and triumph in a dawns delight,
entwined within a lovers grasp.
to sing a rhapsody, embraced
and bare, bold passions tilt,
then swim into each folded grace
through pools, in heavens built.
Two lovers, ravished, in a sonnets bloom,
awakened, in rejoice'd swoon.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Monday, 9 August 2010

Butterfly












Butterfly

Delicate winged nymph of the sky
once you crawled
briefly slept
now you are a twinkle in my eye.

© Richard Michael Parker 2009



Sunday, 8 August 2010

The Lonely





























The Lonely

The aching heart of the lonely
mouthed in words of sombre tones
housed by walls
loves soft emollient
a soothing smile, a fluttering lash,
a gifted guile, a garland sash,
a giggle, a grin
laughters softened chin.
depths unfathomable solitary confinement
made the deeper
by loves memories and refinement,
holding hands upon silken sands
a look, a glance,
a book, a dance
memories to cherish
on dark lonesome nights
I perish.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

 


Artwork by JoyusLion