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,

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



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

RMP (1987)

© Richard Michael Parker 2010