Saturday, 17 December 2011

Touched by a Muse


















Touched by a Muse

Cradled in a golden basket of love,
rocking gently,
amidst the slow waves of light,
caressing my soul,
in a fathomless sea of delight.

This beauty you spin,
weaves such a delicacy of silk,
i am spooled within, cocooned,
by the deep warmth of your embrace.

A coadulation of grace,
effortlessly soothing this ache,
a balm from out the remnants of remiss,
eased in gentle strokes,
upon the furrowed brow of this darkened soul,
a calm sea in which no heart can break.

Casting off the mooring lines of resentment,
we sail into this holy light,
a divine rapture, poetic and transcendent,
freed in an instant from that melancholic plight.

Beguilingly entranced by this flight,
cast upon a cerulean sea,
you make of me, a guileless craft,
and all i can do is clasp your wheel, breathlessly.

Knowing nothing but the warm zephyr of a soulful breeze,
brushing with fine fingers through silken hair,
billowing within these sails you have hoisted,
the soulful air, of all those suns you have cloistered,
released, in the gift of your touch.

Shining upon a timeless sea,
lost in a phosphorescent tranquility of love,
I burst upon your shining waters,
and play upon the dips and peeks,
the slapping tide of loves ebullient dance,
shimmering in the golden light of this new dawn,
the joyful epiphany each breathless moment seeks,
reborn.

And slow; We flow upon a honeyed stream of poetry and dreams,
never to know, the broken hearted weariness of woe,
or so it seems.

A revelation redeemed,
the sanctity of grace avowed,
christened in the freedom of this kiss,
the ever loving tenderness, of thou,
a bliss, touched by a muse,
perched within a golden bough,
sings.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Friday, 9 December 2011

True Lover


-True Lover-

Who thought the world could look just like this?
In an instant you turned the blue darkness to bliss;
The arms of this throne that were split into kindling,
replaced by a love seat, when all hope was dwindling.

From out of the depths, these hearts have ascended,
to find that the darkness inside them has ended;
Reborn to a bright golden halcyon light,
the seed that was torn is now sown in delight.

This feeling of light giddy numinous fire,
suspended in airs of warmth and desire;
Gives back in a flood that which flows through each heart,
for its 'now' that true love inside both of us starts.

Where it has come from, and where it is going,
are questions I seem not to ask whilst its blowing;
This breeze that has caught in our sails speeds us onward,
as we glide through this glorious dawn and move forwards.

So take up this heart in your own my true lover,
and know that dark nights empty spell now is over.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011-2013

Thursday, 8 December 2011

The Teardrops of Love



The Teardrops of Love

How can we catch diamonds that fall from the sky,
how do we paint love if you wont even try.

When the lark sings its first sweet note of dawn,
and the cool dark winds of the nightingales breath
echo into memory,
do those warm rays fall upon the silence,
numbed by the cool death of a soulless night,
or does its song rise in the belly of your love,
bursting in rhapsody upon the bells of epiphany.

How do our stars shoot across this heaven,
or this new born foal take its first faltering steps,
without courage and fire,
stoked in the hearth of emotive desire.

When the trembling comes,
the fearsome quake that subsumes your heart
in the joy and terror of love,
is the moistened bridge awash in the rush,
with each god bless'd tear, each ruddy rosy flush,
or do you sit, silent,
a pocket of dull gray in a panoply of luminescence?

Silence, where no footsteps are heard,
no soft heartbeat, nor trembling word,
is bound to an absence, in a sparse barren place,
without the bright dawn of your loves tender grace.

This dance, the giddy revelry of life and love,
despair, and yes, grief too,
a loss so dark, the endless aching womb
moans in the pitiless absence of you,
is cloistered in the hallowed hallways of light,
in stillness,  it dreams of a new days delight,
where the past is departed from out of the blue,
and a new day arises with a soft mellow hue.
 
How can we catch diamonds that fall from the sky,
how do we see God, if you wont even cry.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Friday, 2 December 2011

The Heavy Hearted



























- The Heavy Hearted -

The heavy hearted,
hanging their troubles upon the past
seeking a glimpse of tomorrow
wrapped in a swaddling cloth of sorrow.
Where do we find the motion
to sweep beyond the tidal pull of doubt
and simply remain in a place
where the light breaks the silence,
unchained from the manacles
we make, link by link.
Born into guilt,
blamed for all that we did not know
the sweeping years
the tears that flow
created now in remembrance
owned by our own choices
these dark and distant voices
of loss, and chances we mistook.
Breathe my heavy hearted friend
and know that in an instant of love
all those chains are broken,
the voices silenced
the chances retaken,
for no darkness exists without the light.
Open your eyes once more
and you will see me,
waiting.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Thursday, 1 December 2011

Dark Night

-Dark Night-

Let the lightening flash,
and the thunder roar,
the ocean crash,
upon the flailing shore.
Mighty is the roaring wind,
humbled is your heart,
the quickening of doubts rescind,
to beckon in this dawns new start.

The tumult rips asunder
every shallow heart at bay
and tears a ripping gash
along the shorelines scar'd fray
it does not ask permission
it demands the haste of need
and seeks out every fallow
worthless lying evil seed.

A choice forestalled is bound up
in the crack that forms the ridge
between two worlds, kept apart
beyond this crushing bridge
T'is better to descend one step
in time amongst a thousand
than find that by your actions
you have leapt from off the stanchion's.

One last chance to remedy
the mighty Kraken's power
a world left rent from out the sea
an unleashed fury in this hour
so heed this final warning
else your orchestrated slight
will find itself devoured
by a briny sea's dark knight.


© Richard Michael Parker 2011


Wednesday, 30 November 2011

The Burning Shore















-The Burning Shore-

I wait upon this burning shore,
wait, for half a moon,
half a sun, half a soul,
charred in the coals you left behind,
the traces between the spaces of this love,
that fuel the longing of its rebirth;
Silenced by the torture of this night,
pitching in a tormented sea,
blind, in this seering sight,
the emptiness of all eternity.

I wait upon the breakers of this isle,
waves that surge between the gaps,
white horses that bring no news of you,
still, I wait, in perpetuity i wait,
in purgatory, I wait, and waiting, break.

Forlorn, wrapped in this deathly shroud,
knowing only loves echo,
and the cries that sweep upon the depths,
the dark depths,
hollowed in the remnants of this heart,
filled with a briny death,
the drowning depths made the deeper,
as I crack, and come apart.

Loyally I stand, and watch this beauty wither,
the silence devouring my heart,
the sea stripping me bare in the absence of you,
no solace to be found,
not even in the cheerless trill,
of the lonesome nightingale,
a morbid sound,
that sings of hope where none remains,
and leaves but a trace of that bullish tale,
the brave and bold miracle, of dashing guile,
brilliant schemes, a slashing sword,
retold within these desperate dreams.

Oh heart!, break upon these waves,
and bleed into this briny sea,
that I may ride upon the tides of fate,
that took you so very far from me.
Strip the flesh from off these sour bones,
the bitterness of the outcast left alone,
and cast me upon her tireless stroke,
beyond this captive shore,
that I may slap upon her flesh once more,
to rest upon her still beating breast,
a salty residue of all that is left,
Oh heart, let not hopelessness
be the last kiss.

Once, I heard your name echo in my ear,
in some far off ancient palisade,
a passageway of time,
yet time now is but the lengthening of this course,
filled only with the emptiness, and remorse,
the lamentation of your passing.

For when you came,
it was a shadow that crept upon that beach,
filled with the scheming vapour of a mordants speech,
the denizen remnants of ages past,
brought before our alter at last,
and so I waited, again, waited for the daggers breach,
only to find it was not the blade, but poison,
the poison of a heartless kind,
the poison that had poisoned your mind.

Listen dull ear, how the sea does mock me still,
with every hollow whisper,
that seethes upon these bloody sands,
to leap in haughty revelry,
in the anguish of your memory,
drawn upon the tears that weep between my frozen hands.

Yet still I burn, no longer brightly,
no longer the bonfire of passions firth,
that wrecks the fair ship upon this reach,
smashed upon the rocks of this cursed beach,
no longer the crack of sullied bones,
the wailing of the mariners moans,
limp in the maelstroms grip of this sorrow,
a shallow flicker in the dying embers,
the remnant cinders, in the dark and the hollow.
The night closing in ever thicker,
dead coals within a sallow bed of ashes,
heaped upon my head,
the penitent remembrance of the departing,
and the dead.

I am but a shadow that leaps upon the beach,
that sleeps beneath a moonless sky,
wrapped in a shroud of distant speech,
as one by one the stars go out, and die.
Where is the dawn? Where is the light?
Where comes my love from out that endless night?

© Richard Michael Parker 2011 


Sunday, 27 November 2011

A whisper that became a voice becomes a shout


A whisper that became a voice becomes a shout

It is all there,
whispers from the past,
echoes of the future,
the sounding bell of the present,
struck in your art,
the timeless tumult,
whispered within your heart.
Its soulful resonance,
waves rippling within a timeless sea,
this artful remembrance,
that laps upon these shores,
between you and me.
This whisper that became a voice,
an echoing cry beyond forever,
bound within this choice,
here, now,
becomes a shout!
shunning forever the silence of doubt.
Have no fear,
for love knows no bounds,
and in this heartfelt meld,
this soulful art echoes,
its eternal resonance resounds.
A whisper,
that became a voice,
becomes a shout,
in this digital realm,
of the heart,
your art will let it out.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Friday, 25 November 2011

Always



-Always-

When you find yourself in that dark place,
and the breath leaves you for the light,
and you wonder where you might
catch a breeze again,
a silent ease, to lend a helping hand,
a gust, to take you to some other land,
look no further than a simple thought away,
for I am there, with light and air,
and in that moment of consummate loving care,
you will know, you are not alone.
Breathe my love,
For I am with you, always,
your hand in my own,
souls forever lifting one other,
until this breath that we share,
picks you up, and as light as air
sweeps you to the light,
a feathers touch,
true and bright,
always to know,
it is together, that we grow.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Artwork: Julie Bergman

Wednesday, 23 November 2011

Sometimes


























Sometimes

Sometimes,
when you have found what you are looking for,
and lost it again,
serendipity plays its card,
and you find what you never expected,
in a place you have never been.
Sometimes,
you have to stop looking,
in order to be found.
Sometimes.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011


Artwork by Inner Voice Art

Thursday, 17 November 2011

Gossamer






















-Gossamer-

World weariness,
the heaviness of sacrifice and waiting...
the beaten down heart,
that longs to feel the giddy spinning wheel of love
flow through every gate.
To dance replete,
a joyful song
resounding in the meadows of childhood
lost for too long.
To meet,
reborn in the arms of life's living love,
the tender mercy of God's great gift
to each and every one.
A mate,
to measure this timeless gambol and gate,
to skip in sweet line,
from this moment
to forever resigned...
to know joy once more,
to fly upon diaphanous wings into an open sky,
twirling in the sunlit presence from above,
in gossamer airs that only two may know,
in love.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Blossom

 -Blossom-

Sweet supple lipped blossom,
of love gently given,
resplendently shines now,
in two hearts arisen.
For when in the morn
we remember the lark,
with hope and with love,
we kindle that spark,
and find in each day,
that follows the night,
souls that have wept
now dance in the light,
swept up together,
to slip in sweet time,
to the rhythm and pull,
of natures sweet rhyme.
My supple lipped blossom
of delicate hue,
this fragrance of poesy,
delights in just you.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Saturday, 12 November 2011

A Whorl of Love

A whorl of Love

A whorl of love,
for my sweet petaled flower.
This poppies tail,
that tells of the hour.

Recounts a sweet tune,
in a rhapsodic haze,
of two loves made whole,
in glorious ways.

Drawn from the hearth,
of dark Morpheus's dream,
and swept to the light,
in a rapturous stream.

Retold in remembrance,
as the curtains unfold,
of fates wind that's blown,
through these fields made of gold.

This head that drooped,
in a breath, split asunder,
seemed like a death,
as it sank and went under.

I glanced for a moment,
back up into the light,
as I drowned in the water,
submerged, without fight.

To find that our fingers,
were locked in embrace,
a heavenly light,
shone from out your sweet face.

Enraptured in blush,
we rose now together,
light as a breeze,
to float like a feather.

For you came with a lightness,
so giddy with joy,
imbued with the grace,
great powers employ.

As if some great spell,
had magicked you there,
Persephone found;
Demeter's great care.

I scarce can believe,
how we laugh in this light,
when moments before,
death and woe, were our plight.

From whence did you come
my sweet anodyne maid?
faithful and true,
this great love you have saved!

Success, rest and beauty,
are our gifts now to savor,
the alms of remembrance,
reborn in sweet ardor.

For now I recall,
what once was forgot,
that true love arises,
from burnt ashen's lot.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011



Artwork:

Sunday, 6 November 2011

The Naming of Things




'The Naming of Things'

How do I say; 'I love you'?
How in the naming of things does the motion begin?
the swelling tide, this great ocean,
that fills my heart so full, I drown a little every day inside.

The day you left, and the naming of things receded.
Half names, in a half lit world, half a sea away,
swirling within this maelstroms grief and doubt,
Oh god!, I tried to speak,
I tried to speak them, but only half words came out,
half sounds, half formed,
receding into a silence again, still born.
Half of me, half a world away, half night, half day.

Where does this come from? This, tremor within?
These words, silent, half heard,
night waves smashed upon this reef,
cast into a rolling sea,
filled with an endless grief,
toiling, twisting, crashing into one another,
until all that is left of them, all that is left,
in this seething mass of foaming heartache,
is a shoddy flotsam bursting upon the surface of things,
fractured remnants,
fragments of craft washed upon this shore,
never to speak, never to sail, never, nevermore.

It is the silence, that gnaws upon the bones of discontent,
eating into the marrow of self worth,
until all that is left is a cracked empty shell,
and the hollow of brittle bones,
stirring in the cauldron of this vacuous stillbirth.

There comes a moment in every life,
the hammer fall of silence,
that cracks the loving egg,
spilling the yolk into a briny sea.
There comes a moment,
when you either live, tied, or die, free.
There comes a moment, when you know,
these ragged ends will never be whole,
broken shards forever shattered,
never to mend, empty and hollow,
holding nothing but the sea that they swallow.

There comes a moment,
foul in that tempests grip,
awash in a howling gale,
remorselessly torn in a heartless rip,
when that leeching sea begins to pull you down,
that you either close your heart, or you drown.

There comes a moment when you know, just know,
if you go under again, you will never resurface,
torn between the drowning heart and the loveless.

There comes a moment, when all things must be named.

How do I say; 'I love you'?
except in the naming of things,
the naming of things that I love,
for it is you that I love, and in loving you,
name you, my love.


© Richard Michael Parker 2011



Artwork: 'La Jeune Martyre' - Paul Delaroche

Saturday, 22 October 2011

Gold and Blue




















I sat in front of you yesterday, wondering what you might make of all these piercing eyes, dumbfounded gazes, and exhibitionist sighs. I waited in turmoil, my head spinning in the energetic rapture of that place, and slowly, willfully, entered your world, the return of grace, as autumn might reclaim the land from the violence of summer storms. The bombardment of Gainsborough, Titian, Constable and Turner, bellowing in my mind. 

As i sat before you once again, like some penniless and penitent supplicant before his master, i cast my mind back to the open field beyond the cloistered halls, and the simple room on the second floor, the hidden sanctuary, in our hallowed St Remy. The golden wheat flowing in the warm airs of an early autumn day, the birds, hidden in the cypresses, thrilling with the joyful youth of life's first summer, safe now from the excesses of that untempered heat, the fire in the luminescent sky, that burnt the swollen head, red. The cool blue clouds shielding all in a shroud of penance, free from those foreboding skies and Arlesque cries, banished, but for a moment, as the paint dried in the wind; The wind, that called my name, an offering of calm before the beckoning swirling harm might start again. 

The reaping would soon occur, and in this thought, i found a silent ease, a moment of timeless peace, awash in the quiescence of that place, the fountain in the courtyard of my heart. 

Until at last, the footsteps faded with the echoing dash of the garrulous crowd, and i was lost again in bliss. Lost, in a field of gold and blue. Baptized in a gentle rain, awash in a salty residue, the company of risen hearts. A flood of calm from out the din, infused within this retinue. The late summer sun, smiling gently, in this golden remembrance of you.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Sunday, 16 October 2011

Loves Tender Gift




























Loves Tender Gift

A rose is like no other flower,
it's petals silken,
deep red,
a heart that beats,
a bosom that is blessed.

I dreamt a rose, it's fragrance sweet,
and in the air, a hue of golden light,
danced upon listless longings of delight.

The bitter sweet tale of loves beguiling ways,
a longing of tenderness,
forlorn in open gaze.
 
Whence this dove, alight and given,
rises from it's slumber, and as phoenix arisen,
drifts upon the aether of our minds soft touch,
with loves tender longing,
to meet!, a gift, so much.

A rose is like no other flower,
it's petals silken,
deep red,
a heart that beats,
a bosom that is blessed.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011



Artwork by Peggi Meyer Graminski

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

Grateful




















Grateful

The dawning epiphany, in the end,
when all is burnt away,
and into the mouth of hell you descend,
believing there is no other way.

When the darkness consumes all,
and your eyes have lost there sight,
in the depths of that endless fall,
in the pit, you will find a light.
It was not born, nor sent, nor created,
it has always been in that place,
and only in love is it sated,
for that light is a heavenly grace.

We create what we desire,
we either fly upon the wind,
or descend into self serving fire,
it is a choice, and it's yours my friend.

For everything that you have ever known,
every place and every time,
every season in which you have grown,
every step of fateful design,
has simply been a choice,
between the dark, and the light,
between the silence, and the voice,
between your day, and your night.

There are many paths.
Some filled with joy,
some are painful,
but we all get there in the end,
and for that, my friend,
I am grateful.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Monday, 3 October 2011

What do you see...




























 What do you see...

A reflected sunlit dream,
carried in a stream, of sunlight,
across a world,
reflected in a mind, of a girl,
ghosted upon the outer limb of a tree,
a branch of humanity,
born within a memory.

Where do the colours go,
when all else has faded?
and we are left floating in a snapshot of time,
swimming in a summer sun,
upon a swing of our own design.

You looked upon that bough,
bright youth swaying in the wind,
as the glass between us,
an evergreen testament,
to this passage of constancy, gleamed.

Transparent souls, forever separated,
shielded from the wind swept touch of time,
a silver envelope of light,
captured in this moment,
a sacred memory of rhythm and rhyme.
  
© Richard Michael Parker 2011


Artwork by Drunk Love Heart

Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Passing the flame





























Passing the flame

When we are gone,
and time has taken its turn,
what will remain of us,
except for this communion,
this unity, this fire,
stoked in the hearth of one another.
No act of creation occurs in isolation,
no fire burns alone,
apart from the fuel upon which it feeds.
You are the coals upon which I burn,
and in turn,
may these flames set your own hearth alight,
so that together,
we may sear a brand upon the hearts and souls of others,
in the dark, and cold of an empty night.
This union of creativity,
that spans eternities divide,
the bridge between all that was,
and all that will be,
is here, now, in this fire-lit sky,
the impassioned inspiration between you and I.
Let us burn brightly,
a sempiternal communion of divinity,
a heartfelt living memory beyond name,
and in the gift of that grace,
a moment beyond time and space,
live forever, in the passing of the flame.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

The Fisherman
























The Fisherman

'Interfering old hag',
'troublesome crone',
they couldn't disown you fast enough,
until you were dead,
then all they said was you were theirs,
but you were never theirs,
and left them sitting at the banquet table,
to distribute crumbs to the multitude,
how rude!
didn't you know how to do as you were told?
Bossy, brazen, and old!
I loved you so!

I sat beside the Vardar and watched an old fisherman wade into the water, the fast currents slipped between the sun kissed shoals of soft washed pebbles, weaving their eddying ways amongst the dips and treacherous hollows. He stepped so surely, as if through constancy and practice he felt the flow. Several fishermen looked on at this old man with his rolled up trousers and shabby shirt, none daring the tide, nor slipping there feet from cushioned heels, and comfortable seats. Their baskets were empty, and though they seemed not to care, basking in the late summer sun, the keenness of eye with which they watched this old hand walk upon the waters rush, belied their envy and distrust. He stopped, still, amidst the rushing scream, and seemed in that moment to hover upon the waters, to stand upon them. He turned and cast a grin, slackened his reel, and let loose the line into the sweeping current. A perfect arc, as the rod rose, retrieving all the line that had been released. The trace lay delicately upon the water, in the shadow luff of the stone bridge. No sooner than the fly alighted upon the spot, than the snap of the rods whip sank the barb deep. The fish were biting, and hungry, and hooked. The wizened old man deftly manoeuvred the fish into his basket, pulled in his line, turned in the current, and silently slipped up stream from whence he had come, a large fish tail slapping in his basket. He stepped upon the shore, rolled down his trousers, smiled at the men, who begrudgingly nodded back, hopped upon his old bike, and rode down the old river path, past the young lovers, seated in the shade, and the flatulent old men lining the banks, hoping for a fish with dry feet.

'Interfering old hag',
'troublesome crone',
didn't you know when to leave well enough alone?
I loved you so!... by God, I loved you so!

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

(Original photograph of artwork by Miftar Memeti, 'A tribute to Mother Theresa')

Monday, 19 September 2011

As a Man




















As a Man

As a man who weeps,
i do not want to be one of the numberless numb,
the half lives,
casting faint shadows upon the earth,
searing themselves only onto the surface of things,
skin deep tattoo's, of them and us, and you.
Instead, let it be said, i branded your heart,
as the fires wept from your eyes and bled.
I may not last as long,
this song may not sound as sweet,
and the anguish may overcome me in the end,
but let the fire of passions zeal, my friend,
seal a searing brand upon this world from out my soul,
and on this land, may the waters of my tears,
shed over all my years,
flood the sacred blossoms of tomorrow,
a perfumed testament,
to all my aching loving joys,
and sorrow.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Sunday, 11 September 2011

Another
















Another

In your absence I have taken a lover
she is dark and endless
she wraps me in the deepest night
and holds me firm against her bosom
safe from the rancour of false hope;
A cosseted harbour of meaningless ennui,
I sink into her silent depths,
and feel all light fade.
She demands nothing of me but complete surrender,
and I, knowing only forlorn shades,
am consumed by her lust.
Darkness is her name, despair another,
hopelessness and wanton care.
I sink endlessly into her frightening folds
and I know she will never leave me,
a constancy of dark resolve.
In your absence I have found another
or was it that she found me?
I no longer know, nor care,
I only know that you are not there.

(RMP) - 9-11-2011

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Summers Past





























-Summers Past-

Where have you gone, sweet child of innocence, 
where once you gambolled through the summer phlox, 
laughter filling every presence, 
a golden sheen streaming through your ruddy locks. 

Twas only in the morn i saw the twinkle in your eye, 
and ne'er a vestige of twilight's doubt, 
but all that suns bright glory's passed you bye, 
and every light in you has gone out. 

Wild is the heart that sings the larks sweet chorus, 
redounding over dewy meadows dawn, 
but solemn, the owl calls all of us, 
down into the grave from whence we're born.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011



Monday, 8 August 2011

Unspoken





















Unspoken

In the spaces,
the silence of those places,
weaves a thread of communion,
the glue between the moments,
of all that we were,
and how we grew, together,
a part of all that we knew,
woven into this fabric,
these gentle threads, of me and you.

For what cannot be said,
resounds in the deep oceans of our moment,
the waiting and the dread,
the unfathomable epiphany,
in the depths of this love.

The sounding bell echoes below,
leaking into this inky silence.
The reaches of those dark moments,
washed upon these beaches,
a fateful shallow echo,
of the silence in the depths of us.
The heaving heavy sighs,
hissing, seething, longing,
rushing upon our shores,
drawn back again,
down into the depths once more.

In the silence,
the whisper of all that we were,
swims in a sea of all we shall be... quietly!
a gentle fluid constancy,
unspoken.


© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Thursday, 4 August 2011

Loves Embrace


























Loves Embrace

The lightening and fire,
within each soul,
a sated desire,
two halves made whole.
This hearth is rekindled,
to burn through the night,
where once it had dwindled,
a phoenix in flight.
For this earth that rises,
as heaven descends,
embraces each soul,
like a long lost friend.
A largess of the spirit,
each gift a sweet token,
of a love that was found,
between two hearts bespoken.
That met in the midst,
of this body, my bridge,
and flowed with a suppleness,
over each ridge.
Until all that was left,
of this barren stark place,
was a bright and effulgent,
sweet poem of grace.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011



Artwork by Rassouli

Saturday, 30 July 2011

A Flood of Love




A Flood of Love

I lay supine,
your grace washing through me
like a flood of love divine
knowing only the moment of surrender
as the gates open to a light reborn,
soft, and tender.

Awash in a flood of love
that fills even the darkest spaces,
banishing the harsh word
the truculent grime,
so that for a time
not even pain can enter here.

A release of each anxiety
every darkness washed from the core of me,
as we swim into this dazzling sea,
I in thou, thou in me;

And in that place,
where the light surges through the gates
flowing into every memory I have known
soothing each space into which I've grown
I find myself dissolving into a unity of you
that spreads through out my universe
my subtle inner view
until all that is left of me,
left of this vestige of you,
is a splash of luminescence,
painted upon a canvas of dazzling hue.

You do not come from without
you do not echo in some doubt
you do not flood me through my eyes
or ears, or nose,
but through the deepest sighs.
An eruptive eminence of delight
streaming from within
born to some second sight,
a flood of love
caressing me with light.

And there in that place,
I open my eyes
and see the world once more
turn upon its tide
a remnant of the vision
of the radiance inside.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011 

Thursday, 28 July 2011

The Dancer






























The Dancer

The Ebb and Sway
firstly this, then on again that way
the swirling dips, fulminating slips
erupting from your core
the stirring heart beat of life
pouncing from the womb once more.

This dance that we are set within
cleaves to the moment
abandons past hopes
forgotten dreams,
futures slopes
and speeds upon a wild hearted stream
to plunge into a river of sensual light
a frenzy of liberty and delight.

Leap upon that tide
and know in that instant
no point exists, no line,
no straight and narrow
no course of artful design
just a giddy glory
a sweeping surging rush
spiraling within our own fervent story.

Seek the fire
let loose the flames inside
that you may leap upon a cool sky
and raise your soul upon its sanctity, high.

Know the abandonment of care.
Dance upon a pin,
and in that infinite space,
that timeless grace, within,
explode into the air,
with joy, with love
with no fear.

Begin...
for the music is set
and waits for no one.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

'The dance of love' by Leonid Afremov

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Strawberry Moon



















Strawberry Moon

In pale strokes of a gentle hand,
you shone upon this midnight land,
and in that light, no sullied sound was heard,
the soft timbre of your flaxen word,
eased between the lilting tones,
the shimmering light,
until in passing shades, silently,
your supple fingers slipped away,
as the cool soul of autumns night,
flows from out the giddy joy of a summers day.

A torpid slipstream of delight,
sweeping in tides, through your opalescent eyes,
a blue rimmed fire, stoked and stroked,
aflame within these skins of desire.
Alabaster shades of soft warm skin,
sinking into full flushed peaks,
entwined within a naked joy,
the dizzy dancing swirl of girl meets boy.
Doused now, within a pale moons light,
the mirrored dreams of a fading night.

Hidden behind a world of woe.
'I will not go'!, I heard you say,
soft and sweet, hallowed and low;
An echo of loves light,
a whispering vow of fateful plight;
Yet even as that breath departed,
we were eclipsed,
the sweet murmur of rose petaled lips,
fading into a shadow spun, slips,
where once had shone a great loves Sun.

Rippling through these clouds,
until all that is left of us,
left of this memory of supple ploy,
the aching sadness,
the numbing cold of winters hearth,
and the slow embers of a heartbeat,
staring dolefully skyward,
bleeding,
beneath the bittersweet light,
of this strawberry moon.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011 

Friday, 10 June 2011

Corridor of Hope




























'Corridor of Hope'

A distant race down a long dark corridor,
like life, like love sometimes;
Flitting between the dark columns and silent doorways,
the brief illumination of an open window,
the dim flicker of a bare bulb,
an echo of a hope recalled,
forever running towards some distant light
at the far end of an endless dark passage,
hoping, hoping that the light
doesn't fade before you tire,
hoping again, that the light opens out,
into fields of wild flowers, summer glory,
the sunlit joy of your own giddy story,
bursting through the doors enraptured.
The imagined transcendence of hope,
a salve in this night of the mottled soul,
the dim and dark place of flight.
A 'corridor of hope',
the narrow passage of each fateful soul,
sharp, as trust is sharp, and narrow,
keen as a razors edge,
that slides beneath your heavy feet.
Only time, and these ceaseless footsteps,
the endless pace of this running game,
keeps that sliver of hope alive.
The narrow blade of uncertainty,
that stretches on forever from beyond,
seems to grow ever longer with each fateful step,
an eternity of unrealized promise.
Who can tell where we run to,
or what we run from,
who but the shadow, knows the light,
knows the fears of those darkened columns,
or the cold steel cut of each fading hope denied,
the passage of the dark passing,
the colonnades of this fates design.
We breathe hope,
raise our weary souls
and hurtle towards that light.
Who is to say whether we will reach that open door,
before the light goes out,
or it closes for the last time,
locked, forevermore.
Will it be a dream realized,
or in some nightmare of our own design,
will we run the endless corridor?
Hope, hope remains...
but sometimes, the faster we run,
the longer that hallway becomes.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011



Many Thanks to Michelle Merle Pace for the inspiration for this piece, All copyright for the image remains the exclusive property of the artist and may not be copied, changed or transmitted without the prior consent of the artist. Thank you Michelle.

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

The Last Letter



The Last Letter

The last letter in an open book,
a chapter of verse and heartache,
of soft fluttering airs,
that breathe upon these waters between us.
As you cover yourself for the last time,
your eyes shine,
and in those shimmering dreams,
tears that have filled these seas,
paint your lashes with filigree's of fine dew,
a moistened remembrance of you.
The glistening sheen of your crystal eyes,
disappears within this fading vision,
a distant movement of purple and blue.
This old tattered parchment,
dry as the years of windswept sands,
in this desert of our parting,
is all that i hold of your heart now.
The tattered remnants,
flake from the edges of this memory,
and in the distance,
your song echoes out its final sweet note,
painted in the honeyed rapture,
of our orange blossomed youth.
The last letter in an open book,
hidden secrets,
a chapter and verse of heartache,
and rapture,
and you.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011 


My very greatest thanks to Raine for her gracious collaboration, and wondrous inspiration.  All artistic copyright remains the property of Inner Voice Art, and cannot be copied or transfered without prior permission. Thank You Raine :)

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Haiku in three parts

















Haiku in three parts

1.

Remember the Sun
climbing through the clouds
as the rain falls

2.

Climbing through the clouds
as the rain falls
remember the Sun

3.

As the rain falls
remember the Sun
climbing through the clouds

© Richard Michael Parker 2011 

Thursday, 26 May 2011

Mark of Cain

















Mark of Cain

This field was plowed and sown with grief,
and marked with sentient hubris,
the cries of wanton years relief,
fell deaf upon this distress.
For in my pride and vaunted soul,
I slew each angels gift,
and offered up this cracked bells toll,
this hearts discordant rift.

Standing at the end of my dreams,
staring into a wasteland of emptiness,
every shattered hope is seems,
becomes a shroud of vacuousness.
No more road to walk upon,
just dust beneath these worn out shoes,
the tattered cloths of a worn out sun,
descend into this night of blues.

Dreams die... and so do I,
with every fading faltering step,
no more hope or moistened eye,
to keep these shattered bones I've kept.
They crumble, break, and fall to dust,
and find that they are not alone,
for in this parched and bloody trust,
a billion souls to hell have blown.

So do not walk upon this road,
you'll find that it has but one end,
to carry such a heavy load,
down into heartless death my friend.
Turn back towards the dawns first light,
or reap the scorn of loves disdain,
to find yourself in endless flight,
for you'll have worn the mark of Cain.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011






Saturday, 14 May 2011

Dancing with the Stars















Dancing with the Stars

On sultry summer nights, in the wilds of my mind, surrounded by the swift gusting brush of natures hallowed breath, I feel my soul rise into the dark open sky, surrounded by a million flaming wheels that spin and twirl in a giddy dancing swirl of light and fire! There in the flame of your touch, I shudder and sweep across your surface, aflame with a soulful desire, the dip of sanguine hips flicker in the night, enraged and aroused by this tango of wild delight, to whir in shameless dizziness to the incendiary blur of your shimmering sight, the flash in the fullness of my reflection, splashed across this vision of spinning might, caught in the roar of this suns trembling rhapsody, wrapped in vanquished embrace, bursting into an epiphanic nova, a crescendo of moon and sky, incandescently arcing between these tongues of fire, flicking and licking into the night, one to the other, an incendiary passion of mystery, rapt in this resplendent majesty, shooting across all eternity, tonight.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Forbidden Love






Forbidden Love

This silence we have woven,
that spins each silken sticky thread,
is a vanity of hidden conceit,
caught in a web, cocooned in a heartbeat,
muffled, as if all joy was dead,
laced with the bane of the unforgiven moment,
shrouded in the emptiness of every word unsaid.

I have stoned them up, inside my heart,
built a fortress around their emptiness,
and watched as the darkness,
encased all, in forgetfulness,
entombed within this vaulted woe,
one silent brick at a time.

The wanton eloquence of wasted years,
fitful pangs of sullied lives and fears,
enclosed within a stony silence,
stolen heartbeats of forbidden love,
forlorn yearnings, trapped within an endless gloom,
to sing forever behind this stonewalled tomb.

We are enshrined within this mausoleum,
bound, gagged, and desecrated,
confiscated, man handled, and manipulated;
Tongue tied and twisted, shamelessly misled,
torn apart, lost, within a phony fugue,
forlorn, these fated hearts are bled.

Each muffled beat, squeezed through time,
forgotten remnants of loves light, and laughter,
shining through the cracks and shards, slide,
between each earthen brick, and hallowed mortar,
a fiery mix of blood and pride,
a sepulchre to this tethered halter.

Come, my love, and smash this wall to dust,
tear down this stony silent place, you must!
and let these hearts resound in joy once more,
to fly into a golden light, and soar,
on soulful wings effulgently elated,
my twin souled love, forever, we have waited.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011


Thursday, 28 April 2011

To Kate and William














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

Monday, 25 April 2011

The Face Remained The Same


















The Face Remained the Same

Thrust upon his throne,
he read his letter,
blind;
and turned the words, one with another,
in her mind:
He wept, forlorn.
The tap water hissed,
a snake in his miasmatic mist:
solemnity turned it out,
and it left the bitter sacrarium of his mind,
His very own pernicious inner blind.
With each brief tear,
a year.
He was alone.
A charted wilderness of boundless boundaries:
Driven, he would wander,
until at razors edge,
life would reveal a death.
We toss our own coin, an epoch or an epitaph,
heartily he would laugh;
The bastion, his spirited whole,
the only true soul.
For laughter offers all a gate,
to meliorate, this ambivalent
and capricious fallacy, we honor as reality.
Heartily he laughed,
a Brahmans smile.
Yet his face remained the same.

© Richard Michael Parker 1987



Friday, 22 April 2011

My Friend


My Friend

She said, 'My Friend'...
It ebbs and flows.
Be as constant as the tide...
for it is a pleasant place to hide,
on occasion, when you find your spirits sagging,
and yearn for the quiet enclosure of a closeted space,
where music and grace are the constancies found within!
stop a while,
and do not regret the ebbing of that tide,
for even stars fade, when the Sun broaches the dawn;
Yet, their light is echoed in that brilliant day,
do not mourn,
for they resound again in the dusk,
to herald the coming of the night.
Do not fret at the passing of time...
but wait a while,
and see that time rejoined,
for all things that pass,
pass this way again.
It is an eternal recurrence... 'My Friend',
but NOT, of the same.
For nothing that has been so touched,
by the starlight of that place,
ever remains the same,
forever it is changed,
and changed again.
To pass the hours in listless musings,
amongst those subtle ears,
whose hearts do ring through all those constant years;
A tolling bell of communion,
friends one with another...
lending their hearts to all,
as a sun does lend its warmth to a summers day...
stay a while,
and we shall see the night come again,
and we shall play music,
and laugh once more,
'My Friend'.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Artwork: Unknown 

Sunday, 17 April 2011

False Hope

-False Hope-

Left in a passage of dark deep despair,
no light to illumine the agony there,
crouched in a corner of some foul design,
you ache with some remnant of longing resigned.

These wounds that have bled out your heart, that once loved,
are wickedly opened and deepened, when shoved,
into a box, where your dreams used to be,
residing in emptiness, loves absentee.

Lost in that dark and damp manacled place,
where you sat in your blood that wept down your face,
there was but a fragment, a shred of dim light,
that flickered inside, in the dark of that night.

So you rise, as the light inside See's up ahead,
a crack in the gloom, with a thin wisping thread,
to sow up these wounds, and to make of them scars,
to unlock these self designed prisoners bars.

And all of the time, with a wicked sly grin,
the beast that has hold of your hope from within,
tempts you by stoking that last fading coal,
in the hope it will finally devour your soul.

For it knows, what you don't, in the depths of that place,
that you'll give all you've got to escape from that space,
even in the light of that last dim lit flicker,
it knows it just makes that slope all the bit slicker.

For a glimmer of hope is enough now to kill you,
as the teeth tautly widen around the dark lures woo,
and begin to drip venom in anticipation,
as blindly you wander into that damnation.

The snap of the trap, that now rips through your soul,
as the tocsin erupts from the demonic toll,
is the only dark remnant left in that night,
of a heart finally swallowed by that false hopes fake light.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Thursday, 14 April 2011

Death of a Romantic



Death of a Romantic

He told himself;
If only, you could hold on'
'if only, you had been strong'
'if only, on those dark and lonesome nights,
under the orange glow of the ancient gaslight,
some illumined flicker of love had lit my way,
instead of the chimera of hopes false dawning day.
He spoke in soft words;
'you have peered through the settling twilight,
seen the emptiness of your own eternity,
here without a 'you', filled with only a 'me',
if only there had been another,
this tardy spirit might have tarried,
instead of feeling forlorn, lost and harried'.
He told himself;
'I carried roses once,
in a wicker basket, in my heart,
plucked by the scent of loves first start;
Those thorns had pricked my senses,
and sent them reeling with this imaginary love,
cascading across some sultry summer dance floor,
in whirling time with my great pretend paramour'.
He told himself;
Why!, when you knew all along,
that your open heart was bled dry,
did you even try,
or believe, even for a moment,
that in this hastened silence,
life, might afford you one last chance?
'foolish boy'!...did you not know,
the only love in this life was in your heart,
and only in the gift would it start.
Love was never yours to have, nor hold,
for it is only for the beautiful, and the bold,
not for the hideous and delicate romantic,
love in such, is but a rod for the back!
He told himself;
This ledge is not so high!,
it does not seem so far,
and if i fall,
the ground will not seem so hard,
certainly no harder than this barren heart,
no higher, than the mountains i have scaled,
upon whose heights of loneliness i have wailed,
no further in truth,
than the distance of times yearning years,
or the constancy of gathering tears.
He said;
This cliff faced wall, it does not seem so tall anymore,
scored against the gathering distance,
of time left denied,
swept upon these seas i have cried,
this leap seems not so far to me,
no further than the countless 'leaps of faith' i have made,
the revelations and moments of heartache, left dismayed.
He peered into oblivion;
Watching as the slow clouds rolled homeward,
and felt his soul slip amidst them.
Moistened dew drops tickling his cheeks,
and wondered, one last time,
whether he would ever miss those streams,
his forlorn golden dreams,
the hauntings of this stark reality,
the enduring emptiness of his heart filled misery.
For even sorrow is a friend, in the end.
He stepped into the void;
To feel the rush of the cold wind greet his rosy cheeks,
and recalled how he had longed to see the same, as he fell,
full blush, soft spoken, tremulously wept, heart broken.
Plummeting down, never to be found,
for once spoken, love departed,
brushing sensate lips,
caressing the broken hearted.
He saw clearly the ground rise;
To meet him,
to greet him,
to know this stranger,
who having flown so long,
in rarefied skies,
approached now at speed,
where once wings had upheld his need,
reality plunged upon its surface,
caught in the gravity of this loveless disgrace.
He wondered:
Will it hurt?
Not so much as the years of countless burnings,
the heartfelt bonfire of hopes endless yearnings,
ashen moments of passions rising heat,
the licking torment of a solitary retreat.
For as the desolation of his loveless form descended,
he smiled, calmly,  and knew that this agony was ended.
In that momentary light of resignation,
the certainty of his end,
this wretched lonesome Romantic,
began to apprehend, and quick,
the futility of that constant search.

His heart shrunk into the wild rock,
and fused with the stony truth of it.

"That one!
I'll take that one,
to sculpt."

© Richard Michael Parker 2011