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


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