Thursday, 27 December 2012

Pensive Heart

Pensive Heart

Lost in a forest of dark pensive dreams,
wrapped up in a bubble of light,
you heal, and are free, from those corpulent schemes,
Oh dear heart, I am with you tonight.

All we once knew and all we believed,
laid waste in an instants fragility,
sensate and naked, momentarily aggrieved,
metamorphically changed by reality.

To know the first fearless steps that we took,
were copied and pasted, with the glue of this love,
from the tattered dull pages torn from out an old book,
to kick start two hearts with a push, and a shove.

The faceted face of this jewel we have cut,
will shine in our light of resplendence,
not be borrowed nor taken from doors we have shut,
but a blessing to all, through transcendence.

Yet, still the heartbeats come with sighs,
boiling in a cauldron in the silent depths of memory,
a flight of efflorescing ever dancing butterflies,
transformed into an airy flight of wings to bring you back to me.

Twin wings, marked by constancy and devotion,
this swelling tide subsides into a calm and restive place,
to rest beside each healing silent depth within this ocean,
and heal within the living loving light of constant grace.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Saturday, 15 December 2012

Sombre Reflection

“The world is indeed full of peril and in it there are many dark places. But still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien

Friday, 14 December 2012

Crazy Like A Raging Sea...

Crazy like a raging sea...

Crazy like a raging sea
that rolls in heaving peeks,
and slaps upon me endlessly
each vessel moans and creaks;
Beneath the howling tempests gale
the seething foments touch,
your fiery wind, that bursts my sail,
and luffs upon the crutch.

Full fathom five,
you pulled me from the wreck alive
and threw me on some distant shore
upon our bones we chew and gnaw.
Full fathom five,
you pulled me from the wreck alive
and all the years we cast about
were flooded tears to drown the doubt.
Full fathom five
you pulled me from the wreck alive
and here we lay betwixt the sheets
these sails full blown are now replete.
Full fathom five
you pulled me from the wreck alive
then down we two who charged the fates
will pass between the pearly gates.
Full fathom five
you pulled me from the wreck alive
I would have drowned were not for you
you would have burned, I saved you too.

This ocean we are cast within
it roars in might and thunder
emotions tumult, surging din,
we threaten to go under.
Yet soothed, climactic tempests peek
is shattered in a kiss
and calms each vessel soiled and weak
orgasmically in bliss.

I love you like a raging sea
full fathom five, for you love me.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Dust to Dark

-Dust to Dark-

This roaring tide of great love
the malady of sadness left inside
caught between the hawk and the dove
not knowing in which room we ought to hide.

Silence, overwhelming the moment
time dropping through an open slit
a wound, through which the memories trickle
splash the present, drip by drip,
to fall into a quiet solemnity of passing feeling,
sown together again in this dark retrieving.

The gentle choice, of each great love
the cleansing of the house, proud martin,
to know, what one must dispose of, and keep,
the beat, revivifying hearts in parting.

Making space, in the fracture of that place,
the settling of old fears, the packing of the boxes,
the tearful remnants of all those bygone years
the hounding of the foxes,
swept from off the benches and the tables
the cleansing of those Augean stables.

Hoarded clutter in those treasure chests
guarded with such firm resolve, night and day,
fiery hearts, wept within the beating breasts,
washed from off the surfaces, warily swept away.

The living remnants of all great loves
carefully honoured and wrapped,
with grace, remembrance of the gift thereof,
each diamond kissed and packed.
The curtains are drawn as the light invades,
silence from the dawn ekes between the cracks,
all is saved.

The herald of a brand new day,
is born upon a lark,
the nightingale is packed away,
its song is dust to dark.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Saturday, 1 December 2012

Loves Torpid Touch

-Loves Torpid Touch-

Waves of love,
emanations in the air,
the flowing streams of flaxen hair,
this soak, of yellow fingered beams,
slipped into a dream,
lingers long within a kiss;
The tidal constancy of bliss,
drawn into an ebbing sea,
the languorous lethargy,
of loves torpid touch.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Friday, 23 November 2012



I heard you tore another hole
and from that solemn place
bore all the fire from your immortal soul.
I thought of you,
winding through some lonesome alley way
the detritus of forlorn days blowing down the avenue,
and in my minds eye you stood alone,
blinded to all the fractured cracks you had left at home,
knowing only the footsteps,
the hearkening forward rush in your heady plunge,
driving ever onward,
too silent and reticent to turn your back,
a sponge, soaking in the light,
your constant driven hunger,
rapacious in the flight.

I heard you call my name,
and turning but for a moment, bursting into flame,
your ruddy eyes socketed to the law,
knowing where you had been,
only God, and some trembling sear,
could ever tell of what you saw.
The precession of judgment, meant little in your eyes,
for yours was a timeless vision,
a holy spell between the cries.

enfolding darkness,
wrapped in the light of your infinite face,
your wings wrapped in circles around my heart,
turning into flames, the coddled mendicanted chant,
of love, of forgiveness, for sins not yet spoken,
paths, where only dreams, could herald those choices never broken.

when all the world stood in horror at what was done,
you alone stood serene, and standing on the sun,
shone a light that dulled the crackens roar,
and swept between the multitudes of fangless beasts,
and more, you took the chance,
where none before had seen the fateful tide,
and ripped the spanking babe from out the titans bloody side.

when will we learn,
that yours is not a calculated state,
but an end at the start,
a choice beyond some forlorn fate.
You smiled, and all the rays,
and gentle love, shone through those pores,
the balm of loves deliverance,
washed upon those bloody shores.
And still, I love you still, and being still...
Love, in Grace.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Sunday, 18 November 2012



Today I grasped a truth
it floated down through my sky
and settled upon my heart
it spoke in whispers and quiet tides
and as it spoke my heart leapt
not in pride, but in recognition
for I remembered what I had forgotten
and forgetting, had wandered blind;
It opened my eyes, effortlessly
and I saw the world again, anew.
It is strange how people come into your life
have the most remarkable effect
fill you with hope, with dreams, with imaginings
with remembrance, a touchpaper of intimacy,
soulfully sparking the tinder,
and all that is asked is that you put aside
all expectation, all pride, and simply remember,
what it was that you had lost inside.
You are like this to me, i do not grasp you
and yet i see, clearly through crystal eyes
a higher soul of clarity, of lives designed.
Where you came from and why, I am not sure
I only know that this communion of souls
makes of us both, something more...
greater than we might have been alone,
it hardly seems fathomable, and yet,
from out the yielding stone, a new heart beats.
Everything seems possible, probable, likely...
I looked at the world, again,
and found that all the hard questions,
had simple answers, where only days ago,
there were incalculable riddles, woven in a mystery,
today, all those doubts seem only ancient history.
I realized, all the answers I had looked for,
all the patience, and time, all the effort
to steady the ship, ready the sails,
wait upon the wind,
had been worth more than all the gold
I could ever have accrued, bought or sold.
Days, weeks, years, left in passing;
Incredible pain, born of solemnity and loneliness,
the craft we are forced to sail upon, to that isle,
where wisdom sits upon her lonesome throne, all alone.
I would not have traded a single moment,
for now, as the fire stokes the hearth,
and sets the engine raging,
the bilge crushing the waves once more,
I stand upon an open deck,
having sailed these seas a thousand times before,
somnolent nights, adrift in a reckless ocean,
the whirling maelstrom, tossed in a tempest of emotion.
Here, in this calm sea, no panic besets me, only faith,
and a knowledge, sound judgment born of a roiling love.
The course is charted,
your hand has held my own upon the tiller.
I see, works, children by the million laughing,
singing, drinking, and running free.
I see, the entire world liberated from some stark monstrosity;
Broken chains, that shackle token minds,
cast into the flames, with the harbingers of these times.
The confluential moments, of great happenstance,
souls that forge resolve in each others becoming.
I have your back, you have mine,
we know we have waited an interminable time,
but in the waiting we have both grown strong,
and pinioned our souls, in love we cannot go wrong.
Charity, born of love, the gift we bear,
to turn the open waters we hold within our hearts,
out into the world, into the hands of children,
unborn and undeserving of the fickleness of fate,
an answer born between us, still, its not too late.
I realized today, waiting,
as i have always waited, waited the longest time,
and waiting has been the hardest line,
the toughest task of all, waiting,
watching the winds, the tides, the times,
turn one to another,
waiting for the moment of greatest receptivity,
the moment that ears are turned out,
eyes watch, cast into doubt, Waiting.
Only when eyes and ears are open
will sounds and sights appropriate to the hoping,
delight the soul. Waiting...
The wasted hours, not wasted at all...
Constructing channels through which love
could seep between the walls, the doors, the towers
erected in this bastion of light,
I realized, waiting... that i wait no more.
You touched the essential core of me,
and I have waited for the calling,
for though you realize, or do not,
what it was, and how you touch me,
whether you see or do not, I see...
I see how you come honestly with your heart,
your mind a searing flame, tempered in loves name,
I see, the higher soul in you, free,
and I have waited, for you to touch me...
one unsullied soul, in a moment of transcendent purity.
I do not worship you, though I adore your soul and heart,
I have known you from the start,
I know you are frail, and strong,
quixotic, and can be wrong,
you have your great imperilled beliefs,
and tremble like a child sometimes,
your courage and fortitude in the silent hour,
stolen from out the night like a thief.
Yet you have persevered,
and your courage emboldens my heart,
revivifies the tree, the barren branches
that have lain sallow and broken upon the hill,
bursting into life once more, aromatic blossom,
fruit for all the world to pluck, to satiate the riven hunger.
Children, a home, a love, a life, all these too...
Everything is possible with you,
and yet I cannot ask more than you can give,
for freedom is the gift we bare for one other,
together, to share, amongst the multitude.
Strong, practical, wise, and transcendent...
No lies will sit between us, open eyes, and ears to hear,
the flooding heart that courses through each soul,
a stream from out a star, a vision we have both known.
A world made green, clean again,
prosperous in full flourishing...
the shackles shattered,
greed left tattered in the trash.
I grasped a truth today, and saw it in your eyes,
we smiled, and knew there was a better way,
these souls we have connected,
make us both a little wise... It is time.
Let us love, in all the ways we have learn't,
encouraged and emboldened,
the salve of loves emollient,
eased upon these hearts that we have burnt,
and turn that out, so that all may sup,
upon the loving cup, the overflow,
of all we have become to one another.
I grasped a truth today,
and wait no more...

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Saturday, 10 November 2012

Golden Awakenings

-Golden Awakenings-

Sumptuous meanderings beneath silken skins,
pandering eyes lost in the depth of your sighs,
the eruptive effusive joy of dancing souls,
caught between the light and the fire.

No artifice nor salacious manifest missed,
the pure enraptured joy of each lovers kiss,
revelling in the succulence of the tenderest gift.

Soft warm breath, pressed upon these lips,
the tremulous joy of enfolded fingertips,
stroking each wave, lost in this ease,
the sweep of these sliding hips,
the tightness of the squeeze.

Caught in a gentle breeze, 
each smile, dripping in the melting pot, 
Dew dipped buds of pleasure slipping languidly in repose,
the fragrant crush of petalled wings, the tender suckled rose.

Voluptuous and slow, this dawns light comes,
rising in a fire, fluttering in a trembling wind,
winged harbinger of desire.

Each flighted formless memory is born upon a wing,
to speed into a future bright, the lark beset to sing,
recalling what has yet to come, loves golden awakening.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Artwork: 'The Kiss' - Gustav Klimt

Monday, 29 October 2012

Never Alone

-Never Alone-

The steady downbeat on the footfall of my heart,
washing away the pain, clearing the path,
steadying my soul again to start...
No chains, nor ties deceiving,
no anchor upon this fallow roads conceiving.
A measured walk among the calm trees,
leaves, purple and gold, swimming in the breeze.

I stopped to scoop you up once,
these vain hands, cumbersome and slow,
caught only dashing air in the gentle fallen snow.
Summer past, and Autumn too,
drifting amongst the ashes, the forgotten embers,
a timely remembrance of you.

And so, we pass this way again,
forsaken in the reaping, steady in a heartfelt beat,
one love, the one worth keeping.
How dull the mind, caught in the fractured glare,
blinded by desire, all distractions stripped and bare.
How dull the edge, without the whetted stone,
the grinding, smelted fire, of each heart that's left alone.

'Never alone, never alone'...
The scales fell from my eyes, and caught your smile.
'Never alone'...  

© Richard Michael Parker 2012


Sunday, 28 October 2012



Looking back over all who have gone,
I realize they are never lost,
neither in the way our souls embraced,
nor as the world evolved because of them.
For whether they be dark or bright,
they are woven into the tapestry of eternity,
they are never lost in that night.

These dark hues set behind the fulgid,
a backdrop upon which all those colours sparkle,
shining in the mottled truth,
that nothing shimmers save by contrast,
the glimmering dance of the dark and light.

A thousand solemn walks of loss and regret,
threaded between the forlorn and dead.
the endless tears,
washed into countless muddy holes,
shed from out the years,
the ruddy eyes of graven bloody souls.

We are woven into a tapestry of life,
dark threads weave between the light,
ripples in a weft, shot through a loom,
shuttling between the bright and the gloom.

Cry not for those that lay within their graves,
they speak to us in silent words always... always!
say what must be said, do what must be done,
for there is no answer from the dead,
nor shining light from setting sun.

Woven in the stars a comets tail embraces all,
its trail between the warp and the weft,
the shining glory of all that is left.
Hallowed in the light, a myriad different stories,
gleam, and sparkle with delight...
shining their effervescent glory upon the dream
the spinning wheel dances for all who see. 

Speak the truth in your heart to those that matter!
For the dead are silent enough, for us all.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Friday, 26 October 2012

-Wild Is The World of Loves Untended Meadow-


-Wild Is The World of Loves Untended Meadow-

Ah yes... I met two such flowers this summer. They had thorns hidden amongst the petals, the fragrant hooks of a challised deceit. All soft and shining were their blossoms in the moonlight, snatching at the whimsy of passing hearts. They cried 'We the good and gracious, bold hearted confidants of Gods and mercy, shall suckle you with the nectar of love'.

Embalmed in such devices, what mortal man, with clear and supple heart, could resist so sweet the corrupted seduction of those amber foliole... Succoured amour, two breasts that beat, once, with one cold heart.

Then, I spied on tender hooks the rotten carcass of weeping souls, buried beneath the mountains dark Tol. They whispered: 'Get as high as you can'... So I dragged them unsuspecting into the yellow lair, in peace and silence, surrounding them with golden thread, to weave a tale of dream and dark despair. Entombed, the frond and barb remain, still there.

White lights that placed themselves as trumpeting angels in the garden of the moon, and sought to judge each blessed stray, and wayfaring outcast, upon the alter of their bloody reign. Yet, they had not vision enough to reckon upon the secateurs of time, burning in the wind of their own blind sight, the coals of deception, devouring each plaintiff song, whilst all the flowered petals sweetly sang along.

Wild is the world of loves untended meadow, some years, t'is best to leave the earth, still and fallow.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Friday, 19 October 2012



Even in the fullness of your moon,
nothing was left unsaid,
nothing left undone.
We walked the path that led through the heart,
to greet that ever loving Sun!

Isn't it strange,
that the moment a person is gone,
is the instant you know exactly what they meant to you.

I will not cry bittersweet tears for you my love,
for never having said how much you meant to me,
for never having tried,
nor shown how deeply you lived inside.

These tears that are shed, sing your name,
the naked spark, that set this heart aflame.
Perhaps, only a few will fall,
wondering whether you believed me at all.

'...And if i had died,
and were gone and dead,
what was it you could not say,
that you wish you might have said?'

© Richard Michael Parker 2012


Monday, 15 October 2012

The Crow

The Crow

Each morning I watch the crow sit upon the old chimney, the end of a line, that peeks above the shale roofed houses, to watch the sun rise, in silence and reverence. We watch it together, and he, who barely notices me anymore, makes not a sound, bowing his midnight crown upon the first rays of dawn. Then turns his black pearls to gaze into my soul, knowing we shall meet once more, tomorrow, or on some dim lit twilight shore.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2012

Artwork: Lindsey Kustusch

Saturday, 13 October 2012



sleepless yet less,
caught in this improbable introspection, yet blessed,
plunging into my psyche and thrown upon the waves,
the might of the foments deep, thunders from those graves.
Yet, not a stone is shaken, not a breath removed,
not a lie bespoken, nor a soul reproved.
Grace, to mend the fractured heart,
the roar of that ancient score,
and from the tumult, peace again to start.

The shadow dwelling of each forgotten token,
shaken from this vestige as my heart is awoken,
to find within the constancy of thought and reasons rhyme,
a measure of the peace from some dark protracted line.

but not in hidden realms,
opening these doors to both heaven and hell,
to dwell, in both for a time.
To know the scorn of your tormentors whip,
soothed in the balm of angelic lips.
Fear not the doorways,
nor the passage through the dark,
for in that place,
a beacon light eschews its grasping fingers,
illuminating paths, on which, the penitent soul still lingers.

The hoisted sail, sits headstrong upon the pillow,
relenting in the tide, of the sheeting's luff and billow.
To quell the sea, and calm the rushing wind,
The horror that you flee, in the end you must rescind.

forever humbles the sorrowful face,
forgiven in an instant of loving light,
the comprehending sword that cuts the darkened night.
Let go... and rise without that anchor's chain below,
Let go, and rise into the light,
from out the fearful shadow of the pasts tormented night.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Saturday, 6 October 2012

Footprints In The Sand

Footprints in the Sand

Lost in these deep sighs,
the soulful resonance of the not so wise.
Reverberations of love,
rippling in emanations of surrender,
the folded capitulation
of the tender and vanquished heart.
Each wave a crescendo dashed upon the shore,
a swirling dance beneath the moon and the maw.
So soon, this sweet invasion,
the warm and subtle invitation of a palpitating love.

Basking in the glory of an imaginary sun,
the creeping warmth of a coddled womb,
radiantly swept upon this silken strand,
and all too soon, the seeping truth,
rolled and naked, breaks upon these wet sands,
the rocky crag of discontent hissing in the darkness,
castaway in silence, the aching solitude of a torpid defiance.
The crack of memory, fading, smashed upon your rocks,
this foaming discontent, seething into the depths of your tousled locks.

Bright stars mimicking the foment of your glistening touch.
A slow and easy awakening, soft focused eyes,
caught within the rapture of this shallow breaths tide,
the hollow heart, filled with the glow of this new suns love.
From whence did you come? And just as quick,
retreat into the depths once more,
howling with the rumbled heart,
the fury of loves gale,
swept across this wild and barren shore.

Oh heart, full and shining with ancient rhyme, 
how long it has been since you sang,
how silent the world before your chiming bells rang.
Tremulously caught between the brink and the tide,
sunken footsteps, planted upon my heart,
your slender fingertips, eased between my own.
This wreckage of solitude, strewn into the cavernous depths,
the fathomless deep, of all that was left.

Fading footfalls, washed into a licking tide,
the remnants of remembrance of all that we tried to hide.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Friday, 28 September 2012



Delicate fingers tap upon the bleeding keys,
the splash of sticky reminiscence,
fingerprints upon the heart,
slivers of diaphanous shards,
pressed down into the bloodied maw of time...

Gossamer chords, tremulously faint,
a haunting mist of memory,
the melancholia kissed,
upon the salty lobes of all that you were to me...

The fragile moments;
Faint echoes in shattered crystal light,
footsteps in the distance,
the remnants of this sallow sun,
fading into night.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Sunday, 16 September 2012

Divinity Below, Divinity Above

Divinity Below, Divinity Above

Disrobed beneath these stars,
the light of a thousand suns
flecked across your shimmering surface,
the sheen of joy etched into your smile,
shooting stars, erupting from within.
Enfolded creases, slipping in time,
the light between these galaxies traversed,
unhindered, unfettered, unhinged
between each passions fiery pull,
the gravity of all,
drawn into a swirling maelstrom of dripping might,
born of the light,
swarming through the night upon each fleshly part,
sundered and surrendered in the dark.
Voluptuously suckled,
the tender meeting of tongues
beneath the half light of this mountains moon;
To swoon in epiphany,
a rebirth of majesty, might and fire,
born of two bodies pulled by desire.
The love of the suns,
bursting engorged across these skies,
the ripple of silken thighs,
sunk in the warmth of the trembling flesh,
formless delight,
naked beneath the majesty of Gods evocative starlight.
The welcoming home, a feast of love,
divinity below, divinity above.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Saturday, 15 September 2012

Two Loves

Two loves

(a couplet)


Life given, life received,
in memories of you I bleed;
A mirror of other whim's,
hallowed in cloistered corners,
harbour's a fateful bell,
rung only for the mourners;

whipping the tide of time,
greeting another master,
loves never intertwine,
minds that keep pushing faster;

given a moment,
we could be catching a fallacy,
holding it tightly,
then watch it transform in reality;

one life given,
one life received,
in time we will find that our feelings recede.
Life given, life received,
a memory of you perceived;

into a barren sky,
life moving quickly backward,
shallow in open graves,
life moving slowly skyward.
my heart never rests for peace,
driven in mortal plunder,
riveting open space,
my loves only left asunder;

one word, one look,
a stone is shaken,
this time, this space,
a love forsaken;

a promise of golden dreams,
diamonds that sparkled brightly,
love's rarely what it seems,
fashioned, it happens slightly.


Life given, life received,
a memory of you perceived;

into a barren sky,
life moving quickly backward,
shallow in open graves,
love moving slowly skyward;

my heart never rests in peace,
driven in mortal plunder,
riveting open space,
my loves only left asunder;

one word, one look,
a stone is shaken,
this time, this space,
a love forsaken;

promise of golden dreams,
diamonds that sparkled brightly,
loves rarely what it seems,
fashioned it happens slightly;

life given, life received,
in memories of you I bleed;

A mirror of others whim's,
hallowed in cloistered corners;
harbour's a fateful bell,
rung only for the mourners;

whipping the tide of time,
greeting another master,
souls never intertwine,
when your mind votes for pushing past her;

given a moment we could be catching a fallacy,
holding it loosely,
we watch it transform in reality;

life is given,
life is received,
in time we will find that our feelings recede.

 Richard Michael Parker (1991)

Saturday, 8 September 2012

-The Mirrored Maid-

-The Mirrored Maid-

The owl replaced the nightingales sweet song,
and spoke in sombre tones a darkened truth,
appealing to the gods of slighted wrongs,
the thunder tongue of wisdom spoke forsooth.

Love rests not beneath the willow,
nor waits beside that ever running stream,
for now his head sits sad upon his pillow,
low, beneath the ground, inside a dream.

Look not into the dim-lit sunken corners,
nor trail the fleeting footsteps in this place,
seek comfort in a gathering of mourners,
for thou bright light has gone without a trace.

For though you look to heaven for an answer,
and woo the countenance lost all too soon,
no bright and airy sun reclaims this dancer,
he left with her, the mirrored maid, the moon.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2012

Photographer: Brendan Zhang

Friday, 7 September 2012

A Walk

A Walk

Walking along the high road, I stopped to take in the spire of a 14th century church, Gothic architraves and reliefs, weathered, silhouetted against the sky, the slow clouds rolling like cotton wool across a light azure heaven. I noted the old elm before the spire as i looked up, and wondered how many others had noticed the spire had been rebuilt,  sporting a masonic compass and square beneath the cross that sat atop the sky.

An old gaslight, no longer illumined in the daylight, stood before the tree, and i breathed in the whole scene, as the mad rush pelted the walkways around me. Ants scurrying about, desperately fighting the time.

Easing my camera from my pocket, i took one of two shots, up into the sky, and adjusted my straw hat, so as to shield the naked sun from my eyes.

I noted an older lady pass me by, and thought for a second that she wanted to say something, but the moment passed, and she moved on, resigned to her silence. So i called after her; 'Glorious weather we are having isn't it?', she stopped in her tracks, and turned, her elderly wrinkles smiling at me from out the years.

An hour later, we had both enriched each others day. I had learnt all about her time in Sicily, and the Belfast dockyards. How she had been evacuated in the war as a young child and seen dogfights in Irish skies, Mafia dons with blackened eyes, and the history of the inception of that shadow organization from the perspective of an Irish woman who had married a Sicilian man, living in foreign lands, with her babies eyes staring into other skies.

'Time winnows us all through its great sieve,
and Shiva's dance destroys even the fleeting memories,
wrapped up in past joys,
and tied in the bow of contentment.
All that's left us are the token gestures in a stream,
passing endlessly before us.

A tipple from a draft of the ever fluid past,
slipping in sips, through the rivulets of your mind.
When even memories, become mixed and mingled,
will you still recall the moment of our calling?

or..., like the passing throng,
washed endlessly along,
will the memory simply pass you by,
swept aside, Lost...
like all those feelings, laughed or cried,
until at last, I too become lost,
a remnant of the past, an unremembered cost.'

Taking the time, to make a little time...

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Thursday, 6 September 2012

No Heart Is Lost

No Heart Is Lost

What is distance to the heart?
No mile, nor hour elapsed,
that ever bore the weight of the departed,
lightened the soul.

For in the gathering time,
pushed down into the womb of the world,
the heavy burden unfurled, grows fat,
gorged upon the marrow and the cost.
The tumid bloated crush of loss.
Bedraggled steps, upon a mountains jagged edge.
The shifting shale of despair,
straining out the seconds into years.
The thousand yard stare,
stretching out the inches into tears.

What does love know of time?
When your heart beat in mine,
did the clock count the ticks, and the tocks of your feet,
as they stepped across the street,
in the steady downbeat of the salty rain.

No... It is the mind that forgets.
Memories purged in a sea of regrets,
awash in a currency of debt.
Mountains, heaped upon the heart, moments passed.
In the quiet space,
a thousand years, and a million miles from grace;

The first twinkle of your soft eyes,
splashed in the luminescence of your smile,
your heart beats within my chest,
and all the mountains,
and the worlds that passed between us,
cannot stop the thundering flood of love.
For you are here again;
Not a second has past,
nor a stray breath, parted from these lips.
All absence, filled in the heartbeat,
of your trembling fingertips.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Photograph: Amber Ortolano

Wednesday, 5 September 2012

Seeds of Love

Seeds of Love

The smallest seed of love, that means everything, is greater still than the great love that means little to those who encounter it; For the seed, nurtured by those who recognize how precious it is, will in time, and care, grow into a mighty tree, that blesses all who dwell beneath its shade and eat of its fruit. But the great love, that means little to those who are careless with it, will simply wither, weathered by the vicissitudes of time. It isn't always how great a love is at the beginning that counts, rather, it is what it means to those that share it, and what they are willing to do to care for it, that truly counts. Some loves are great, and diminish, others are grown from the smallest of seeds and become the mightiest of oaks over time. What it means, is the difference between a rock becoming a pebble, and a seed becoming a tree.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Wednesday, 29 August 2012

A Chinese Theme

- A Chinese Theme-

Chinese lanterns illuminate the passing hours;
The Lychee tree in the centre of our garden
dances in the crackling light of the bonfire.
Souls melt into silverine flowers,
scented with the air of Magnolia blossom.

Racing clouds surround the fullness of our moon,
the silver echo of the dipping suns might,
slowing down, illuminating all to swoon,
portentous figures flicker in delight.

Inside out, we turn the remnants of the past
visible at last, and pass the parcels between each other,
one to another, thrown into the flame,
a phoenix rises, unfettered and unchained.

The Emperor, Empress'd, blessed in this loving union,
unhindered and free, archetypically entwined are we;
Cascading rivulets of love, overflow the cup,
no gate, nor dam to stem this loving tide,
all demands and expectations laid aside.

A star shines in the heavens, illuminating the mark.
fingers delicately held, we turn unfurled, begin to dance.
Entranced, the following of ages, the flood of grace;
captured in the joy that shines upon your face.

Fire art bursts upon the sky, the twinkle in your eye,
mirrored in my own, showered in this love,
resplendent in this garden we have grown.
The shadow and light, the giddy delight of petalled wine,
supped in merry revelry; A zither sings,
the heart-song, of all you have become to me.

Moon, dips below the soft pillow,
dawn breaks, between the lark and the willow.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Wednesday, 22 August 2012




Atop the bright and airy peak,
a skylark sings resplendence,
for all who come, and all who seek,
her sweet clear notes, 'transcendence'.


The moonflower dazzles with its sparkling refrain,
damp light hovers over sleepy waters held within;
Who is to know the depth of this somnolent pull,
sitting atop cool waters of wishes and dreams.

'Not I' whispered the moon,
shining her silent path in remedy,
for all those sun kissed sparks of ingenuity,
flaming within the hearth, redolent ease before the fire,
an orange glow beneath the shadow of the moontree.

I heard a single bird sweetly upon a bough,
sink into indolent remembrance, a melodious trill,
soft as honey in a late summers sun, smooth and yellow,
overcome by the tincture of dampened joy.
Blue notes, falling like downy feathers upon the ground.

Soft, she bathes her hair in the still waters of his eyes,
a reminiscence of deep sighs in bygone seas,
serene waters reflect the silent passage of a dream,
in gentle harmony, to please, in slow time to dance
upon the waters lip, two souls sip, concordantly.

Sweet bird, have you not heard the moons sad lament,
an echo upon a passive tide, serenading the spheres,
the melody of starlight playing upon a moistened mirror.
The sweeping breath of time,
caught between the longing in those tears,
her doleful mourning and the risen hope.

Does the earth fall from grace,
or replace her silver night,
in that first ray of golden light?
The shrouded gown shimmering in valediction.
Or does the heralds triumphal joy,
turn the tide once more, to dance upon new shores,
to recrudesce from forgetfulness into remembrance,
embracing all in progress, a journey into acceptance.


A rhapsody swims within a sunlit kiss,
her boughs full grace to swoon;
Children play beneath the fruiting trees,
born into day from out that moon.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Tuesday, 14 August 2012



And so adieu... Adieu my love!
The forest awaits,
and i can already hear your gambolling gait,
your doe eyes caught in the glare of my love.
Why is it the rejected always hear their names
echoing in some distant hallway,
leaving them the blame?
Clever quips that cut them to the core, say more,
than all the silent words that left them on that shore!
Surrendering excuses to all those pin pricked ears,
doors replete with nails, hammered into all those fears,
scratched into the hearts of the unsuspecting,
a penitent reminder? or just another form of rejecting.
So adieu... Adieu my love!
The forest awaits,
and i can already hear your galloping gait,
your hooves springing into the trees,
the faint rustle of a memory playing amongst the leaves.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Sunday, 12 August 2012



funny how people camp in your heart
even the arseholes
the ones you never wanted to see again
the trouble makers
the fear and loathing personalities
larger than life
they flit in through an open window
and camp on your sofa
smiling at you from beyond the grave
you remember seeing them on a hillside one day
firing a make believe gun
throwing themselves in a heap just for the fun of it.
Every time you see them, you think
'oh god here we go'.. another mad cap scheme
always landing everyone in trouble
then they spend the next few years
trying to dig everyone out of it again
and though your heart is cold by then
tossing them upon the step and slamming the door
you cant quite help yourself
when they aren't around anymore, thinking back
to that impish grin, and silly laugh
remembering all the hearts they filled in
all the dreams they made real
even if they were bloody stupid
and fought on the wrong side
like a great chess opponent
that has been cast into life
to battle with you through out your own
you hate them, then you love to hate them
then you hate to love them then you just love them
funny how they break into your heart again
after they have gone
sitting on your sofa winking at you slyly
standing around a stove debating nothing in particular
or everything with passion
laughter, anger, joy, misery,
emotions all born from hearts that sang together
sometimes discordantly but together
life, shared and remembered
that brilliant impish little boy
standing on a hillside with his pretend gun
firing into nowhere in particular
shining in the noonday sun
all the world and life ahead of him
then suddenly he's ten again
and you wonder where he's gone.

Saturday, 11 August 2012



Slinking fleshy plebs melting in the noon day sun,
slipping between the cracks in the soft tar;
Swarthy asphalt dripping in the heat haze.
Ruddy sanguinated faces,
stare dolefully into my eyes as they pass,
beneath the wide brimmed hat,
wondering why they hadn't thought of that,
as the make-up drips in dollops, sweaty drops,
sizzling on baking concrete blocks;
A testament to a man made mendacity,
no shade beneath the lampposts,
only concretized trees to be found.
The squeezing rasps of smoke filled lungs,
gasping in the florid heat, the only sound,
beside the constant cacophony of the traffics beat,
ever watchful in the shallows of the dark river.
A beach, a palm, make me a date,
take me on a journey before its too late,
the sweet slap of salt upon the skin,
the lapping shore,
seething upon the succulence within;
Oh god! the sea... the sea!
I close my eyes and slip into her cool bosom,
coddled between the sand and the sky,
caressed by every lapping crest,
the stroke of fingertips on my simmering chest;
Blue heaven, dissolving into her tranquil arms,
a cool breeze dancing upon the waves,
the slap of her licking tide,
this thirst, quenched, as i languidly rock,
from side, to side.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Sunday, 5 August 2012

The Moon, she weeps, before the Sun has risen...

The Moon, she weeps, before the Sun has risen...

...And full,
the moon brought weeping in her waning,
yet nothing would hold the dawn,
or the tears of dark complaining;
The scolding bitter words foretold,
the creeping in that light,
for loves true round is bright and bold,
not scorn from out the night.

The echo of a smile,
traversed the starry sky,
and whispered to the willow,
come follow, while i cry,
for all the joy that passes me,
has hung upon a dream,
and none can come to dawn you see,
lest in their souls ive seen,
the clotting of the bluebells call,
the fiery wreath of sorrow,
and none may know of love at all,
without forlorn tomorrow.
A nightingale, regaled with tune,
while wisps of fairy light,
danced beneath enchantments swoon,
in silverine delight.

A lark, broke through the revelry,
and pricked the ears with truth,
the dawn, it shot across the sky,
and broke the spell, forsooth.
The moon she shrank, and hid her face,
while Phoebus rose asunder,
and shot a golden light of grace,
the horses hooves did thunder.
And ever has it been the case,
when pondering the mirror,
remember, loves first dawning trace,
and wipe that surface clearer,
or fall into a magic spell,
that comes from out the dark,
the simulacrum of loves first light,
reflectance of that spark.

For though she weeps and wails,
in the waning of that hour,
her stories are but tales,
told before true love takes power.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Sunday, 29 July 2012

-The Smallest of Things-

-The Smallest of Things-

The smallest of things often measures the moment. An ants foraging ways, leaving a trail for others to follow; The lavender in my hands, a fragrant passing of distant sorrow... No longer felt beneath this sweet suns touch, the love, all that remains, amongst the memories of sadness and forgotten pains. Where does it come from, this soft invasion of life, love, seeping into each heart, taken altogether by surprise. I close my eyes, and feel you there, inside me, glowing strong.

I washed her feet, and turned around behind her, my hands cupped upon her delicate ankles, running along the lines of her tendons. In all these years i had never noticed the curve of her toes, the fragile lines of each nail interposed, time weathered attention, the artists measured hand, drawn across her skirt, girt with all the loving care she has born. A timeless sentinel of love, giving endlessly to all those she has gathered about her. So i spent a while loving her, washing her toes, cleaning the webs from off her sunken nose, her eyes fixed in repose. To love her is a joy, to know that she, for whom so many other souls employ, is loved, cared for, caressed and washed, cleansed from the sullying remnants of grime, the weathered matting's of time. To love one who loves so, is there any greater gift than this?

It is the smallest of things, the breath of a butterflies wings, passing between the still gap of an Angel's. The rustle of a leaf, the blossoming of a tree, left sallow and old, withered and cold, reborn in splendour, free. The blossom falling as snow upon the ground, each ripe fruit, plucked for the eating, the feeding of love.

It is the smallest of things, a smile, the gracious care... time given, the slow brush of silken hair... fingers slipped, one inside another, the soulful stare between each silent sated lover.

It is the smallest of things, that leaves the greatest footprint... The smallest of things, that often meant the most.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2012

Friday, 27 July 2012

Let us speak no more of love

-Let us speak no more of love- 

Let us speak no more of love; Let us not sully the air with a fractured tide of sullen words, born from out the disappointment, the sad and grim realization that every expectation builds a cage, bar by bar. The fallen vision, pale in the world made real, the words and the deed, a dissonant separation, made flesh through every wanton need.

A golden dawn, full flush upon the sky, beckons every eye unto its glory, until spoken, out loud, foretold within this story, the caliginous invitation to some dark and ominous cloud, dampens the dream, rolls upon the scene, with every scheme designed and deigned.

So let us speak no more of love; Let us watch instead the dove, fly into the heavens, its wings free from every tawdry lilting tongue, from every spoken word that's wrung from lips full parted, the beckoning sound of each full-hearted love, buried in the boxes they are stuffed within.

Let us say, not a single word, leave it all unheard, unsaid, free from the fractures of the broken and the dead. The flighted hearts of young lovers, unspoken, unfettered in silence, eyes that speak truths that no tongue dare utter, the flutter of butterflies, free from the crushing lies of mouths unoccupied.

Let us speak no more of love, save with deeds reproving, the moving moments, unspoken, the beckoning of this hearts first token.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Thursday, 26 July 2012

-Dark Butterfly-

-Dark Butterfly-

Dark Butterfly,
alight upon this moonlit dream
and kiss the dappled starlight,
that swims this honeyed stream.
The twinkle in each eye,
the echo of each tenderness
caught between these sighs.

Drawn towards this hearths eternal fire,
caught within your hearts edacious glare,
the testament of all that we desire,
delighting in the pleasure of you there.

These wings, marked with tenderness,
the sup of moon-flower’s beauty on your breath,
a filigree of love, in light, that's endless,
does conquer every harsh and sullen death.

Dark pools of night,
that shine in fulsome moonlight,
swim into this sea,
the fathomless depths
of all you have become to me,
to crush that ancient woe,
down beneath the salt of your loving undertow.

And full the swelling breast of love is suckled,
deep into the gullet and the maw,
to sate the vanquished heart in those most troubled,
and quench the ring of fire for-evermore.

Sweet, the blossom supped in poisoned light,
that shot across the sky of broken peace,
did fall upon the hearts of all that night,
a lesson born of wings
in loves release.

But lo...

These hues that stoked the fire,
did calm the raging waters of desire,
to swim the reach across that ancient tide,
and heal the broken hearted mordants cry.
A fettled peace, together side by side.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012-2016

Thursday, 19 July 2012

-Two Hearts Passing in the Park-

-Two Hearts Passing in the Park-

My heart died.
I took it out for a walk,
but I didn't have it on a lead
so it just ran up to perfect strangers
and bled all over them
they didn't seem to understand
and just ran in horror,
sanguinated in the rush.

I tried to explain
that most folks wear theirs on the inside
but it simply kept on pumping,
jumping around the block,
it didn't know how to stop I guess
so what could I do? we just kept walking

I could see it was getting bruised
turning black and blue,
dazed and confused,
but its hard to put it back
once it has leapt out your mouth.

Then one day,
we were walking by the park,
bleeding over the sidewalks and grass,
when who should pass
but another heart.
I stood and stared, disbelieving and aghast,
two hearts passing in the park,
they seemed filled with such feeling.
I guess that's what hearts do,
feel, transmit and receive feelings,
anyway, we let them play,
and we did that day upon day,
just letting them free in the park,
jumping, pumping in the park,
even after dark.

Then one day, we went to greet,
and it was all smiles and formalities,
so sweet, but no heart.
I asked where it was,
and they told me they had swallowed it.
I tried to make him understand
but he just broke upon the spot
as if he had taken some terrible beating
bleeding all the way home
he didn't jump once, not once.

So anyway, he's dead.
I guess I should care about that,
but I cant seem to give a toss,
perhaps it is some great loss,

I mean, I can still think!... right!
so who needs to feel anything?

I mean, when you have a brain,
who needs a heart, right?

I think though, 
I will buy a leash for my brain,
after all, I wouldn't want it ending up the same.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Tuesday, 17 July 2012

-Nature Girl-

-Nature Girl-

On a mountains peek,
i saw a girl gambol with bare feet,
and speak,
words that only birds could tell,
and in there beaks,
they carried them off,
on wings replete.
Across the mountain tops,
the airy spaces,
resounding in those infinite graces,
down into the valleys throng,
where the rivers run,
mighty and strong.
Thundering over boulders
made smooth with age,
recounting the telling
from that distant sage.
As they swam,
the fluttering air waves ran,
to beat upon
each feathered winglet,
made complete,
and joy sang the chorus,
from creations brightened bosom.
Until from out the thrill,
there came a silence,
a quiet, from the trilling rage,
the rivers slowed,
and each tree bent its leaves,
to lend them to the tale,
whilst the glory spell,
was wound around,
each distant brook and vale.
From out the mountain top
redounding soft and slow,
a beauteous sound echoed out,
mellifluous and mellow.
It was as if all nature stopped
and hearkened to its song,
as the bright little girl,
barefoot with joy,
skipped and sang along.
The sun rose from out the dawn,
caressing earth and sky,
traversing and regaling all,
delighting soul and eye.
The darkened clouds rolled far away,
as sleet before the fire,
and from the silent innocence,
a brand was stoked, 'Desire'!...
It shone upon the rocks and grass,
on every bare faced blade,
and danced a tarantella,
into the golden glade.
Then down into an azure lake,
the fiery sound was drenched,
a razors edge, the steel to air,
each soul was cut and quenched.
The wing'd heralds tore to roost,
in quiet even's glory,
beset with moonlit snows, forsooth!
to round this little story,
for as the girls sweet gambolling
had rounded out the day,
so too in life, creations song,
recycles all this way.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2012

Saturday, 14 July 2012

More than Words

-More than words-

Breathless and silent,
in the shadow of your touch,
too deep,
the tidal swells surge beyond the shore,
swept into your breakers,
tumbling in the roar,
drawn beyond the sorrows,
past loves fading sands,
rent upon the swelling breach,
born upon new lands.

the tidal reach of loves sweet rip,
dancing in the fathoms below,
the ebb and flow of this gentle grip.

A fading world on a distant horizon;
Castaway, a Crusoe on a sea,
an albatross far from the rookery.
Clouds bursting in a confluence of waves,
born upon loves deluge,
drawn from out those caves.

The priapic bosom,
suckled to the breast,
the salty residue of all we have left.

More than words, more than words...

The silent sun in the midst of that cave,
the red raw tokens of all we have become,
the grave,
the rolling tide,
the stone shaken,
in the unity of this making,
spills new life upon a sandy reach,
with hope, this palms gracious touch, a beach,
new lands, forged in the solemnity of silence.

The formless simmering sea,
casting its echoed glory
upon the lunging surf,
a foments touch,
the balm of this gentle loving rebirth.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Thursday, 12 July 2012

-Love takes Courage-

-Love takes Courage-

To dash through the embers of that fire,
to see the rising flames devouring every name
until all the words have been consumed,
and without flinching, jump...
To walk upon white hot coals,
when every vestige of your burning soul,
tells you it is madness.
Love takes courage in its leap,
it is not for the faint of heart.
Timidly left upon the sidelines,
having forgotten to run,
when the gun went off at the start.
Those that wait too late,
are cooked in a cocktail of emotion,
a cauldron slung upon the open hearth,
the purgatory of bitter longing,
caramelized, leaching into the soup of loves becoming,
the burnt and acrid taste of a corpulent stew
left hanging upon an open fire for too long.
Love takes courage in the making,
it does not wait for the perfect moment,
for every moment, is perfect in love.
Demanding that the branding iron be stoked,
waiting for the glow,
the tattooed misery of the timorous and slow.
left only the fatigue of wondering, the withering soul,
caught between the bliss and the hole.
Love takes courage in its stand,
waiting upon shifting sands,
the lookout of an endless vigil,
staring across the open waters for a sign, any sign,
when the boat was always upon the shore,
waiting for a brave heart to hoist the sail,
grasp the tiller, scream upon the waves,
to chart a wilderness, forge a glory,
discover new lands in loves triumphant story.
Iron rusts, sands slip through the open eye,
as this suns creeping intolerance mocks the feeble,
with every hour, burnt upon that watchtower,
the remnants of loves foxglove and steeple.
Love makes courage, for those who take it,
forge the spirits steel, or devoured in your doubt,
forsake it.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Sunday, 1 July 2012

Loved by the Moon

-Loved by the Moon-

In the pale light of a burgeoning moon,
swims the soul of eternity,
wound around each lovers swoon,
to capture sighs, and set them free.

The flickering dash of painted clouds,
shrouds each tremulous motion,
as hearts and lips enjoin, avowed,
to swim this endless ocean.

For in that summers breeze doth blow,
the remnants of forever,
alight upon a sweet tableaux,
these spirits trussed together.

Cocooned, the dappled love filled light,
transforms each whispered murmur,
into a nightingale so bright,
its song does sing sweet ardour.

A rhapsody of risen wings,
that sweeps into this glory,
two hearts on loves sweet fluttering's,
resound an ancient story.

Where psyche and her sweet amour,
united in devotion,
regale the host with true loves law,
entwined in winged emotion.

For as the Larks first notes rang true,
and dipped the moon with grace,
the brilliant dawn arose anew,
to shine on loves new face.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Friday, 1 June 2012



Humility is knowing that you may not know.
Because that one thing you don't know,
may change everything you think you know,

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

The Bread of Life

The Bread of Life

How strange and beautiful the world can be,
profound beyond measure,
demanding all that we would cling to,
releasing all upon its flow,
to slip in time within this magic dance,
loves dips and swirls, caught within a trance.
Time winnows the ripened grain from the chaff,
and casts the broken husks into the wind.
Only then can the bread be made, to be broken.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Photograph by Stacie and Geoff Sloan

Saturday, 26 May 2012



Are these the things that you wanted to leave?...
are these the things that you wanted to say?
Now that the earth has swollen around your naked feet,
and the bull has taken you to ground.

I heard your name screamed across the court yard,
by the old toreador with the jumbled white hair and the mad stare, he walked amongst the crowd and bellowed:
'Serge has left us today, Serge has gone!'
They stood agape, aghast in the horror of the jape.
A hushed silence swept amongst the throng,
gathered by the stalls, bleached and broken,
beneath those shattered concrete walls.
The Bull, your Bull, your mad wild Bull,
strutting with the gore upon his horn,
the one that had torn a hole through your soul,
a wild fire burning in his eyes. 

Was this what you wanted said?
Was this what you wanted left?

When we spoke, the terror in your eyes fixing me to the spot,
firming my soul with those white hot coals,
the resolve exuding through those weathered lines,
I knew, as you, those lines would never crease again.
And still you did not say it, you did not say it!
Could you not say it?
or were you supposing there would be another instant,
anchored to the dirt, the weight of your tome,
dragging your eyes to the floor,
as all must meet their own, before the mirror or the door.

I recall your final turn, labored and shallow,
the tossed comment, a biscuit to the bull,
as younger men leapt those fiery horns.
What was it your broken face could not betray
in the darkening of that moment?
To read between the lines, the folded words unspoken.
The silence between the spaces, the folds of wrinkled letters,
written upon those worn out faces, spread across your own.

I saw him charge, as if all time had stopped,
and you, frozen in mid sentence, jailed by the moment,
your pen, like the silent tongue,
trapped within those jaws of steel,
what did you feel in that final thrusting rush?
tied up and trussed in the chute of the sticking throat,
That fence could never hold such a frenzied death,
that gargantuan storm upon whose horns you were born.

I watched in slow motion the dust rise to greet you,
to welcome you home again, to open the door,
my long suffering ancient toreador.
You who tore upon the page with wisp and wit,
humbling many a wild charge, full of snot and venom,
a plenum of monstrous muscle stopped in its tracks.
In your prime... yes!, in your prime!...
garlands and music, girls wound around your pen.
whirling even then, and then...

'Serge has left us today, Serge has gone!'
Gone to where the silence rules the day,
and the moon, the dawn. Serge has left us, down, and gone.
Are these the things you wanted to leave?
Are these the things you wanted to say?

'Speak the truth in your heart to those that matter!
while you can old friend.
For the ground is hard of hearing, and speaks in stones.
The dead carry the silence with them in the heavy earth,
and they are quiet enough, for all of us.'

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Friday, 18 May 2012

Kind of Blue

Kind of Blue

I had a great love of beautiful things. I saw them as something outside of myself, for the longest time. Broken, one day, i looked into a very dark place and found a jewel covered by a dark shroud. It had been hidden from me, until such time as i was forced to enter its realm. When i lifted that shroud, the space in which i found myself was no longer dark, and i was bathed in the beauty i had long sought, and thought belonged to others. It was then, that i recognized that all the beauty i had seen and gathered, as if in someone else's dream, had been shrouded within my own heart all along. I looked once again into the darkness, and saw you there. I saw inside your heart, what you yourself could not see, and having seen the beauty that resided there, how could i not hope to lift the veil of its own secrecy, and restore to you, what had been hidden from view for so long. You are more beautiful than you might ever suspect, and though you be in darkness still, beauty dwells within you.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012 

Friday, 11 May 2012

- Old and New -

-Old and New-

I want to grow old with you,
stay young with you,
watch the dark turn to gray,
and play with you!
day after day,
as we laugh at our wrinkles
and gather our girth,
dissolving into senescence with mirth.
Old faces weathered and aged,
lines that have turned every page,
eyes, that sparkle, still,
spell bound in the vision and thrill,
staring across the pillow, across the years,
across the bridge we forged between us.
The long years we journeyed,
searching, playing, learning,
so that all we had become,
could be brought before the alter of our love,
an offering of ripened tumescence,
to bless each fine aged ripple,
that laps upon these full weathered shores.
I want to grow old with you,
stay young with you,
giggle as we fall apart, together,
hand in hand, two old hearts,
kissing, as we slip into forever. 

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Artwork by Susi Richardson

Sunday, 6 May 2012



...And if I had died,
and were gone and dead,
what was it you could not say,
that you wish you might have said?

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

Little Bird

Little Bird

Betwixt the flame, and juniper,
the spritely dance so bright,
the may bells chime, the piper,
from darkness into light.

Did the rain douse the embers in the dawn?
When the fires raged, upon the hill,
your poignant heart tossed into the flame,
rising through the darkness, once again,
into the hallowed silence, and beyond,
did you feel the sallow crush of my own,
sweep across the moorland and the brush,
dressed in these sodden rags,
without a home, muddied and mired,
in the sunken shifting dirt of desire;

No true love that was ever born,
is alone in the darkness of night,
like a rose that is paired to its thorn,
true love is connected to light.

In the crackling heat of the logs and twigs,
bursting into fire at your feet,
did the drums drown out my heartbeat,
in the swirling ecstasy of your trance, and still,
the fervent longing of your missions bitter pill,
to take this darkness, tucked under your wing,
an offering to this ever loving man, and dash it,
down into the fire, devouring the night,
in the kindling embers of that radiant light.

Beauty lifts the soul,
laughter softens the chin,
love holds the flame,
that shines the light within.

To soften hearts, and raise the subtleties of spirit,
above the rancour of dull earth,
the din of the forlorn and broken.
No greater beauty doth a spirit bring,
than that it fill a soul, to raise its heart to sing.
Magic rings,
in every soft simple sweep, of your melodious trill,
the epiphany of gossamer chords,
drift mellifluously through the morn,
for yours, little bird, is the gentle gift of the light reborn.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012