Saturday, 29 March 2014



The opalescence of your eyes,
shimmers in Novembers pale sun,
and all the world is stolen,
still, in the glint of this silver thread,
woven between us.

The tethered serenade of a nightingale,
swims through the midnight branches,
an overhang of tenderness,
a canopy of moonlight,
dancing amongst the shadows,
the dipping lip,
creased in languid motions,
the teasing oceans of your warm breath,
swept upon the somnolence of this summers breeze.

How solemn the death.
The madness and insanity,
the shattered revelry,
broken in the crepuscular awakening
of this suns shrill call.

How fateful the fall of that larks sweet note,
the swollen throat of the broaching dawn.

And still... I love you still,
though all the sea's lay between us,
and time jealously guard our secret.

I close my eyes, and in that instant,
your summer moon invades the winter snows,
and all the frozen world about,
cannot keep me out of paradise.
The warmth of your touch,
an oasis of moonlight,
stark, against the harsh sun of reality.

And still... I love you still,
and being still, you are with me.

© Richard Michael Parker 2014

Wednesday, 15 January 2014

The Crucible of Love

The Crucible of Love

The Lord of swiftness comes!
seated upon the dulcet silence of the rainbow,
and every naked shower that broke,
in the belly of the tumult, eased again,
clothed in the fading clouds of the thunderbolt.

How ragged the teeth, the jagged edge of death,
that sweeps across the plain of loves devoured halo.
How quickly it is rent, in the might of the foment,
while every supplicant, illumed, is swallowed below.

For ever has it been the truth, that love abides no chain,
nor bond, nor broken vow, nor frightened heart, nor shame.
In formless might, it renders all control, conceit,
to toss in fright, chaotic light, into the flame, deceit.

'Too late', I thought, 'Too late! we wait an age,
and so it seemed all hell had ascended.
Departing calm, defriended, no balm to ease love ended.
I heard the willow whisper in soothing tones,
in the midst of the yawning chasm of that fiery breech,
and it was, as if, in moonlit speech,
it soothed the tempests rage that burnt my breast,
'Come rest' she said, in silent arms,
to know that loves bequest is tranquil in it's gift.
All slag burnt away, the inconsequential waste,
tossed upon the pyre, the holy alters light,
of loves devouring fire.

'It is only fear, burnt from out the crucible of love,
that tears the soul in twain; It is only pride,
severed in the rage, tossed into the flame,
that sweeps away the thunderbolt and rain.'

How sweet the first sup of air, when smelted wroth,
departs, stripping away all doubt and fear.
How bright the dawn from out the dark well of night,
the furies hour, leaving only the intimate truth.

Redoubled, the bond made brighter, Loves herald,
seated in wing'd chariot, to descend upon each tormented lover.
Joyous contentedness, effortlessly slips between the remnants,
the salvaged sentiments, poured in mellifluous strains
through the harp strings, the heavenly reigns, held sweetly.

The Lord of swiftness comes!
seated upon the dulcet silence of the rainbow!
Loves tranquil sun, rising upon the ashes of the shadow.

© Richard Michael Parker 2014


Friday, 3 January 2014

Sweet Surrender

-Sweet Surrender-

And if all the world resolved,
to change the loving heart,
to maim the union that bore it's breast,
and burst upon the living land, would it rest?
Could it turn the torment of the distance,
For even one second into something other than what it is?
Love, incalculable, incorruptible love,
the fire in our veins, the molten core of desolation!
When all the walls we stoutly built,
between the object and our doubt,
have finally been erected,
do you still believe they will stand?
That they could ever have forestalled this Titans roar!
this fury! What hubris! the proud mind,
useless before the foments fiery breach,
a fools fortress on the soil of some foreign land!
Even proud Apollo,
luminescent upon his bright ray of dawn,
could not forestall loves glory.
Though he build a universe to divide it,
still the weft and the warp measure the weave!
Even He! of such empyreal majesty,
bows before the cherubs wing.
What then of we? Mortal beings!
Who vainly believe we control our destiny!
What hubris destroys the tower?
The triumphant hour,
when every brick is smashed before the great amour,
crashed upon the floor.
And for what?
Our choice is but to lament,
or in humility, all resistance spent,
sing! Surrender! Sweet Surrender!
Surrender, the vulnerable truth,
the tender mercy of mortal youth!
Surrender, or fall...
the fateful choice of lovers, all.

© Richard Michael Parker 2014

Artwork: Artist Unknown