Saturday, 30 April 2016



These shapes and feelings, the efflorescent stealing's of my heart, the rhyme upon the tip of this feathering quill, a skill, deftly stroked upon the soul of another, my lover, whose eternity wraps her arms in the gossamer airs of night, to twinkle through the filigree's of starlight, that play upon the pages of these scripted verses, born for all the ages we have ever known, forsworn by every gratitude to each that was ever grown, a twin heart, beats time within my own. These cymbals of love, that sound upon the parchment with scratchings of earth and fire, resound within a hearth, stoked by the coals of this living desire, mark time, in sweet rhythm upon my heart, the sounding bell upon the depths, from which each feathered dip does swell, to crash upon the shore of every word that sings of this love, and speaks for two, a fusion of rebirth, forever bespoke upon wings reborn, flown between the crashing waves, the smouldering tide, the seething page, fervent words, drawn from out the ink well of this love. Words...

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Sunday, 24 April 2016



I think it is also that he left us such beauty, bared his soul and resonated with our own, often in less callous times. Years of hope and tenderness, before the full blush of summers harsh sun had whorled it's wicked way with us. The passing of these iconic personalities, finger scars, or more tremulous hearts than those we may know today, and so too their passing becomes our own, a thousand deaths, passing down passageways we have long since left, yet, indelibly they remain our own, filled with the remnants of all those passing moments, feelings, emotions we have known. An ocean of song, sung in a common soul, though we be different, each drop a part of the whole. In the end, every moment, every emotion meant something to us, and so in passing, perhaps, those emotions that were so vital in that time pass too... for that, though we be grateful for the beauty and shared remembrance, it is hard not to be a little sad. As someone sagaciously said: "We don't cry because we knew them, we cry because they helped us know ourselves."

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Monday, 18 April 2016

Loves First Dawning Ray

-Loves First Dawning Ray-

You are the earth in which the seed is sown,
the silent dark, receiving every ray,
you are the night, the supple round, the fertile loam,
the coddled warmth of summers glow in endless May.
Wrapped in golden hue, this suckled honey,
lapped upon the morning dew we lay.

You are the ashes from the forest of the fallen
the rankled cold of winters solemn deep
you are the crown on which the soul was swollen
the hope renewed, the promise that we keep.
And ever has the world unfurled her glory,
though oft that climb atop seemed all too steep.

You are the silence that bends before me,
the rolling wave that greets the salted knight,
the curl of dreams, the whisper in the hollow,
the lavish realm, the promise of the light.
Each ripple curved upon the yielding lip,
to slip into the fulsome sheath aright.

And when the yawn of death is over,
you are the revelry, the sprightly risen tune,
the morning star, the lark-full luscious clover,
rekindled in the spark'd hearth renewed.
For every day, the dark recedes, my lover,
you are the blessing of loves first dawning ray.

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

The Willow's Song

-The Willow's Song-

I heard the wind chimes call,
your tender breath blowing through the willow;
How soft the moon,
the elegant sweep of your hands
crushed beneath my heart and the pillow.

Was it only yesterday we sat alone?
And turned the fated rocks,
every tortured stone,
tilled from out the sodden peat
the mangled scar'd fray
of every sunken beat?

And turning... still,
the silence and the warmth of every crook,
pressed into the nook of my soul,
your emerald heart
glowing in the still night of your yearning.

How fickle this spell
that breaks upon the dawns first ray.
How low the moon,
her weary sunken brow borne far away,
caught between the rapture, and the day.

I heard the wind chimes call;
And all that frightened woe,
will not wash the sound away.

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Artwork: 'Hope' by Milenka Delic

Sunday, 7 February 2016



The danger with disappointment, especially when it has accompanied sorrow, is projection. The sanctimony of the artful mental manipulations of the mind, mendaciously matriculating from the college of the soul. Grief is a dreadful taskmaster unless it is confronted, and while we presume to believe only in all that has gone before, that blistered light that once shone as stars in the nebulous universe of our unfolding, to seek to avoid the vacuum that shapes and controls even the greatest of these spheres is a dreadful mistake. No one wants to see the dark, especially when one projects such light as a mask, but to avoid the truth in the nature of that balance is simply to abdicate ones life journey in favour of a fantastical illusion, an illusion so powerful it blinds us to the truth of it, whilst subtly eking between the cracks. Sorrow, uncontested, becomes a bitter sword wielded by the blind. We say to ourselves, 'We, are light, They are dark, We are in control, they are chaos,' the eternal polemic becomes a battle contested in ourselves and projected upon the world, until all are separated in a sanctimony of dis-equilibria. The courage to face the shadow, the fear, the darkened remnants of our own grief, allows for the transcendent moment to redress that balance in an authentic manner, so that we are no longer forced to project a false polemic upon the world, and love can once again form new stars in this universe we all share. All else is illusion...

 © Richard Michael Parker 2016