Winter Moon

Winter Moon

Oh sunless sky,
cold winter of this barren heart
when did you leave this pitiless place?
why in death did you depart?
leaving but a remnant
a shadow of your light
to shine upon a mirror
to mock me in this cold hour
shining bright
without your warmth
or soak of heated touch
a silver'd echo
in the long night
of the broken hearted.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

 

Bonded

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

A Simple Poet

A Simple Poet

I am just a simple poet,
who dreamt of a better way,
if I failed in translation,
or my words did not strike a chord,
try not to think ill of me,
I can only offer what is in my heart,
imperfectly, full and overflowing.

Yet these words seem a pale shadow,
cast through a turbid mind,
between the light and the hope.
If they evaporate upon the wind,
and form some cloud of shade,
may it rain down upon you,
sometimes in tempest and squall,
at other times in gentle mist,
covering the parched ground,
with a filigree of dew,
soft and moist, a balm,
against the harsh Sun of reality.

Every word I have felt,
every emotion has coursed its weary way,
or sped upon this hearts fleet rapids,
tumbling over tumult and waterfall.
In sunlight, sometimes the rainbows arc,
The roar is heard even in the dark.

If you find yourself here,
and on some placid bank, thirst,
sip, quench that emotive desire,
in nestled pools or somnolent steams;
But when wading into those waters,
remember me, as they flow past,
for it is a life that passes you,
a flood of heartfelt yearnings,
shared for those I have loved.

I am just a simple poet,
who dreamt of a better way.
Do not say of me,
'He failed in his dreams',
but rather, sit and sup of your fill,
and let me flow ever onward,
past the boulders of your judgments,
and the critique of your damns,
for you bathe in my tears,
drink of my blood,
shed for you over all my years.

This flood that has beat within my heart,
with love, always love.
Yet I am but a simple poet,
and these are my waters you drink.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Did you not know?

Did you not know?

Love came to your door,
did you not know?
Did you not recognize the knock?
Was it so foreign to you,
to hear that soft beat upon your heart?
Love walked into your house,
lips pressed upon your own,
saw that the door in your heart was open,
and walked inside, leaving nothing to hide.
Every drawn curtain was flung aside,
love unlocked every door,
opened every window,
until the dark and dim-lit passageways,
dazzled in the day glow,
fresh gusts tumbling through the halls.
Where the hidden dreams and broken dolls were stored,
the dolls without limbs or clothes,
the dreams crushed beneath departing woes,
could you not see the silver thread,
the iridescent salve from the broken and dead.
Did you not see how the sunlight shone?
and watch as the dust sparkled,
captured for an instant in those shimmering rays,
swept before the gusting winds,
along those too long dark passageways.
Was it so strange,
to have that light play within that space,
to dance along the corridors so long left unlit,
and you, hid, behind those locked doors,
Just as you were locked,
behind those closet doors in your youth.
Did you hear the lock fall,
and the chain crash upon the wooden floor?
When that knock came, could you not recall?
and when you closed the doors again,
was the darkness as welcoming as it seemed before?
Did it coddle you in slumber?
When you close your eyes,
can you still see the shadows play upon the walls,
through the slits and gaps in those doors?
Love rests upon the wooden step now,
with the tattered railing,
unkempt and peeling, from the years of neglect.
It is warm out here,
the sun glimmers in bright streams,
and falls upon this place.
Hands cupped in the orange glow,
elbows resting upon soft seated knees.
In the calm of this setting sun,
you can glimpse a patient smile,
full and enduring,
shining in the constancy of grace.
Come, sit for a while,
you will find it is still warm.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Autumn

Autumn

Vivid vibrant greens meld with the rustic oak,
whilst the evergreen pines pause,
between rivers of dappled leaves,
flowing upon the halcyon balmy grounds,
of lovers golden dreams;
Crisp apple mornings
Smack of the frosty cool winds of life;
Silken webs lie naked,
frozen into silhouette upon a sapphire sky,
that sets a thousand paintings into motion,
and stokes the flaming wheel,
that arks this glorious heaven.
Until as ruby red,
he falls,
lays dead;
from whence the silverine ghost arisen,
slithers her separatist path,
across the great mourning,
softly,
silently she rests,
to beckon yet another,
exalted dawning.

© Richard Michael Parker 1987

 

Love is a Gift

Love is a Gift

Love is a gift,
unwrapped in the giving,
tied in a bow of surrender,
clothed in a package of trust.

It slips between the fingers of a grasping hand,
and drips upon the heartfelt ground,
at times soaking us in pools of desire,
muddying the earth on which we stand,
a bog of desperate flight,
an endless race in which we tire.

In the desert of the greedy heart,
it weeps between the grains of a shifting sand,
and slakes no thirst.

It cannot be captured or withheld,
nor forestalled by any wall or tower,
such is the omnipotence of its power.
It flows through every yielding heart,
and conquerers every demon,
every viperous snake at the start.

In timeless transcendence,
it sparks the fervent seed,
once planted, held gently,
grows beyond every wanton need.

In the fabled land of love,
light adorns every corner,
no shadow is cast,
but by the objects of our own design.

As we glide between the spaces,
the unfettered places.
These gaps we have created
between the remnants and the walls.
Love shines.
Its golden light, playing,
between the columns in these halls.

As we dance within its glory,
flickering in the light,
of our own allegoric story.

The mottled sanctuary of every soul,
is born between the shadow and the light,
and peers out behind a curtain, cut,
for eyes that seek respite from that night.

In the darkness, a pinprick of light,
is all that is needed to beckon eyes that have opened.

Love is a gift,
unwrapped in the giving,
a revelation without demand,
a sweet intoxication of the spirit,
infused with the perfume of its tenderness.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010  
 

The Gnarled Tree

The Gnarled Tree

The Gnarled tree grows,
Twisted and rent.

A sprout in the undergrowth,
amongst the weeds and thorns,
torn leaves, a tattered sapling,
bullied by the underbrush.
A tenuous rise in forlorn skies.
Stolen light, from the tall and bright,
the majesty of a family,
born in good earth.

Not a straight limb to be found,
on this dark and perilous ground.
Roots of desperate fingers,
clinging to the rocky outcrop.
Squeezing and fighting,
between the spaces.
The dappled light shines,
hope!

No chance to grow,
no right to keep going.
Gnarled and knotted,
in agonized contortions,
a sap laden ascension,
struggling beyond the canopy,
broken and bleeding.
Yet in the struggle,
it has grown strong.
Strong enough to stand the wind,
barking at the tempest,
armour thick and stout,
to endure the licking flame,
whilst all around fall to the fire.

Alone it has survived,
fed by a heartwood soft and supple,
adaptable and triumphant.
In the Spring light, another,
sweet succor for tormented limbs,
Entwined in a flowering glory,
with Seeds born anew.
A living testament to an ancient story.

The gnarled tree grows,
twisted and rent,
its heartwood,
supple and true.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Phoenix

Phoenix

Dark pitted abyss
beckons below
Lugubrious and slow
I am sucked Deeper
D
o
w
n
into the quagmire
My souls dull ache clouds all reason
Noumenon is blackness
vacuity
solemnity
it is all pervasive
Lost in this turgid miasma
I am nothing
and in nothingness
I AM!

RMP (1987)

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Only love remains

Only love remains

When that fire flows through my soul,
surging through the gates,
burning away this endless longing,
it is beauty that remains beyond the pain.
The promise of springs lush new growth,
brings hope to Winters soul.
I wish only to give of that beauty,
free in form and flow.
To be beautiful in your eyes,
is the envy of my heart.
To watch you gasp as i rise,
and to know that all i have done,
all i have won,
was for the beauty in your sight and soul.
The trials, the scars,
the battles of yearnings endless years,
brought before your temple,
and laid before the alter of your love.
If i could take the ugliness,
that remains in this wretched heart,
transform it, raise loves standard,
and ring the bells of beauty,
i would surely do so.
For to burn it out,
and from the ashes,
grow such a rose of this love,
that every captive eye would weep,
in remembrance and admission,
is my hearts true calling.
Yet those thorns cut deep,
and still have not withered, nor broken.
The blood still seeps upon the stem.
Yet, i will not tire, nor fold resigned,
nor rescind, from this desire in my heart.
For beauty wants nothing,
but to give of itself,
and in the giving,
find its reflection returned.
You are my fire, my love,
and in your flame,
only love remains.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2010

Winter Sun

 Winter Sun

As morning breaks,
shattering the dreams in this lonely place,
and your warm delicate hands,
slip beneath the covers,
moistened fingertips,
sliding over my soul, your skin;
It is I who feels each tender stroke,
the tremor within.
As your body opens to the memory of me,
entering a suckling reminiscence,
licking at the peeks,
and slips over the fullness of our love,
the fire that enters you, enters me.
When you walk in that distant place,
along the narrow paths of memory retraced,
your feet tread softly upon my heart,
and sink, slowly into me.
A wanderlust of bare feet,
soft pads pacing an endless retreat.
When that ache of longing stirs,
in the womb of our warmth,
it is i who stirs, within you,
yet in absent silence,
I am Winters cold sun,
a light without fire,
shining warmth on no one,
but you.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2010



Artwork by Leonid Afremov