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

-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