-Thirst-

-Thirst-

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

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