Saturday, 5 March 2011

D'Amore

-D'Amore-


There is sadness in your eyes, hope too,
and all the while this enveloped sensibility,
wrapped in a blanket of blue...

You have born the taunts of the frozen heart,
the severity of winter blasts,
hoar frosts biting into your fleshy soul,
so cold it seemed as if your passing had arrived,
yet still you stood tall,
unbowed by those glacial winds,
the cracking moments of icy expansion,
threaded between the leaves of  your soul.

Would springs dawn never rise?
Would those stark and barren skies,
never fill with the yellow song
of  this Suns gentle ray?
How long you have waited,
an endless season of barren despair.

Yet, hearken to the larks sweet note,
as it sings upon a green bough,
made bright by this Springs new dawn;
As if  in some ecstatic rapture,
to dance upon an air, a rhapsody entranced!
Wake up!, wake up my love...
awaken from the ice ensconced,
to bud upon song,
the thaw from out the frozen night.

Melt into me, my love,
flow into this warm skins touch,
with a torrent of bliss,
and know that this frozen death is ended,
with sunlight's first kiss.

Slip into this warm morn's light,
shed those frozen shards,
past remnants of that frigid night,
and know the soulful soak,
of love arisen once more,
The golden promise of spring returned,
D'Amore.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011




Artwork by Peggi Meyer Graminski

Friday, 4 March 2011

Spring Rise



-Spring Rise-

Cold winds are broken, bees song in flight,
swollen with pollen, engorged with sunlight;
New buds that welcome, warmth formed anew
dawn-lights first token, soft mellow dew.

The ice that enfolds, a life's hidden embers,
melts all around, a heart that remembers;
The seasons roll round, on Loves subtle rainbow,
shoots spring from ground, whilst winter is laid low.

On cool crisp clear mornings, we push and move fast,
on hue speckled dawning's, we grow from the past;
If in our days, we trace birds sweet song,
natures new ways, sure to turn all along.

The winds that blew icy, from climbs that were colder,
signal times constant dance, in the rounds one loop older;
Cherish this gift, life's love freely given,
as your heart springs anew, with a soul freshly risen.

For this cycle that wheels, with and without us,
subtly feels, all the lovers and doubters;
With natures fresh kiss, a breath, softly spoken,
close your eyes and you'll miss, dark nights spell that's broken.

Arise and renew, walk in fields lush with clover,
be as one sky that's blue, for deaths storm now is over;
So when in the dusk, we recount loves first sunlight,
rest assured that with hope, we may sleep safe the long night.

© Richard Michael Parker 1999

Monday, 28 February 2011

Not Alone




Not Alone

When all about is blue
and the way forward doesn't seem so clear
remember that light within you
that same light that is within me too.

When you are caught in the depths of despair
and darkness seems to be your only friend
remember you are not alone
so open your eyes, to see i am there.

When you struggle for breath
in the bottomless waters, gasping for air
and feel this impending dread as if it were death
press your mouth to mine and i will breathe for us both.

There is sunlight behind every cloud
even in the night, the stars shine
and in reflections upon that mirror
remember in that echo
the dawns rise comes in silence and surety
in the quiet of that silent place.

You are not alone, you have never been alone,
you will never be alone...
  
© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Alone










Alone

There was joy, the sun streamed in,
love flooding every vestige,
laughter too.
Then the creeping,
the imperceptible loneliness,
the washing tide of sadness,
this... madness;
Slipping into the dark hours,
like a shadow in my night,
a blinding of the light.
Slinking in the back streets
of some memory left in retreat.
Sitting on a hillside at midnight,
the distant lights fading,
until all that is left,
is a faint heartbeat,
and the murmur of a cold wind.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Friday, 25 February 2011

Untamed Word


Untamed Word

It ran along the boulders ledge, bright sun dashed through its mane, and naked, tore upon the windswept reach, and plunged 50 feet down into the crystalline waters of the mountain lake, alps stretching as far as the eye can see on either side,  the torpid heat and desert dry dust, choking the air, washed in an instant from that soul, with effusive joy and unbridled care...

You will not tame my word ...

No self made prison, will make a curse, or stop the pen from exploding onto the page with orgiastic verse. I break the tip of my pencil with my teeth, and running the lead across some rugged boulder, find some remnant of a worn out book jacket, read a thousand times, stinking of backpacks and pine sap, and scribble the words on the inside cover, while all about me is blue, and wild in green, beasts and untamed natural majesty exploding on the scene...

You will not tame my word ...

It comes like a ravenous lion from the heartland of my soul, and catching you in its yellow eyes, pupils dilating in its edacious glare, leaps into the air, with all claws blazing, slashing, ripping a hole into the sanctity of your tight little box, your manufactured certainty; Fangs sinking so deep into the meat of your petrified social carcass the blood gushes in fountains into the air. A nose disappearing into the belly of you, to rip the sodden viscera from your corpulent lassitude...

You will not tame my word ...

I swim with wild dolphins, make love in bright summer meadows filled with the sweaty mass of slinking skin, sucking in the perfume of pollinated musk, and at dusk, over campfires of fragrant green smoke, slowly roast the gifts that were caught in those rushing heady waters of the untamed hearts...

You will not tame my word ...

I will not wear your prissy gowned shirts, or pretend not to care when you turn your eyes away from some wild animal that hurts. I will not shut my mouth as you screw the earth, or bind my hands with your civilized twine as you celebrate some poxy legislative stillbirth with mirth...

You will not tame my word ...

For it was wild when it was born, formed from a simmering stew, a fiery reach, torn from the wild and the blue, crashing within the winds upon a storm swept beach, descending upon this earth in thunder, and in lightning, striking its girth...

You will not tame my word ...

It will not sit in silence as the darkness descends, or boxed into a screen, retreat, as all the world pretends. If you thought you held the chains, or manacled the mouth with your ill gotten gains, think again, for it fights to be heard...

You will not tame my word ...

It does not recognize your borders, or kowtow to all your barking orders, it will not quietly slip into the depths, or in silence, rescind those heartless steps. When you formulate your plans, and factor out this sweet freedoms sands, watch that they don't swirl in some almighty sirocco and crash upon your hourglass from without, burying you in the truth of your doubt...

You will not tame my word...

Yet! fear not the untamed heart, fear not the word, nor the formless might at the start. For it is only the manacles it sweeps away, the chains, the fettering binds, the fractured strains, the lying minds, leaving the heart and soul the freedom to play, to sweep in gushing tides, and create a brand new way...

You will not tame this word, not before all that is to be said, has been heard, for in every untamed heart, resides, the untamed word.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011 

Lotus

 
Lotus

Beneath the sullied waters,
deep, in the muddy mire,
comes an airy stem,
a searching tip of fire.

It struggles at the first,
from out that messy space,
then floats upon a dream,
into some hallowed place.

We think that we may drown,
before it breaks the surface,
then find that just by letting go,
it rises through its own grace.

And when it sits atop,
that still and bright new day,
the petals open up,
in some heavenly display.

How can it be that such as this,
could come from out that place,
such beauty grown within a womb,
from slime and past disgrace.

It is the truth of all great things,
that from the dark and sallow,
can come the sweetest petaled wings,
a light from out the shadow.

And you who bore such misery,
and kept that flame alight,
sweet perfumed gift of lotus bloom,
you are God's great delight.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011



Artwork by Lorraine Sumners

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

A bridge with a lift














A bridge with a lift

Spanned across the great divide,
I have seen such wondrous things,
terrible things.
Lovers from either side,
kissing beneath my hallowed cloisters,
in the moonlit night,
melting in the dim gaslight.
They come to meet in the midst of me,
embracing in a détente of mutual ecstasy.

Forbidden loves from either shore,
meet upon this 'no mans land',
to whisper sweetly, and confide,
of eternal unions that never hide.

To them, i am the sweet destination,
the point of no return,
the endless longing,
through days of heartfelt yearnings,
an abode of secrets, sweet sensual kisses,
endless bliss.
For this alone, all else seems sufferable.
yet it is never for long,
they turn, one way, or the other,
or both,
always to depart again,
sometimes in tears,
sometimes in song,
a transitory destination all along.

I have seen those same lovers,
jilted,
on lonely winter nights,
walk upon me in treachery,
broken hearted and alone,
to cast themselves into a void, blind,
unable, unwilling to take sides,
a leap of faith denied.
Those final bitter tears,
shed upon me in streams of wasted years,
loves that never came to greet them,
or those that did, and died.

In those moments, i too have wept,
yet always the dawns rise,
and a thousand scattered footsteps,
tap the beat out on my heart,
never an end, never a start.
In the quiet of that night,
I too have dreamt,
dreamt of being a destination,
the final point of a journey,
the reason for travails and yearnings,
but i am just a bridge,
a transit point for an aeon's dreams,
a crossing from a this to a that,
and once crossed, no one ever looks back.

How lonely it can be,
caught within the footsteps of eternity,
a million footsteps trudging endlessly,
across my walkway.
Always going, never coming,
from this to that,
displaced,
the endless transition,
never to be the final destination,
but for the broken or the smitten.

'Hey you!...yes, you!, who talk of loneliness,
from your lateral point of view.
I have watched you from on high,
from empty, endless, cloudless skies,
and seen the march of a million feet,
cross those waters to a timeless beat.
All the while you stood proud,
stout, within the seasons cyclic shroud.

I, however, who rise and fall, so slowly,
catch but a glimpse between these walls,
marking out each final destination,
from my vertical inclination.

At times I descend into a pit of despair,
and waiting, find not a soul for me there.
No one to wait for me,
up and down, endlessly.

I rise when i am summoned,
and fall at every beckoned call,
some rise in hope, others fall with none,
yet, better a slow decline, from a high place,
than such a quick descent,
a fatal fall from grace.

Many summon me,
press my buttons,
sometimes one at a time,
sometimes, all,
but still i must heed that call.

Crammed into tiny spaces,
silent feet, smiling faces,
sweaty summer days,
the creak of winters night,
always the moving place,
never the home,
never the boudoir of delight.

Yet, I do not cry,
or yearn to be another,
for we are precious you see,
we allow each soul a choice,
where none before were free.

They come from here to there,
they move from this to that,
but without you and i,
they are stuck, one dimensional, flat.

Maybe, only you could understand me,
maybe, it is only I,
that could comprehend your solemn cry.

Many times i have stood idle,
watching you, from my vertical point of view,
wondering what it might be like,
to have the gift and pure delight,
of doors that never shut,
open paths that lead to somewhere,
to never have to move,
yet, always have movement upon you.
We are opposites in action you see,
but not so very different in purpose,
you, and me'.

'Yes, i see you now, standing so tall,
but i have seen you fall too, slowly.
You have born them all,
with such grace.
Hopeful souls crammed into your tiny space.

These words of comfort you have spoken,
ease my soul, shine with a divine purpose,
a wisdom, a blessed token.

I know now i am not alone,
no longer a solemn bridge of pointless design.
A reach from nothing to nowhere.
For this gift you have given,
i could not find on my own,
the perspective to know we are not alone.
You have shown me, that which i could not see,
the very wonder and purpose of our true divinity'.

'And you, my complimentary admirer,
have given me such sights, as wonders do allow.
Visions of the great and the terrible,
traversing your great arch, in timeless hoards.
Only you could know what it is to be that which i am,
only you who stands strong across there to here,
with no sudden movement, no fear,
could ever understand what it is to ferry man,
forever, never, to be his point of rest,
an endless movement, in his ceaseless quest'.

'What goes up, must come down,
but better a slow fall to the ground,
what is left, travels right,
and back again, every night.

I wonder whether you and I,
who, here and there, up and down,
ferry all, round and round,
might meet together on the ground'?

'A bridge with a lift!
what a peculiar notion,
yet this heart has a mind,
of emotive devotion.'

'A bridge with a lift,
do you think it could be?
where once there were two,
dimensionally, three!'

...(together) 'possibly'!

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Friday, 18 February 2011

The Awakening















The Awakening

Thunder raged across the land,
the lightening bolts did smite,
and smashed into the ferrous sand,
as savage winds took flight.

When out that blackened tempests draft,
a wailing cry was heard,
the ghoulish screams of airs that laughed,
pricked ears that sleep'd, stirred.

And rose that light on wings of fire,
into a storm lashed fury,
across the tempests awesome might,
two wings divine sped purely.

Beyond the formless ferments void,
beyond the shattered breakers,
beyond the thunder gods annoyed,
beyond the foul winds makers.

A maiden lashed on broken mast,
was bound, and trussed, and captured,
so through the flashing night made fast,
he tore to her enraptured.

But lo, he saw as she did scream,
between the lightnings flashings,
a giant serpent foul and mean,
was wrapped around those lashings.

The hissing seething serpent,
with its teeth tipped foul with venom,
did wind itself around her brace,
and spit a fiery plenum.

The screaming gale, the crashing surf,
the mighty thunderous heaven,
did set within his ears to burst,
her plaintiff screams to deafen.

Retreating to the iron sands,
to where the bolts had sundered,
he forged a mighty sword with hands,
no titan ever plundered.

And quick, he quenched the flaming steel,
into the seething ocean,
and shot upon white horse and gale,
with fix'd hearts devotion.

Then down the tumult he did speed,
to smite the foul grim viper,
and with one puissant savage cleave,
was cast upon the striker.

They raged, into that formless void,
the sky was born with thunder,
till sword and serpent were alloyed,
he brought that dragon under.

It smashed into the foaming wild,
and hissed at them a while,
then down it sank into the deep,
full wounded, leeched the bile.

Two wings alighted on the mast,
and cut the tethers surely,
then into those great arms at last,
she swooned; twas held securely.

At once the sea did find its calm,
and rolled away the clouds,
the sunlit shores blessed bosomed balm,
did offer them its shrouds.

They rest there still, in golden light,
in mirth, and sweet fine art,
and soon forgot dark torments night,
embrace'd, soul and heart.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011


Tuesday, 15 February 2011

Shells upon the beach...





-Shells Upon The Beach-

Her slick powerful torso shot in spiralling waves around the bay. Each pulsing motion of her heart sped across the water and plunged into that briny place. It was as if she had become the dolphin, and all those yearnings spat themselves upon the sandy reach, with each effulgent leap and every joyful breach.

The stone she held within her heart, the heart shaped stone she had found upon the sand, no longer felt so heavy, no longer sat so cold in the winter winds of that icy and solemn place, and she drifted in the tide for a while, with the roll of the gentle sea easing her beyond the breakers, each sigh lifting the stone, imperceptibly, gently, until it slipped between the red cliff'd walls of her silent shore, and glistened in the far depths once more, and was gone.

One last leap, one last breath, was all it took, and she was gone. Gone into the salty depths, as they fell upon her hands, leaking between her slim delicate fingers, mingling with the waters between the grains of her golden and yielding shore.

In wonder she saw that the sea, that seethed beneath her feet, licked upon those small droplets, embracing them as a mother embraces her young, and wondered how many tears had been shed to fill so great a sea, how many loves had been lost over countless centuries that they now washed upon her bare white toes, in this winter, this winter in which she froze.

The wind whipped in gusting squalls across the bay, and began to dry those ruddy vestiges upon her flushed rosy face. The blackened streaks marked the scars left unseen, deep beneath those salty waves of grief, and made a fractured china doll of her. A broken remnant of Victoriana, sullenly standing upon the waters edge, peering through a cracked face at the white horsed promise of hope, that rose in tides, only to sink again into the unfathomable depths, forlorn.

Why had he gone? She did not know, nor would she ever know, he had come as the sun comes in the spring, warm and tender, riding on a wild cloudless dawn, thrilling her with his rays, filling her veins and sinews, so long left cold, with a heat only new love, new hope, can bring. He had come as a blade of grass comes, bright and luminous from out the muddy ground of winters retreat. A testament of natures cyclical gift of hope. He came with unbridled joy, and it had seemed to her, that the solitude and solemnity of her youth, those long lonely anguished hours of silence, in the dark endless nights of her eternal December, were banished, but for a while, by the herald of this suns golden March.

It was, as a fairy tale is, full of bright hope, and dark remnants of despair, one upon another, shining brightly between dark columns in dim lit passageways of reverie. It could not last, she had known this from the start, for no great love that sweeps majestically within the course of natures hallowed ground lasts beyond its year. It comes from out the silences and solemnity of winters frozen ground, melting into cavernous and raging torrents of passionate might with the spring, crashing through the mountains breach, smashing the fortress boulders with thunderous intolerance, until in bright summer, it whiles away, sweet and sensual, the endless days. Even then she had feared the fall. From the start she had feared, the tumbling icy fall, the fall... So distant in those days, yet ever present, as a shadow is present in the grip of the light as it shines upon the object of ones desire. The fall that would clasp its greedy talons upon her heart, ripping it in ceaseless screams from her tremulous chest, and dashing into the chasm from whence that love and hope did start.

Yet it was not love lost that swept upon her now, nor the broken hopes, the imagined hopes of youthful fancy, and there careless whispering lies, that hide the searing truth of the illuminated sky. It was not that. It was something far more dark and dangerous, far more sinister to a wild heart. It was rather that she was to be married, and in that moment of her cold silent winter, this marriage was the contrariety of that place she had treasured. That warm spring sun, that endless June brocade of flowers and giggling ecstasy. It was, to her, as if she were to be bound into an endless winter, never to taste the fruits of the passion'd vine, nor smell the musk of a sweet oiled lover, slip in tides across her fulsome yielding bosom. Never to nestle in a bed of summer grass, caressed by the fragrance and intoxication of wild flowers and strong hands.

She was to be married, like chattel, like so much common cattle, and where, before, her wild heart had beat to the thrill of her loves former glory, thundering out its sonorous fury, even as memory, now, only a chained and desolate remnant remained.

In that vacuum of space, her chest broke apart, and flooded the sands with its grief. It was as if her heart became one with the sea, so that slowly, yet with mindless surety, her feet followed that distant march, the wild and fervent drum beat, into the depths, one solemn step at a time.

Graceful as a swift upon the summer air she came, powerful and majestic, no turbulence nor torpid vestige of doubt raced within her now. In play she came, and as she came, she tore upon the ragged waters surface with such ease. Her length slender and firm. She came in a great arc of power and purpose, to greet this wild heart that had sort her out, as a wild thing might know another, as life might know the edge of death, the forge of its freedom. In that moment, that final moment of numbed remembrance, two wild souls met. It seemed in that moment of last hope, that her heart, her cold and failing heart, filled once more with a radiance, and bathed her soul in the soaking warmth of a golden light, in the chilling bitterness of those frigid waters.

Her golden waving locks swam in somnolent streams over the alabaster remnants of her fading glory, and as she sank into that icy reach, she felt a nuzzling delta of silken smooth grace, powerful and gentle, take her cold numbed hand, guiding her into that deep blue womb. Two wild hearts, one full, one fleeting, both now retreating into the mothers womb, the endless blue womb, the womb of all souls. Two wild hearts descending, into the wild hearted ocean, the mother of all wild hearts, from whence all are born, and all, in there time, return.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011




Artwork by Izabella

Monday, 14 February 2011

If our Love...

If our love...

If our love be a time,
let it run in endless line,
from the word,
unto apocalypse resigned,
then, rewind,
or if some blessed soul,
or creature divine,
wonder at the beauty of this tale,
let them forge another age,
in which two lovers,
embrac'd dwell,
and for a time...
know only the sighs,
carried upon two lips,
no distant than the parting of breath,
to fall into each moistened mouth beset.

Let this love renew,
in bright resplendent hue,
on rocks that no tumult ever broached.
The sweeping path, towards the lunging surf,
and fast, the golden sands do sigh once more,
to greet two lovers,
that in stately times passed bye.
For in that place of giddy mirth,
let two souls of divine birth,
regale the palisades with song,
and climb the winter walls with fiery hearts,
commanding every bird with talons peek,
to cry allowed, in joy,
or never speak.

If our love be a bird
let it be a phoenix.
Bright and golden as the dawn,
shimmering in the firelight,
of a shattered funeral pyre,
rebirthed,
ablaze in beauty of the song,
resounding in the fire;
Reborn, from sallow embers,
of a flickering night,
with wings resplendent,
long lived, a thousand years
of rapture in flight,
to shine in dazzling sheen sublime,
a luminescent testament,
to this lovers story,
enshrined within that ancient glory.

In summer months,
let two lovers lighten their load,
in cool caned realms of sweet repose,
so, naked,
recount the tales one to the other,
of winters icy fingers,
amongst the fiery timbers,
until the licking flame ascends,
to burst upon two supple lips,
quenched within those sliding hips,
reforging sword and sheath again.

Yet, if it be a sound,
let it be a silence,
the thread and weave between all things;
Each bird, each breeze,
that sweeps majestically,
between the mountain pass and trees,
suffused in loves great blessed silent ease.
Let each note play upon loves silent strings,
to hold all melody, each harmony,
together in sweet time,
an accord of music divine.
Then, in times departure,
our silent love will be our gain,
for in the silence,
this loving rapture will remain.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011