False Hope

-False Hope-

Left in a passage of dark deep despair,
no light to illumine the agony there,
crouched in a corner of some foul design,
you ache with some remnant of longing resigned.

These wounds that have bled out your heart, that once loved,
are wickedly opened and deepened, when shoved,
into a box, where your dreams used to be,
residing in emptiness, loves absentee.

Lost in that dark and damp manacled place,
where you sat in your blood that wept down your face,
there was but a fragment, a shred of dim light,
that flickered inside, in the dark of that night.

So you rise, as the light inside See's up ahead,
a crack in the gloom, with a thin wisping thread,
to sow up these wounds, and to make of them scars,
to unlock these self designed prisoners bars.

And all of the time, with a wicked sly grin,
the beast that has hold of your hope from within,
tempts you by stoking that last fading coal,
in the hope it will finally devour your soul.

For it knows, what you don't, in the depths of that place,
that you'll give all you've got to escape from that space,
even in the light of that last dim lit flicker,
it knows it just makes that slope all the bit slicker.

For a glimmer of hope is enough now to kill you,
as the teeth tautly widen around the dark lures woo,
and begin to drip venom in anticipation,
as blindly you wander into that damnation.

The snap of the trap, that now rips through your soul,
as the tocsin erupts from the demonic toll,
is the only dark remnant left in that night,
of a heart finally swallowed by that false hopes fake light.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Death of a Romantic

Death of a Romantic

He told himself;
If only, you could hold on'
'if only, you had been strong'
'if only, on those dark and lonesome nights,
under the orange glow of the ancient gaslight,
some illumined flicker of love had lit my way,
instead of the chimera of hopes false dawning day.
He spoke in soft words;
'you have peered through the settling twilight,
seen the emptiness of your own eternity,
here without a 'you', filled with only a 'me',
if only there had been another,
this tardy spirit might have tarried,
instead of feeling forlorn, lost and harried'.
He told himself;
'I carried roses once,
in a wicker basket, in my heart,
plucked by the scent of loves first start;
Those thorns had pricked my senses,
and sent them reeling with this imaginary love,
cascading across some sultry summer dance floor,
in whirling time with my great pretend paramour'.
He told himself;
Why!, when you knew all along,
that your open heart was bled dry,
did you even try,
or believe, even for a moment,
that in this hastened silence,
life, might afford you one last chance?
'foolish boy'!...did you not know,
the only love in this life was in your heart,
and only in the gift would it start.
Love was never yours to have, nor hold,
for it is only for the beautiful, and the bold,
not for the hideous and delicate romantic,
love in such, is but a rod for the back!
He told himself;
This ledge is not so high!,
it does not seem so far,
and if i fall,
the ground will not seem so hard,
certainly no harder than this barren heart,
no higher, than the mountains i have scaled,
upon whose heights of loneliness i have wailed,
no further in truth,
than the distance of times yearning years,
or the constancy of gathering tears.
He said;
This cliff faced wall, it does not seem so tall anymore,
scored against the gathering distance,
of time left denied,
swept upon these seas i have cried,
this leap seems not so far to me,
no further than the countless 'leaps of faith' i have made,
the revelations and moments of heartache, left dismayed.
He peered into oblivion;
Watching as the slow clouds rolled homeward,
and felt his soul slip amidst them.
Moistened dew drops tickling his cheeks,
and wondered, one last time,
whether he would ever miss those streams,
his forlorn golden dreams,
the hauntings of this stark reality,
the enduring emptiness of his heart filled misery.
For even sorrow is a friend, in the end.
He stepped into the void;
To feel the rush of the cold wind greet his rosy cheeks,
and recalled how he had longed to see the same, as he fell,
full blush, soft spoken, tremulously wept, heart broken.
Plummeting down, never to be found,
for once spoken, love departed,
brushing sensate lips,
caressing the broken hearted.
He saw clearly the ground rise;
To meet him,
to greet him,
to know this stranger,
who having flown so long,
in rarefied skies,
approached now at speed,
where once wings had upheld his need,
reality plunged upon its surface,
caught in the gravity of this loveless disgrace.
He wondered:
Will it hurt?
Not so much as the years of countless burnings,
the heartfelt bonfire of hopes endless yearnings,
ashen moments of passions rising heat,
the licking torment of a solitary retreat.
For as the desolation of his loveless form descended,
he smiled, calmly,  and knew that this agony was ended.
In that momentary light of resignation,
the certainty of his end,
this wretched lonesome Romantic,
began to apprehend, and quick,
the futility of that constant search.

His heart shrunk into the wild rock,
and fused with the stony truth of it.

"That one!
I'll take that one,
to sculpt."

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

Hello Again...

Hello Again...

It was your Heart within your Art,
that flew upon those airy wings into my own,
enjoining souls that once, alone,
resound now in bless'd unity,
and sing in soulful raptured harmony.

Hello again, sweet Delphin cheeks,
whose long lashed eyes, crash upon this shore;
Weep no more, upon those honeyed sighs,
but rest within these wings upheld,
the sleek and silent tremor in this heartfelt meld.

Where once were two, three in art reside,
shed those silent skins, softly eased aside,
unfurling winglets, soft and pliant,
each moistened filigree, stretched, transcendent,
a delicacy of fervid refinement.

Sunlit elation from out some darkened circumstance,
transformed within the light of each hidden sighted glance,
to see, what eyes cannot,
to know the certainty in that soul-filled space,
the metamorphosis within the unity of grace.

It was your Heart within your Art,
that flew upon those airy wings into my own,
enjoining souls that once, alone,
resound now in bless'd unity,
and sing in soulful raptured harmony.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011



Artwork by Izabella Blue

The Fox

The Fox

The mystic hallowed silence,
the stillness within the spaces,
between the sounding bells of these pounding places,
rising in these unspoken words,
from its den of din,
silently it creeps,
into the coop of your heart,
and steals away the hours,
the ticking remnants at the start.

Time is a fox,
sly and silent,
paw prints on your heart
the only evidence of its passing.
The dawns crowing Cock,
heralds one chicken less,
in the coup of your unstirred moment,
sneaks the fox of ubiquitousness.

To find the passion within,
a constant search without,
within, a dream, all doubt,
laid at the alter,
of the flaming cenotaph of each passing moment.
Seize this time,
this chimeric fox by its tail,
and whip your failing soul into a frenzy of desire,
aroused from this listless ennui,
thrown upon your own sententious funeral pyre.

Wait for no ones permission,
for no one waits for yours,
But grasp that future steel,
from the white hot hearth of your brazen depths,
and plunge it, into the tempering bath,
of your own present moment,
grinding that edge, to severe its head.

Suffer not the idle wanton longings of past regrets,
they are but beds upon which future dreams are bled,
but Set your Hounds upon this Fox,
and in the chase, within the gnawing space,
the constant tick of those endless clocks,
rise above the saddened sighs,
the putrefying corpses of the past,
until at last, the constant ticking of that time,
is silenced in your own portentous sanctuary,
harried to the ground, eaten by your victory.

Forget those, who, trapped in their own past dementia,
would attempt to pull you back into their misery,
for they are trapped within their own oblivion, history!
unable to muster even a momentary vision of grace,
they are broken, sullied, a fantastical waste of space.

Time is a Fox, rally your hounds,
taste not the bitterness of remorse,
but run it to ground, rip it asunder,
as those bitches and bastards of your past go under.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

The torture of early Spring

The torture of early Spring


This Sade season,
that prods the Sun from out its lingering rest,
the warmth of feelings tightly checked,
closeted in Winters cold embrace.
The tango with the sensual,
the perfume, the pollen,
the rising tide,
the ebb and flow,
the supple and lingering desires,
so long left denied,
The gaze, the grace,
...the dance!

This Awakening!
arisen from it's lingering slumber,
aroused in song by tuneful revelry,
prised with creaking remembrance,
from Winters icy fingers.
The lingering swirls,
the dips of longing,
the Saturnalic twirls,
the ever tautened bow string;
Embodied in each dawns arousing.
To know the truth,
as it pulses in the flesh of reality,
far removed from the sleeping dream,
The chimera of the frigid and imaginary.

The subtle touch,
the soaking skintight sway,
as the night gives way to the day.
As life surges with untold purpose,
to begin in a whisper,
a whisper, that redounds in an echo,
blown through somnolent Winter halls,
upon a hearth,
buried deep within these walls.
The breath upon the fire,
arousing flames ever upward, ever higher.
To banish the frigid emptiness of cold isolation
coddled in that forlorn hibernation.

To know with certainty,
this simple breeze,
that blows remorselessly,
between these newly budding trees,
demands its voice,
becomes a shout,
a scream,
a thunderous roar,
a mighty vestige of youth,
so long left unseen,
an aching longing, for more!
a power with untold purpose,
a demand without remittance,
and worse.

The dance,
the ebb and sway,
firstly that,
then on again this way...
the hunger!
The seed,
the ever growing sensate need,
to gorge upon an ever flourishing greed.
The ravishing rapacity of life,
full flourishing in new growth,
the lusting of loves new oath.

The sombre entreaty,
as eyes awaken to the empty pillow.
The gaps,
the spaces,
the forlorn solemn places.
To sleep again!, oh please!
to muffle this surging tide,
with the sandbags of hope denied.
Alone, amidst the rising song,
the ever present agony within,
the torture of early Spring.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2011

Shadowplay

Shadowplay

This dark horse,
pulling me with chaotic power,
unseen purpose, it lights a fire,
and in those flames consumes the certainty,
the sanctity of reason.
With foaming mouth, and broken halter,
this unbridled beast,
bucks the reigns,
spits the bit,
until in frantic seizure,
it rips the fleshy hands,
and soils the bloodied mitt.

A dangerous embrace,
no distant than the crawling of my skin,
the echo of the screams within,
bleeding down the walls,
erected to withhold its might,
yet, this frantic race,
upon the ominous dark paths of night,
is my turning away,
and in that flaming vision,
all i have blinkered,
all i have forestalled,
feeds the full power of its yearning,
until unyoked it consumes me in its burning.

To know in an instant,
the wild equine twin,
the snap in the tightening reins,
the temper of its wanton virtue,
the fulcrum of the shadows within,
heaving against his ghosted brother,
in flighted desperation from 'the other'.

Screaming along this cliff faced ledge,
this twined monstrosity,
A driven chariot of speed,
pulls me ever onward,
beyond my willful need,
fighting against its primal verve,
Courage!, to steel my nerve,
or, in letting go,
see this carriage so long designed
tumble heedlessly into the precipice,
scream into the rocks below.
Whoa!... slow!,
slow, white cousin,
guide your wild companion,
calm his raging sea,
with all the might of your will and certainty.
Show him the course of your way,
and let not his wild aspirations deter you,
harness that wild power,
that two may guide us past this tempests hour,
across this rocky path,
and in the perigee of that moonlit night,
wild and fraught, full of windswept howls,
the lightning screams of thunderous hooves;
pass beyond this ledge of personal treachery.

To find the calm of that open road once more,
the sure lit illumination of a wiser Sun,
and in that frightening breach, that endless reach,
to know that no soul comes by the light,
but through the shadowplay of its own feral night.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2011

 

Live Verse

Live Verse

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m with you,
I want to live it.
I want to finger every rhythm and rhyme,
and suckle you in couplet,
diving into your metaphor,
and thrusting out the meter,
in live verse.

To feel your soft poignancy,
the depths of your allegory tremble,
with each syllable that passes these lips,
slipping into you orally,
sliding down each auricle,
awakening the fires breach,
erupting inside you through speech.

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m with you,
I want you to live it,
be it, the poem on my tongue,
the rhythm and rhyme as you come, to me,
in heaving dripping whelps of desire,
sated on this linguists tongue of fire.

Rising in the tide of a poets lust,
moaning out the lines of each guttural thrust,
the flame, the fire, licking ever higher,
this penetrating hunger and need,
to reach down, and on your knees,
take this potency deep inside you,
and succulently feed.

I don’t want to write poetry when I’m in you,
I want to feel you squirm beneath it,
and shudder as I broach your inner sanctity,
entering your deepest intimacy,
sucking at the words on my lips
with full unbridled passion of a poets kiss.

Soaking your soul in a sopping mass,
of quivering ecstasy, screaming uncontrollably,
as the verse explodes inside of you.
Turning you over, stretching you out,
pounding your splayed defences,
surging through every unctuous doubt.

I don’t want to write poetry when your on me,
I want to live it, love it, lust for it,
watch it ride in rapture,
rising inside you, squeezing in a sopping tide,
until you shudder with the thunder of the verse,
and burst, gripping the transcendence in your sodden purse.

If I wrote you a poem with invisible ink,
that slipped upon the palette of your body,
through the feather quill guide of my tongue,
would it be any less memorable,
for having been written in flesh?

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

Remembrance

-Remembrance-

Death is not the end,
it is only a brief pause,
while we catch our breath,
and those we have loved,
catch their tears but for a while;
The passing loss is hard,

but it too will pass,
it too, will suffer its own death;
but once it too has gone, do we forget?
Or, in remembrance,
does that life live again,
risen in our vision and dreams,
our laughter, joys, sadness, ever changed,
deeper sighs or happier schemes.
Let not the pain consume
the richness of our meeting,
the depths we dug into each others souls,
the joys of that arisen dawn,
but feel it, as I too feel it, for what it is,
a brief but bitter darkening of the night,
woven into this tapestry of light.

  
©  Richard Michael Parker 2011

Roar

Roar

In Might and Thunder you come,
in awe and reverence i see you,
hear you, within the quiet space,
in the whisper, in the silence,
in the breathe of air,
imperceptibly expressed,
a silent breath that begins a shout,
a sound so magnified,
the whole world trembles in its wake,
a thunderous roar felt within,
each trembling heart,
each shaken mind,
the lightening bolt of justice revealed,
within the deafening peal
of your thunderous roar,
as the wicked go under,
and those who have been misled,
bled, find mercy within that space,
the silence that follows,
in the numbing humility of your Grace,
let the sands move,
and time, sequence this Great Line,
from now unto the word defined.

 © Richard Michael Parker 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