The Embankment

The Embankment

A sultry autumn night on the Thames,
jazz drifting from the bridge,
mingling with the garish crowds on the Southbank.
A tuneful rendition of body and soul,
melodiously drifting upon the water,
feeding upon the hum of the hungry traffic,
zipping between the bars,
spilling their patrons onto the sidewalk,
between the sips and the cars,
a jocund fraternity of the night,
a fashioned modernity painted with apocryphal light.
Heads swim in the sensate din,
a tidal wash of inebriated pandemonium,
imbibing the last warm airs of the year,
violating each ear, awash in cocktails and beer.
The final melancholic confession of that brooding saxophone,
slips across the licking waves,
gently tonguing your lilting head
as it rests upon the needle,
a thread of sensibility,
cast across a world in an ageless eternity.
The Sphinx riddles the dawn,
the silence and the scorn of winters cool death,
born upon the sidewalks of this old town, forlorn,
within the fog of another cacophonous hang over.
Slinking in the back streets, lost,
half lit denizens drifting aimlessly through the mist.
Skulking on the corners, on the edges, the rim,
shuffling worn out shoes across white hot coals,
outcasts and refugees, torn naked, clothed in despair,
eyes turned downward, they wait for you there.
The idle tick of a sentient clock,
taps in time its cane upon the cobblestones,
Big Bens bones, Boom into the dark,
A cat screams, creaks and dreams,
beyond the shadow eyes of the cold and stark.
Swift wisdom comes upon the unsuspecting,
the nonchalant swagger of innocence,
easing between the crack in the light,
the ham bone in the pea soup of our night,
the gullible gorms of the river rats delight.
This breath, this moment, silence,
between the changing of the guard,
and Old Scotland Yard, I found you once again,
upon the Embankment of that ancient rivers gory flow,
screaming as a testament to every lovers woe.
You laughed as we fell upon your banks,
ever changing, exchanging your vows,
while all the world wondered, as you plundered,
the spoils from the sacrifice of all those sacred cows.
The lilting trill of the dawns chorus,
replaced with a big red bus,
like the blood running down the back of Boadica's race,
the tar and feathers of your fallen disgrace,
risen once more upon all of us.
Gold, that glints upon the water once more,
gold, and all the flotsam that has washed upon this shore.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

How can I be without you?

How can i be without you?

How can I be without you?
What is a bird without a wing?
Or evensong, without the nightingale to sing?
How does a fire burn on air alone?
Or this fruit taste so sweet,
apart from the good earth,
from whence its seed is sown?

No man is born whole into this world,
each a separation,
torn from out the womb of love,
bearing the locket and the hope,
deep within his breast,
the remnants of that fallen dove,
a memory, caged and crushed within his chest,
the burden of the unconfessed.

Silently fearing the terror and the dread,
to walk upon this earth, the walking dead,
searching for naught that can be found to atone,
for the loneliness, and the bitterness of the dark,
save by the hollow in that stone,
the stark remembrance of the coddled silence,
all that fate, or God alone has left him,
in the remnants of the yearnings left unsaid.

How can I be without you,
my soulful love, your living loving art,
the breath of me, whispered through your heart,
This unbridled passion, not even God could forget.
For when the sun has arisen,
who amongst us can say it has set?

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Concretized

Concretized

The gray streets stretch on for eternity, winding inexorably through the wastelands I have left behind. Oblivious to the changing of the seasons.
The only thing to mark them out, is the temperature with which they are felt.
In this cold soulless place, where not a tree, not a blade of grass can eek its weary way through the planetary weight of concrete and dust, I feel myself sink into the hard unforgiving murder of it all. To mix my blood with the mortar, in this living factory of bricks, the death of romance sticks, stinking up this slag heap of forgotten hopes and desolate dreams. It is the valley of death I have wandered into, and it is built of concrete and steel.
When God imagined Hell, and brought that place into existence, it was not some fiery realm of torment, it was here, in this succubus of a void, this bitter little pill upon the planet of hope, filled with mean little shadows of people, pretending to be all that they have murdered. Concretized oblivion, the mendacity of the meek and small, stoutly built up brick by brick, mile upon mile of these bloody walls. No greenery, no flowers grace these fallen places, only the echoes of winds that whip the hardened edges, the sharp and sinewy vestiges of forlorn hope. Lashed and manacled sorrows, scream down the black-lit pits of emptiness, voids where once vibrant hearts leapt, filled now with only the crumbling detritus of ghoulish melancholia. The final gift of this fake abyss. Where are the trees? Where are the trees!? Cut and burnt to paint the stones.
Not even the stars shine in this mausoleum of the dead, replaced with dim and sallow shrouds, the mark of the poxed. Beware, because they are dead, they will demand your death too, and when they have caught you in their unholy web, they will file your murder under compliance, and mark your demise as a vote of confidence.
So hide, from out their sick searching eyes, let not the trickster weave his spell, nor tempt you from your hiding place deep in the lush sanctuary of your nook or dell, for only hell awaits those who forsake themselves, to purchase the gates, the seeds of lies, sown within the fertile grounds of your hearts, to capture each sparkling memory, every vanquished dream at the start. So hide, Hide!... lest you too become concretized, and see the forests of your imagination burnt upon the alter of this gargantuan deforestation.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

-The Broken Heart Bleeds the Reddest Blood-

-The Broken Heart Bleeds the Reddest Blood-

He said:
'It is a beautiful mystery my love,
you and i, together, are a part of it,
with our hearts connected,
within the great art of it...

Nothing we could ever do,
would ever change a word of it,
for the truth of it... my love,
is that, love, is all of it'.

...

Don't you know that I'm breaking,
coming apart at the seams,
cracking in every one of my dreams,
and as the shards fall to the ground,
your shadow light blisters through the cracks,
bathing me in an eternity of you.

I hate that I love you,
to feel this pain drag me around,
smash me to the ground,
leave me lost where you are found,
and all the while left to wonder,
how you ever got so deep inside my soul,
wound around an endless staircase,
descending into a bottomless hole.

Every day I resign to break free,
as I make a new pledge,
to split apart, to rip out my heart,
to tear away the remnants of this haunting,
and in the moment of my triumph,
you come, with just a word,
and I am lashed to that mast again, unheard,
smashed in a torrent of loves tempest,
all conviction routed,
every direction doubted,
swept into the deep,
left in a heep, of this love...

You are all of me,
and in your soul I drown,
sucked down into the abyss of you,
into the endless soulful deep
of your fathomless blue.

Breathe for me my love, please god! breathe for me.

...

"Wait!"

I heard you say...
or was it I?
It seemed so very far away.

"Wait!... but don't wait for me"
for I am gone, and drowned,
my heart turned out,
spilt into this endless sea...

"Wait!... but don't wait for me,
for the broken heart bleeds the reddest blood".

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Adieu le passé, bonjour le présent, et vive l'avenir

Adieu le passé, bonjour le présent, et vive l'avenir

Into the clear blue of a twilight sky,
Venus and her slivered new moon,
dance to the suns fading tune,
a swirl of cool iridescence,
twirls amidst the nightingales first trill.

Her Jovian chaperon,
winks through the wisping clouds,
as they play in apricot shrouds
sweeping across pale blue hues,
a divine smile flashing across this heavenly evensong.

'Adieu!... adieu mon cher, adieu'...

A glimpse of shadow
slips between the sheen,
a rhapsody of spheres,
caught within a stream,
eyes that twinkle as the stars appear,
from out the blue, both dark and near.

Painted with light,
upon a phosphorescent screen,
this tableaux of desire,
a simulacrum of a dream;
The mirror of divinity is rarely what it seems.

'Adieu!... adieu mon cher, adieu'...

Adieu le passé,
bonjour le présent,
et vive l'avenir.
  
© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Courage to Grieve

Courage to Grieve

There are those that sink in the mire,
believing that hate is their crown,
swallowed by all they desire,
without courage to openly drown,
in a pool of fire and blood,
washed out of a heart ripped asunder
to be torn in a chaotic flood,
decimated by lightening and thunder.
Yet they offer a gift to the wary,
lest you follow them down to that bane,
to deny all the grief that they carry,
is a load that is hard to maintain.
So they shuffle it off as they can,
to each person they see of the same,
and in concert maintain the great sham,
tied together the hobbled and lame.

The courage to know that with time,
perspective returns to the soul,
imbued with wisdom's dark climb,
from out of that perilous hole,
where the shock and denial led to anger,
and the rage it released was turned in,
overwhelming the heart with disaster,
loss of meaning, the hope was made thin;
A wisp of a thread woven slightly,
the delicate story unfolds,
spoken on airs that drift lightly,
into ears, as your fingers lose hold,
believing below you will plummet,
the fear in your heart is misplaced,
as anxiety reaches its summit,
crescendo's of love come with grace.

If you believe that your freedom,
is maintained by running from love,
then descending down into that kingdom,
You will lose both the key from above,
and the one that allows you to know,
that beneath the dark ominous skies,
in the place of great darkness below,
is a path through a door without lies,
that transmutes each pale wanton sorrow,
and breaks every link in that grief,
replaced with a light from tomorrow,
blessed hope, the great grace of relief,
where your heart is reborn in a rapture,
and sits in a breast pure and gold,
to garnish each sweet blessed gesture,
with ebullient love new and old.

Have courage to sink into sorrow,
fear not the night of the heart,
though it feels like a dark empty hollow,
given time, will enlighten your art,
for even the fury and wrath,
that stretches the sinew of soul,
enriches each step on the path,
as the remnants and shards become whole.
So fear not the dark but accept it,
with a true loving open soft heart,
and know in the depths of your dark pit,
is a light full of love to restart.
Have the courage to suffer the torment,
while the denizen haters redound,
and your soul will arise from the foment,
to break forth in triumph, new ground.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

As Above, So Below

As Above, So Below

Hold the keys in your heart,
and remember while you grow,
from the end to the start,
'As Above, So Below'.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Nothing

Nothing

It's a terrible thing to realize you are nothing.
That the only reason you have lost everything,
anything that ever mattered,
is that you are nothing.

No one, from nowhere, with nothing.

The love of your life has vanished,
because you were nothing,
and nothing really mattered in the end.

No one, going nowhere, with nothing.

Every vestige, every distraction, gone,
every appendage, every trust, gone,
every worthless association, gone,
every dictatorial game, gone,
every dream, every thought, every feeling, gone,
every thing that ever meant anything, gone.

The terror of that realization,
the trembling in the pit of uncertainty,
has liberty sown into its core.

For when you are no one, with nothing,
anywhere you go, is somewhere,
anything you do, is something,
and anyone you become, is someone.

For you have everything to gain,
and nothing to lose,
nothing.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

-If You Should Come To Me In Dreams-

-If You Should Come To Me In Dreams-


If you should come to me in dreams,
let o'er the ages we have loved come with you,
that we might sweep aside the discontented streams,
and swim the starry night from out the blue;

To find that in some hallowed cloistered light,
where rivulets of love in us did grow,
a torrent of each mighty loves delight,
should merge upon this rapids overflow;

Then fall into some chasms chute, the chastened,
will dance a fervid epiphanic tune,
a swirling maelstroms dip in them that's hastened,
two sprites entwined beneath a lovers moon.

If you should come to me in dreams,
Let o'er the heavens be our palettes sweep,
upon a canvas mild and of extremes,
a masterpiece of love both true and deep.

Let not dull Morpheus, with opiated ear,
bear down upon two souls brief kept apart,
but hold upon this love both far and near,
awaken to our dream from whence we start.

For i have loved you all these distant eons,
and ne'er have i turned my heart to stone,
this love, the strongest of adhesions,
could never leave the two of us alone.

Far flung across a sea of stars connected,
each one conjoined, traversing starry night,
to raise a love once lost, now resurrected,
this rainbows arc across some hallowed flight.

If you should come to me in dreams,
come with a kiss, and my lips shall part for you,
a succulence of passions bliss,
a token of this heart made true.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Where do all the old swans go?

Where do all the old Swans go?

Today i saw a dying swan,
leaning tattered against a railing,
it seemed to fall like a stone
pushing off , alone, into the water;
Yellow encrusted feathers,
no longer sleek upon its back.
It swam in circles, one leg cocked,
as if encircling a missing mate,
as i lent upon an unopened gate;
The canal ebbed ever onward,
no longer choked with winter moss,
ceaselessly drifting along,
a timeless reminder of passing loss;
Was it only yesterday i saw you fly?
two bye two into that sun ravaged sky.
You seemed replete,
with wings that never missed a beat,
and always the promise of another spring,
another cycle of warm remembrance,
a feathered plume of song and dance;
Now that swan swims alone,
waiting upon times endless eddy's,
caught in a lonesome rift,
in a stream that seems never to shift;
The old gate opened,
a rusty testament to natures ceaseless pursuit.
The crooked neck keeled over,
resting a head upon the water,
unable to direct the motion any longer.
The languid flow, flotsam to a distant shore,
feathers preened nevermore;
As i closed the gate,
a head rose in defiance,
wings spread­eagled, echoes of a former glory,
a retort of undeniable magnificence;
Where do all the old Swans go?
Yellow, ragged and foul,
at night, you can hear the silence,
and the call of the owl.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012



Artwork by Carola E. Thiele