Winter Sun

 © Richard Michael Parker 2011

Winter Moon

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

The Tempering

As the leaves and ruddy ground are swept into the snows of early winter, hiding the rotten Fall beneath a canopy of a chill white blanket, I am left to contemplate the Realization of being passed over. Like a pebble, washed smooth in the lonely bed of this ice cold stream, wantonly lying down, anonymously, beside some stranger, unnoticed, beneath the waters torrent.

These ragged edges, chipped and broken in the spring wash, the rush of the Summers heat , the tumbling Fall, eased once more, resting beside a scorched hoard of stones, at the bottom of this harsh mountain. Chips and shards, chipped and scared, fallen, beneath its wintering shadow.

Nothing hides the emptiness, when the void has been hollowed in the remnants of your heart. Yet, the distraction of a warm soul, rocking beside you in that cold place, can seem as though, for a moment, it is filled again. A simulacrum of possibility, a chimeric happenstance of hope, easing the sombre moments, with the tipping of the touch in the eddy's of that wandering and aqueous memory.

Even in this place...one cannot hide. Be seamless, unseen, unheard amongst the denizen throng, this hearts soft beat tapping out the song of its longing. never to be known, never to be seen again.

How in all the world, does a poet discard his memories?

Draw back from the firmament, the ligation of his soul, and find a resting place with eyes half full, half closed, to the reflected glory of this hearts desire...The shimmering melody of that winter moon, the cruel cool glare of reflection, that peeks into his soul and shines the truth of the lost heat of that summers touch...Is there nowhere he can hide the sorrow and the shame?

If my heart were a flame, it would melt the steal with its rupture. Yet, it is but a watery grave, swallowed by the quenching bath of that steels hardening, Tempered, brittle now, close to shattering.

In time the edge will be sharpened, and the cut will be keener for the memory; but now, in this place, in this foreign land, this sea of eyes, it merely looks to hide beneath the cool waters of that winter stream, awaiting the spring melt, to wash it clean again.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

A force of nature

A force of nature

I never saw a Hurricane ask for permission
or watch a storm edge along the fence line.
In the gathering twilight, as the sea surges,
will we stand at the waters edge and say;
"this far, and no further".

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
Half a world sold,
catching up to move forward.

As the rising tide swells to burst,
to dash upon humanity forestalled, and worse,
will we wait in long lines,
rubber stamped to submission,
sheepishly tied to a stake of contrition,
or rise like a force of almighty nature
and crash on the gash of a poxed legislature.

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
Half a world sold,
catching up to move forward.

Rage!, Rage against the manacled mendacity,
a forged tempest that sweeps an age aside,
overturned, overwhelmed, over.
Leaving the righteous, and justice behind,
to reside where no liars or greedy can hide.

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
Half a world sold,
catching up to move forward.

I never saw a mountain top explode without fire,
or rain upon the land without righteous desire.
Did the north-wind stop at your borders?
or its icy grip slip, as you barked out your orders.
For when that glacial blast tore,
at your heart and your toes,
were there tears in your eyes,
were you stunned where you froze?

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
Half a world sold,
catching up to move forward.

I never saw the earth wait for a ticket to rumble,
or fracture on time, or plan the quakes tumble.
When the balance is so out of kilter the law,
is to redress the dynamic stasis and score.
courage, for every generation to come,
courage, for all that has been and was won,
courage, to take up your heart in this fight,
courage, to win back the day from the night.

Half a league
half a league
half a league onward.
All the world sold,
sectioned, cut up, and bordered.

I never saw a Hurricane ask for permission,
or watch a storm edge along the fence line.
did you?

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Winter Moon

Winter Moon

Oh sunless sky,
cold winter of this barren heart
when did you leave this pitiless place?
why in death did you depart?
leaving but a remnant
a shadow of your light
to shine upon a mirror
to mock me in this cold hour
shining bright
without your warmth
or soak of heated touch
a silver'd echo
in the long night
of the broken hearted.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

 

Bonded

Bonded

This Penetrating wind,
sensate gusts,
formless unions embraced,
redoubled in soulful resonance.
How does one separate a unity?
Bonded at the roots,
connected through all eternity.
Time and space,
distant illusions to an infinite soul,
a shared remembrance of two made whole,
one soul, housed in separate forms,
metering out the hours of our passing,
waiting.
Life to life,
moment to moment,
caught in an eternal present,
forgetful of this timeless unity.

No death, nor passage from this gray world,
no distance, or time, nor separation,
no harsh words, or bitter scorn,
no damned plague, nor heart forlorn,
no broken bridge, nor trust divided,
no sullied lives, nor minds left chided,
could ever break this ring, united.

Its truth, was in a kiss revealed,
its time, within two hearts concealed,
forgotten but for a little while,
rejoined by soul-filled fated guile.
These soulful winds, each penetrated,
restoring love, reverberated,
recounted, in each soul retold,
reborn anew, this love of old.
Each waking moments skintight bliss,
manufactured in this kiss,
was formed in loves bright bonded hearth,
and schooled in smelted parted bath.
In silence... both souls entwine,
and whisper of a love divine,
A majesty, both full and wrought,
in unity, both halves are caught,
and wrapped around, each one together,
the fulsome coil of timeless tether,
completed in this ring tied knot,
to birth new hope, in spring begot.

This Penetrating wind,
that soulfully resonates between the spaces,
speeds time, to broach those distant places,
leaving all those hard woes behind.
Impassioned memories,
the birthing pains exposed,
a sufferance of repose.
Yet, tight is the bond born of suffering,
the fiery trials, the endless yearning,
redoubling fortitude in the burning.
No bond born in so frightful a forge,
could ever be broke,
or rent by wanton tongues that first bespoke.
The tarnished remnants of remembrance,
chipped away, polished in the light.
Loves revelation of golden unity,
a ring of glistening luster,
dazzling and bright,
unbroken,
whole,
a bond of remembrance,
a unity of soul.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010

A Simple Poet

A Simple Poet

I am just a simple poet,
who dreamt of a better way,
if I failed in translation,
or my words did not strike a chord,
try not to think ill of me,
I can only offer what is in my heart,
imperfectly, full and overflowing.

Yet these words seem a pale shadow,
cast through a turbid mind,
between the light and the hope.
If they evaporate upon the wind,
and form some cloud of shade,
may it rain down upon you,
sometimes in tempest and squall,
at other times in gentle mist,
covering the parched ground,
with a filigree of dew,
soft and moist, a balm,
against the harsh Sun of reality.

Every word I have felt,
every emotion has coursed its weary way,
or sped upon this hearts fleet rapids,
tumbling over tumult and waterfall.
In sunlight, sometimes the rainbows arc,
The roar is heard even in the dark.

If you find yourself here,
and on some placid bank, thirst,
sip, quench that emotive desire,
in nestled pools or somnolent steams;
But when wading into those waters,
remember me, as they flow past,
for it is a life that passes you,
a flood of heartfelt yearnings,
shared for those I have loved.

I am just a simple poet,
who dreamt of a better way.
Do not say of me,
'He failed in his dreams',
but rather, sit and sup of your fill,
and let me flow ever onward,
past the boulders of your judgments,
and the critique of your damns,
for you bathe in my tears,
drink of my blood,
shed for you over all my years.

This flood that has beat within my heart,
with love, always love.
Yet I am but a simple poet,
and these are my waters you drink.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Did you not know?

Did you not know?

Love came to your door,
did you not know?
Did you not recognize the knock?
Was it so foreign to you,
to hear that soft beat upon your heart?
Love walked into your house,
lips pressed upon your own,
saw that the door in your heart was open,
and walked inside, leaving nothing to hide.
Every drawn curtain was flung aside,
love unlocked every door,
opened every window,
until the dark and dim-lit passageways,
dazzled in the day glow,
fresh gusts tumbling through the halls.
Where the hidden dreams and broken dolls were stored,
the dolls without limbs or clothes,
the dreams crushed beneath departing woes,
could you not see the silver thread,
the iridescent salve from the broken and dead.
Did you not see how the sunlight shone?
and watch as the dust sparkled,
captured for an instant in those shimmering rays,
swept before the gusting winds,
along those too long dark passageways.
Was it so strange,
to have that light play within that space,
to dance along the corridors so long left unlit,
and you, hid, behind those locked doors,
Just as you were locked,
behind those closet doors in your youth.
Did you hear the lock fall,
and the chain crash upon the wooden floor?
When that knock came, could you not recall?
and when you closed the doors again,
was the darkness as welcoming as it seemed before?
Did it coddle you in slumber?
When you close your eyes,
can you still see the shadows play upon the walls,
through the slits and gaps in those doors?
Love rests upon the wooden step now,
with the tattered railing,
unkempt and peeling, from the years of neglect.
It is warm out here,
the sun glimmers in bright streams,
and falls upon this place.
Hands cupped in the orange glow,
elbows resting upon soft seated knees.
In the calm of this setting sun,
you can glimpse a patient smile,
full and enduring,
shining in the constancy of grace.
Come, sit for a while,
you will find it is still warm.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010 

Autumn

Autumn

Vivid vibrant greens meld with the rustic oak,
whilst the evergreen pines pause,
between rivers of dappled leaves,
flowing upon the halcyon balmy grounds,
of lovers golden dreams;
Crisp apple mornings
Smack of the frosty cool winds of life;
Silken webs lie naked,
frozen into silhouette upon a sapphire sky,
that sets a thousand paintings into motion,
and stokes the flaming wheel,
that arks this glorious heaven.
Until as ruby red,
he falls,
lays dead;
from whence the silverine ghost arisen,
slithers her separatist path,
across the great mourning,
softly,
silently she rests,
to beckon yet another,
exalted dawning.

© Richard Michael Parker 1987

 

Love is a Gift

Love is a Gift

Love is a gift,
unwrapped in the giving,
tied in a bow of surrender,
clothed in a package of trust.

It slips between the fingers of a grasping hand,
and drips upon the heartfelt ground,
at times soaking us in pools of desire,
muddying the earth on which we stand,
a bog of desperate flight,
an endless race in which we tire.

In the desert of the greedy heart,
it weeps between the grains of a shifting sand,
and slakes no thirst.

It cannot be captured or withheld,
nor forestalled by any wall or tower,
such is the omnipotence of its power.
It flows through every yielding heart,
and conquerers every demon,
every viperous snake at the start.

In timeless transcendence,
it sparks the fervent seed,
once planted, held gently,
grows beyond every wanton need.

In the fabled land of love,
light adorns every corner,
no shadow is cast,
but by the objects of our own design.

As we glide between the spaces,
the unfettered places.
These gaps we have created
between the remnants and the walls.
Love shines.
Its golden light, playing,
between the columns in these halls.

As we dance within its glory,
flickering in the light,
of our own allegoric story.

The mottled sanctuary of every soul,
is born between the shadow and the light,
and peers out behind a curtain, cut,
for eyes that seek respite from that night.

In the darkness, a pinprick of light,
is all that is needed to beckon eyes that have opened.

Love is a gift,
unwrapped in the giving,
a revelation without demand,
a sweet intoxication of the spirit,
infused with the perfume of its tenderness.

© Richard Michael Parker 2010