-Wild Is The World of Loves Untended Meadow-

 

-Wild Is The World of Loves Untended Meadow-

Ah yes... I met two such flowers this summer. They had thorns hidden amongst the petals, the fragrant hooks of a challised deceit. All soft and shining were their blossoms in the moonlight, snatching at the whimsy of passing hearts. They cried 'We the good and gracious, bold hearted confidants of Gods and mercy, shall suckle you with the nectar of love'.

Embalmed in such devices, what mortal man, with clear and supple heart, could resist so sweet the corrupted seduction of those amber foliole... Succoured amour, two breasts that beat, once, with one cold heart.

Then, I spied on tender hooks the rotten carcass of weeping souls, buried beneath the mountains dark Tol. They whispered: 'Get as high as you can'... So I dragged them unsuspecting into the yellow lair, in peace and silence, surrounding them with golden thread, to weave a tale of dream and dark despair. Entombed, the frond and barb remain, still there.

White lights that placed themselves as trumpeting angels in the garden of the moon, and sought to judge each blessed stray, and wayfaring outcast, upon the alter of their bloody reign. Yet, they had not vision enough to reckon upon the secateurs of time, burning in the wind of their own blind sight, the coals of deception, devouring each plaintiff song, whilst all the flowered petals sweetly sang along.

Wild is the world of loves untended meadow, some years, t'is best to leave the earth, still and fallow.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

ELEGIE

ELEGIE

Even in the fullness of your moon,
nothing was left unsaid,
nothing left undone.
We walked the path that led through the heart,
to greet that ever loving Sun!

Isn't it strange,
that the moment a person is gone,
is the instant you know exactly what they meant to you.

I will not cry bittersweet tears for you my love,
for never having said how much you meant to me,
for never having tried,
nor shown how deeply you lived inside.

These tears that are shed, sing your name,
the naked spark, that set this heart aflame.
Perhaps, only a few will fall,
wondering whether you believed me at all.

'...And if i had died,
and were gone and dead,
what was it you could not say,
that you wish you might have said?'

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

 

The Crow

The Crow

Each morning I watch the crow sit upon the old chimney, the end of a line, that peeks above the shale roofed houses, to watch the sun rise, in silence and reverence. We watch it together, and he, who barely notices me anymore, makes not a sound, bowing his midnight crown upon the first rays of dawn. Then turns his black pearls to gaze into my soul, knowing we shall meet once more, tomorrow, or on some dim lit twilight shore.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2012

Artwork: Lindsey Kustusch

Sleepless

 -Sleepless-

sleepless yet less,
caught in this improbable introspection, yet blessed,
plunging into my psyche and thrown upon the waves,
the might of the foments deep, thunders from those graves.
Yet, not a stone is shaken, not a breath removed,
not a lie bespoken, nor a soul reproved.
Grace, to mend the fractured heart,
the roar of that ancient score,
and from the tumult, peace again to start.

The shadow dwelling of each forgotten token,
shaken from this vestige as my heart is awoken,
to find within the constancy of thought and reasons rhyme,
a measure of the peace from some dark protracted line.

Sleep,
but not in hidden realms,
opening these doors to both heaven and hell,
to dwell, in both for a time.
To know the scorn of your tormentors whip,
soothed in the balm of angelic lips.
Fear not the doorways,
nor the passage through the dark,
for in that place,
a beacon light eschews its grasping fingers,
illuminating paths, on which, the penitent soul still lingers.

The hoisted sail, sits headstrong upon the pillow,
relenting in the tide, of the sheeting's luff and billow.
To quell the sea, and calm the rushing wind,
The horror that you flee, in the end you must rescind.

Grace,
forever humbles the sorrowful face,
forgiven in an instant of loving light,
the comprehending sword that cuts the darkened night.
Let go... and rise without that anchor's chain below,
Let go, and rise into the light,
from out the fearful shadow of the pasts tormented night.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Footprints In The Sand

Footprints in the Sand

Lost in these deep sighs,
the soulful resonance of the not so wise.
Reverberations of love,
rippling in emanations of surrender,
the folded capitulation
of the tender and vanquished heart.
Each wave a crescendo dashed upon the shore,
a swirling dance beneath the moon and the maw.
So soon, this sweet invasion,
the warm and subtle invitation of a palpitating love.

Basking in the glory of an imaginary sun,
the creeping warmth of a coddled womb,
radiantly swept upon this silken strand,
and all too soon, the seeping truth,
rolled and naked, breaks upon these wet sands,
the rocky crag of discontent hissing in the darkness,
castaway in silence, the aching solitude of a torpid defiance.
The crack of memory, fading, smashed upon your rocks,
this foaming discontent, seething into the depths of your tousled locks.

Bright stars mimicking the foment of your glistening touch.
A slow and easy awakening, soft focused eyes,
caught within the rapture of this shallow breaths tide,
the hollow heart, filled with the glow of this new suns love.
From whence did you come? And just as quick,
retreat into the depths once more,
howling with the rumbled heart,
the fury of loves gale,
swept across this wild and barren shore.

Oh heart, full and shining with ancient rhyme, 
how long it has been since you sang,
how silent the world before your chiming bells rang.
Tremulously caught between the brink and the tide,
sunken footsteps, planted upon my heart,
your slender fingertips, eased between my own.
This wreckage of solitude, strewn into the cavernous depths,
the fathomless deep, of all that was left.

Fading footfalls, washed into a licking tide,
the remnants of remembrance of all that we tried to hide.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Fragile

-Fragile-

Delicate fingers tap upon the bleeding keys,
the splash of sticky reminiscence,
fingerprints upon the heart,
slivers of diaphanous shards,
pressed down into the bloodied maw of time...

Gossamer chords, tremulously faint,
a haunting mist of memory,
the melancholia kissed,
upon the salty lobes of all that you were to me...

The fragile moments;
Faint echoes in shattered crystal light,
footsteps in the distance,
the remnants of this sallow sun,
fading into night.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Divinity Below, Divinity Above

Divinity Below, Divinity Above

Disrobed beneath these stars,
the light of a thousand suns
flecked across your shimmering surface,
the sheen of joy etched into your smile,
shooting stars, erupting from within.
Enfolded creases, slipping in time,
the light between these galaxies traversed,
unhindered, unfettered, unhinged
between each passions fiery pull,
the gravity of all,
drawn into a swirling maelstrom of dripping might,
born of the light,
swarming through the night upon each fleshly part,
sundered and surrendered in the dark.
Voluptuously suckled,
the tender meeting of tongues
beneath the half light of this mountains moon;
To swoon in epiphany,
a rebirth of majesty, might and fire,
born of two bodies pulled by desire.
The love of the suns,
bursting engorged across these skies,
the ripple of silken thighs,
sunk in the warmth of the trembling flesh,
formless delight,
naked beneath the majesty of Gods evocative starlight.
The welcoming home, a feast of love,
divinity below, divinity above.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Two Loves

Two loves

(a couplet)

(1)

Life given, life received,
in memories of you I bleed;
A mirror of other whim's,
hallowed in cloistered corners,
harbour's a fateful bell,
rung only for the mourners;

whipping the tide of time,
greeting another master,
loves never intertwine,
minds that keep pushing faster;

given a moment,
we could be catching a fallacy,
holding it tightly,
then watch it transform in reality;

one life given,
one life received,
in time we will find that our feelings recede.
Life given, life received,
a memory of you perceived;

into a barren sky,
life moving quickly backward,
shallow in open graves,
life moving slowly skyward.
my heart never rests for peace,
driven in mortal plunder,
riveting open space,
my loves only left asunder;

one word, one look,
a stone is shaken,
this time, this space,
a love forsaken;

a promise of golden dreams,
diamonds that sparkled brightly,
love's rarely what it seems,
fashioned, it happens slightly.

(2)

Life given, life received,
a memory of you perceived;

into a barren sky,
life moving quickly backward,
shallow in open graves,
love moving slowly skyward;

my heart never rests in peace,
driven in mortal plunder,
riveting open space,
my loves only left asunder;

one word, one look,
a stone is shaken,
this time, this space,
a love forsaken;

promise of golden dreams,
diamonds that sparkled brightly,
loves rarely what it seems,
fashioned it happens slightly;

life given, life received,
in memories of you I bleed;

A mirror of others whim's,
hallowed in cloistered corners;
harbour's a fateful bell,
rung only for the mourners;

whipping the tide of time,
greeting another master,
souls never intertwine,
when your mind votes for pushing past her;

given a moment we could be catching a fallacy,
holding it loosely,
we watch it transform in reality;

life is given,
life is received,
in time we will find that our feelings recede.

 Richard Michael Parker (1991)

-The Mirrored Maid-

-The Mirrored Maid-

The owl replaced the nightingales sweet song,
and spoke in sombre tones a darkened truth,
appealing to the gods of slighted wrongs,
the thunder tongue of wisdom spoke forsooth.

Love rests not beneath the willow,
nor waits beside that ever running stream,
for now his head sits sad upon his pillow,
low, beneath the ground, inside a dream.

Look not into the dim-lit sunken corners,
nor trail the fleeting footsteps in this place,
seek comfort in a gathering of mourners,
for thou bright light has gone without a trace.

For though you look to heaven for an answer,
and woo the countenance lost all too soon,
no bright and airy sun reclaims this dancer,
he left with her, the mirrored maid, the moon.

 © Richard Michael Parker 2012



Photographer: Brendan Zhang

A Walk

A Walk

Walking along the high road, I stopped to take in the spire of a 14th century church, Gothic architraves and reliefs, weathered, silhouetted against the sky, the slow clouds rolling like cotton wool across a light azure heaven. I noted the old elm before the spire as i looked up, and wondered how many others had noticed the spire had been rebuilt,  sporting a masonic compass and square beneath the cross that sat atop the sky.

An old gaslight, no longer illumined in the daylight, stood before the tree, and i breathed in the whole scene, as the mad rush pelted the walkways around me. Ants scurrying about, desperately fighting the time.

Easing my camera from my pocket, i took one of two shots, up into the sky, and adjusted my straw hat, so as to shield the naked sun from my eyes.

I noted an older lady pass me by, and thought for a second that she wanted to say something, but the moment passed, and she moved on, resigned to her silence. So i called after her; 'Glorious weather we are having isn't it?', she stopped in her tracks, and turned, her elderly wrinkles smiling at me from out the years.

An hour later, we had both enriched each others day. I had learnt all about her time in Sicily, and the Belfast dockyards. How she had been evacuated in the war as a young child and seen dogfights in Irish skies, Mafia dons with blackened eyes, and the history of the inception of that shadow organization from the perspective of an Irish woman who had married a Sicilian man, living in foreign lands, with her babies eyes staring into other skies.

'Time winnows us all through its great sieve,
and Shiva's dance destroys even the fleeting memories,
wrapped up in past joys,
and tied in the bow of contentment.
All that's left us are the token gestures in a stream,
passing endlessly before us.

A tipple from a draft of the ever fluid past,
slipping in sips, through the rivulets of your mind.
When even memories, become mixed and mingled,
will you still recall the moment of our calling?

or..., like the passing throng,
washed endlessly along,
will the memory simply pass you by,
swept aside, Lost...
like all those feelings, laughed or cried,
until at last, I too become lost,
a remnant of the past, an unremembered cost.'

Taking the time, to make a little time...

© Richard Michael Parker 2012