Saturday, 30 April 2016



These shapes and feelings, the efflorescent stealing's of my heart, the rhyme upon the tip of this feathering quill, a skill, deftly stroked upon the soul of another, my lover, whose eternity wraps her arms in the gossamer airs of night, to twinkle through the filigree's of starlight, that play upon the pages of these scripted verses, born for all the ages we have ever known, forsworn by every gratitude to each that was ever grown, a twin heart, beats time within my own. These cymbals of love, that sound upon the parchment with scratchings of earth and fire, resound within a hearth, stoked by the coals of this living desire, mark time, in sweet rhythm upon my heart, the sounding bell upon the depths, from which each feathered dip does swell, to crash upon the shore of every word that sings of this love, and speaks for two, a fusion of rebirth, forever bespoke upon wings reborn, flown between the crashing waves, the smouldering tide, the seething page, fervent words, drawn from out the ink well of this love. Words...

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Sunday, 24 April 2016



I think it is also that he left us such beauty, bared his soul and resonated with our own, often in less callous times. Years of hope and tenderness, before the full blush of summers harsh sun had whorled it's wicked way with us. The passing of these iconic personalities, finger scars, or more tremulous hearts than those we may know today, and so too their passing becomes our own, a thousand deaths, passing down passageways we have long since left, yet, indelibly they remain our own, filled with the remnants of all those passing moments, feelings, emotions we have known. An ocean of song, sung in a common soul, though we be different, each drop a part of the whole. In the end, every moment, every emotion meant something to us, and so in passing, perhaps, those emotions that were so vital in that time pass too... for that, though we be grateful for the beauty and shared remembrance, it is hard not to be a little sad. As someone sagaciously said: "We don't cry because we knew them, we cry because they helped us know ourselves."

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Monday, 18 April 2016

Loves First Dawning Ray

-Loves First Dawning Ray-

You are the earth in which the seed is sown,
the silent dark, receiving every ray,
you are the night, the supple round, the fertile loam,
the coddled warmth of summers glow in endless May.
Wrapped in golden hue, this suckled honey,
lapped upon the morning dew we lay.

You are the ashes from the forest of the fallen
the rankled cold of winters solemn deep
you are the crown on which the soul was swollen
the hope renewed, the promise that we keep.
And ever has the world unfurled her glory,
though oft that climb atop seemed all too steep.

You are the silence that bends before me,
the rolling wave that greets the salted knight,
the curl of dreams, the whisper in the hollow,
the lavish realm, the promise of the light.
Each ripple curved upon the yielding lip,
to slip into the fulsome sheath aright.

And when the yawn of death is over,
you are the revelry, the sprightly risen tune,
the morning star, the lark-full luscious clover,
rekindled in the spark'd hearth renewed.
For every day, the dark recedes, my lover,
you are the blessing of loves first dawning ray.

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Friday, 1 April 2016

Moonlit Child

'Moonlit Child' is the Fourth collection of poetry by the internationally recognized poet and digital artist Richard Michael Parker. The subject matter is Luna, and follows the cycles of the moon through it's 29 phases. The Hawaiian culture has a name for each of the various phases of the moon, with an accompanying meaning for each, and this has been used as a framework upon which both the poetry and artwork are hung.

'yet, lover ...
light of my heart,
this nightingales song,
longs for the rapture of the lark,
as the moon sings of the dawn,
not the dark.' 

Modestly priced at $3.99 for all E-Readers.

For Kindle:

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

The Willow's Song

-The Willow's Song-

I heard the wind chimes call,
your tender breath blowing through the willow;
How soft the moon,
the elegant sweep of your hands
crushed beneath my heart and the pillow.

Was it only yesterday we sat alone?
And turned the fated rocks,
every tortured stone,
tilled from out the sodden peat
the mangled scar'd fray
of every sunken beat?

And turning... still,
the silence and the warmth of every crook,
pressed into the nook of my soul,
your emerald heart
glowing in the still night of your yearning.

How fickle this spell
that breaks upon the dawns first ray.
How low the moon,
her weary sunken brow borne far away,
caught between the rapture, and the day.

I heard the wind chimes call;
And all that frightened woe,
will not wash the sound away.

© Richard Michael Parker 2016

Artwork: 'Hope' by Milenka Delic

Sunday, 7 February 2016



The danger with disappointment, especially when it has accompanied sorrow, is projection. The sanctimony of the artful mental manipulations of the mind, mendaciously matriculating from the college of the soul. Grief is a dreadful taskmaster unless it is confronted, and while we presume to believe only in all that has gone before, that blistered light that once shone as stars in the nebulous universe of our unfolding, to seek to avoid the vacuum that shapes and controls even the greatest of these spheres is a dreadful mistake. No one wants to see the dark, especially when one projects such light as a mask, but to avoid the truth in the nature of that balance is simply to abdicate ones life journey in favour of a fantastical illusion, an illusion so powerful it blinds us to the truth of it, whilst subtly eking between the cracks. Sorrow, uncontested, becomes a bitter sword wielded by the blind. We say to ourselves, 'We, are light, They are dark, We are in control, they are chaos,' the eternal polemic becomes a battle contested in ourselves and projected upon the world, until all are separated in a sanctimony of dis-equilibria. The courage to face the shadow, the fear, the darkened remnants of our own grief, allows for the transcendent moment to redress that balance in an authentic manner, so that we are no longer forced to project a false polemic upon the world, and love can once again form new stars in this universe we all share. All else is illusion...

 © Richard Michael Parker 2016

Sunday, 26 July 2015

The Jeweler

-The Jeweller-

'I like it, but it is a pretty dangerous thing to do'. Not that focussing on the jewel amidst the darkness is not beautiful, just that to ignore the truth of the context in which that jewel shines is to be absent in truth somehow. It is as if to say, 'all that other stuff, it doesn't matter! we will ignore it and in ignorance it will simply fade away'... but that rarely happens. Not only is it semi delusional, and in a way judgemental, but it also speaks of a kind of travesty of perception, a lack of sincerity and humility, as if you are saying, 'that darker stuff that surrounds you, well, that doesn't matter', but of course, it does matter. It is someone's life, and that matters, all the tawdry little moments matter, all the quirks and hard to bare iniquities matter, they matter because they didn't just come from nowhere, they have a story too, and though that story is hard to hear, though that story may be washed with pain and suffering, still it is life, and for that person, it mattered; It mattered so much, that they took it upon themselves in the guise of a dark shroud, one that is hard to bare and uncomfortable to look at, but still it mattered. Yes that jewel is beautiful, but we are not stone collectors, fashioning the uncut gems we find in others for our own device and pleasure, rather, accepting the darkness too, listening to it's story also, gives context to the jewels we find, and gives honour to the life we share, the whole life, not just the parts we find easy to look at, and in so doing, we give honour to that person we love, giving love, even to the darkness we may find, and the stories that it tells. 'The stars shine brightly within the firmament, set in the night as jewels upon the sky, and never brighter were all those celestial ornaments, than when in darkness the twinkling diamonds caught my eye.' 

© Richard Michael Parker 2015

Friday, 29 May 2015

Swallow Tail

Swallow Tail

Velvet butterflies brushing their gossamer wings,
tremulous fluttering's inside my soul,
lifting from the hearth to the whole.
I feel them rise from the pit,
swirling through incandescent skies,
filling my heart with the warmth of your breath,
slipping like silk ribbons caught in a breeze,
the gentle ease, of all you have become to me.

Tickling sensations,
these trembling emanations of light,
surging through these rice paper gates,
erupting upon my face with a smile.
A brilliant star, in joyous release.

I sat in blue corners once,
masked in the mourning of some mottled solemnity,
wondering what it was that you might have been to me,
seeking that which was before my unsighted eyes,
before my heart, the chase inside,
blind to its light, in the depths of its hide.

To cease the search, and in being, simply love.
To curtail the endless courtship, the chase,
the hunt from above, and in risen heart,
watch the doe bound within the open meadow,
free from her forest retreat,
the supple greeting of each loving gracious fellow,
the swallow tail swimming in the breeze,
kissed between the sunlight's balmy phlox,
and those distant oaken trees.

Love steals my heart, and floods the plain,
and on my tongue and in my ear, I hear
this gentle wind whispering your name.
The fluttering diaphanous flight,
of these butterflies of love,
caught between the chrysalis,
and your bless'd light, above.

© Richard Michael Parker 2012

Saturday, 23 May 2015

There Is A Light

-There Is A Light-

"I don't know what to tell you" he said.

"I only know it gets harder every time. The world grows a little darker, and the wind a little colder, and there comes a moment when you wonder whether you ever felt at all. So dark and numbed by it all.

Perhaps your standing at a check out, staring blankly at the head in front of you, waiting for your turn to dance with the plastic bags and fake food you have bought for dinner, and there comes a moment, in the drab monotony of that emptiness, a simple moment when all the pain in your heart and the blocks in your head are forgotten, lost in the mist of that nothingness, when someone says something, or you do something quite spontaneously, and for an instant the light that is within you breaks through.

Seize that moment. Know it for what it is, the truth of the light within you.

For that light is never extinguished. Though it be dulled by scars that have built upon your heart, with every betrayal, every sunken hope, though it be obscured by the towers and walls you have built in your mind to protect your heart from the withering assault of that pain, it burns still. It's light kindled in the depths of the deepest darkness. It is just that, as time passes, and the tarnishing's of love set down their slow decay, it gets harder to remember. So hard in fact that at times, the blocks and the scars, the pain and the masks we build to forestall it, halt the light, until, seated on the throne of our own turbid mind, we can no longer see it's glory. No longer feel the warmth of it's ray, as it passes inspection, obscured by all the tissues and walls that lay between awareness and the truth.

So, in those moments, those simple moments in which love, or communion, laughter, or a simple gesture erupt out of you, quite beyond your conscious control, understand that this is your soul breaking through, this is the truth of you, the light that shone so brightly before the world and all it's infinite betrayals got a hold of you, and twisted your vision into blindness. Know that you are more beautiful than you might ever have suspected, and that though you can no longer see it, still, it remains, and in those moments of emptiness, love has a way of opening a new door.

All that remains, is for you to walk through."

© Richard Michael Parker 2015

Saturday, 9 May 2015

-Pyromania- a story in 2 paragraphs...

-Pyromania- a story in 2 paragraphs...

'Silently he slipped his fingers into his denim pocket and fumbled for the stolen match-book. There was a moment, between the low hum of the power cable, and the distant trill of a sonorous songbird, teasing his memories with it's bright tones and honeyed call, that he hesitated. The sweet sucker of spring blossom filling him with sun-baked portico's and lush grass, crushed beneath the rushing waves of children's toes, dashed in heady laughter amongst shining eyes and lemonade. But it was just a moment, and moments pass, as do memories, like flaking paint on stucco walls, tattered curtains falling glibly over shattered windows and burnt out halls. He had been away so long, long enough to forget, and everyone was gone.

The match sputtered in his fingers, as the gas soaked curtain took hold, and as quickly as that moment had passed, as quickly as the years had rolled over the smoke filled memories of his youth, it was aflame, and he remembered again. He remembered how they had gone, with screams and fire, the tortured vestments of his shattered years incarcerated in that prison cell, his very own funeral pyre. The licking flame danced along the hall, as he disappeared into it's orange glow. The coddled warmth of all that sorrow, embracing him in a blanket of cinders. A bird sang sweetly upon the bough of the old oak, it's heart shot upon the breeze and eased between the braids and slats of the broken swing. There was a pause, and he was gone.'

© Richard Michael Parker 2015