Silence
There's clamour all around me,
the roar won't let me out.
We have to hide ourselves away,
but we're it's chosen prey.
Yet touch silence,we must.
Though,at times, a void,empty,frozen ,falorn
or refuge for thoughts unwanted,thoughts despised
that cling like limpets to servile rock,
I hear the beauty of a longed for dream,
the burbling sound of a far off stream,
the secret spell of hallowed dawn.
Silence begs me in to cleanse my doubts,
to ease the pain of jibes and shouts.
To truly see,not journeyed hopes of A to B.
Just for one precious moment,cradle in your arms
that sweet nothingness.
Robert Parker
"Hallowed be her name, who's art is Earth".
She stood sheltered, a companion
to Maple, Alder and Willow.
A busy brook flowed
in accompaniment
to the chorus of bird song
perfect in her presence.
The patron had fulfilled her will
for a magical and protected place.
A peaceful tranquility
that celebrated her coming as a completion.
As though nature knew an absence
without her.
Through the sculptor's wielding
of her chisel and hammer
she conveyed the features, the stance
that would become her persona.
Her enkindling presence illuminating
the rough studio of her origin.
Where the vision that furrowed the brow;
informed the craft and art to reveal,
hands compliant, what slept within the stone.
Distraught by a midnight's harrowing
I come to her, seeking solace
from my existential crisis.
By sliver of silver moonlight.
My hand against her chest
her chill and my warmth flow.
Until languid, I lay upon the pedestal.
A reverent supplicant
in Pre-Raphaelite pose.
The brooks rhythmic gurgle and splash
benumbing my anguish, till words surface
intuitively, of blasphemy and beauty.
I know my hair continues to grow
tho' not for long when I'm dead and gone
finger and toenails sprout out slow
but here's a thought to linger on
it's only a theory yet I have a query
when six feet down in hallowed ground
will wax still appear in both my ears
if I'm not here or no longer around?
Written: November 15, 2025
*******************
I am no feeling thing—
a moribund pastiche
of dulled mornings,
threadbare in soul,
writhed into silence.
No reason.
No why.
Just the torque of transience
grating against my sacred sapidity,
a palimpsest of vanished warmth.
Someone—
pinch me past this paucity.
I need your touch,
your rubicund ripple
to resile my wilted mettle.
Let your finger feel
be my panacea,
a seraphic catharsis
to evanesce this numb imbroglio
where even grief feels distant.
Come—
at your behest,
I will abase my hubris,
prowl through the seraglio
of memory’s panoply,
and rake through the riparian dusk
for one scintilla of you.
Let me feel again—
not the panoply of pain,
but the luster of being,
the emollient ache of presence,
the dulcet burden of love.
The plate is full and overflows,
Why continue filling what’s full?
It’s clean but claim to wash it still:
Exhibiting tints of a clueless fool.
It’s shining its best but you polish still
What resplendently shines so bright,
Claiming to add glow to fieriest stars
That adorn hallowed heavenly height.
But you don’t want to fill;
In truth you want to deplete
While cunningly feigning still
That you put more on enough.
It’s that unmatched heavenly shine
That you’re out to extinguish slowly
While pretending in its glow to dine;
A foe with a calculated aim to darken.
Inspired by Ronnie James Dio Song : Sacred Heart
In the dark opaque night
across the space of silence,
through the wasteland of your ravaged existence,
you take the ordained journey forsaken,
but the track of travail in illusive time you lose
within the gloomy labyrinth of torment.
Trudging at the edge of tolerance you hear
the sane spirit whisper, this journey has no end.
In the fold of the desolate soul in agony
you see the dismal sky crash down.
Buried in the dark debris of mystique hope
you pray for the light of the almighty.
The broken dreams don’t return,
for you can’t mend their wings to fly
in the recreated sky of the mangled mind,
but time restructures your daydream,
raise you free from the ruins of desire,
you drift through the rainbow arch.
You travel liberated from the clutch of evil
on the blessed inward journey.
In the sanctum of the devout essence
at the edge of the enlightened eternity,
you perceive the divine glow of the inner sun,
ethereally illumining the hallowed soul.
Of Iron Maiden’s ‘Hallowed Be Thy Name,’ reveals more than fame.
When life days are a light at the end of the tunnel,
and their brightness dimmed.
At some point, each with mortality faces the same,
whether someone plays a short or a long game.
That journey ended; the torch passed, yet short-lived proved the path.
Locked in a cage, we wait out our days.
Unsure how we arrived and not sure how long we will stay.
Is there a purpose, a plan?
Will every man get to meet his maker at the end of their days?
Afterward, the ends of our clothes fray and the hairs on our heads turn gray.
High stakes don’t pay, and they make us lose our way.
When walking the gauntlet alone, never finding our way home.
But to a saving source unseen.
Is there a Creator to whom we will say, ‘Hallowed be thy name?’
In shadows deep, where fate entwines,
A prisoner waits, as time unwinds.
With chains that bind and fears that loom,
He faces the dark, the specter of doom.
A voice calls from the depths of night,
“Fear not the end, for beyond lies light.”
In silence he prays, his heart beats slow,
For in this moment, the truth will show.
The gallows rise, a specter of dread,
Yet hope flickers bright, where angels tread.
With every breath, he confronts his fate,
A journey begins, though it’s never too late.
“Tell me my name,” he cries to the sky,
As the winds of life in the shadows sigh.
For in the face of death, he finds his flame,
In the depths of despair, he hallowed his name.
So let the winds carry his tale afar,
Of courage and strength, like a shining star.
For in the end, what we fear most,
Is the life we live, and the love we boast.
Underneath the blue-black twilight
of an impending, grim, nightmarish sky,
I hear the ping of deathly bells ringing,
signaling that my end is nigh.
Buzzards circle above,
swooping down, playing with their prey,
pecking ever so gingerly at mourning flesh.
I swat them away as dread fills every pore of my being.
Soon, the sun will rise over the bloodthirsty horizon,
its first streaks of light illuminating the sands.
I know my fate will be sealed.
Sweat beads and pools, coating my back.
Trembling now, I try to grasp my sanity.
The smell of the air has changed—
stale sorrow replaces the sweet scent of desert lily.
Dusk is close at hand.
The death knell grows louder,
drowning out even the most minuscule of sounds.
The executioner sharpens his glistening blade.
Arising, I am led to my ghastly doom.
Within seconds, crimson will stain the sands of time,
and I’ll become nothing more than mere food for the forgotten.
Out of misery—and for what?
What am I to do without my eyes of fog?
I am but a ghastly figure, trapped within my reality.
Pain once made me boundless and free,
Yet through the starry night, I feel love and dwell in it.
For luck’s sake, I am now chained to grace!
I must not, nor will I, lose myself to my heart’s content.
Though my hatred and sorrow have been quenched,
The fear around me remains.
You have felt it, as have I.
See to it that this memory is not lost
To the rhythm of this cursed soul.
lest they lie fallow
hallowed concepts resonate
deep, not shallow
exalting your name
giving praise for heaven's grace
everything we need
The crack of the bat,
The roar of the crowd,
The smell of the earth,
In these hallowed fields.
The taste of the hotdog,
The sun in my face,
The warm gentle breeze,
In these hallowed fields.
The windup of the pitcher,
The call of the ump,
The anger of the batter,
In these hallowed fields.
The cheer of good friends,
The closeness of family,
The kiss of my spouse,
In these hallowed fields.
Where the battles were valiantly fought,
land, sea, and air,
of our brave who survived,
you are honored with our fallen,
on this hallowed ground of
well-kept lawns,
white marble gleaming in sunlight
and under the mourning moon.
Caring volunteers place small
American flags on our soldier's graves.
You faced the foe head on,
your blood afire,
sweating in rivulets down your body,
you tried for precious sleep even midst
the war surrounding you,
as the shock of brothers, sisters falling,
exhausted the struggling balance of your minds.
Though no amount of gratitude can
ever be enough-
in ceremonies,
in speeches, song, poetry,
in reaching out,
too many of you still suffer,
are homeless, feel abandoned.
This has broken many hearts,
not just mine.
What does weeping do?
It puts sorrow into action.
We need to donate whatever
we can,
time, money, visits,
prayers to our sovereign God.
On this hallowed ground,
where the birds of the air
give life in their trills,
and everywhere else,
a resounding Veterans Day tribute,
to all of our veterans of the U.S.A. ~
In this late hour, the moon withdraws behind a cloud
Hiding her face and her light so dearly loved
And wraps herself in her old, moth-eaten shroud
As the last jack-o’-lantern’s flame is finally snuffed.
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