Best Parker Poems
In this wondrous world, we are bound
to the silent realms of our poetic soul
Where white doves flutter and sighing words whisper
as dreams are dreamt with a heart's fervor
of unyielding desire which brightly burns
through the words of poetry
that capture the world's glorious glimmers
which slowly drip upon the page as poems
seeking a night's landscape
of wandering wishes beneath glittering stars
from a memory in fanciful flight
on the wings of perfection
where a sonnet shimmers in stardust bestrewn
as the moon serenaded fades into song
forgetting to rise and light dusky skies
lost in the magic of this intimate dark
as lips of a poet tingle the skin of a lyric
and brush with a breath thoughts soft as a flute
fantasy flies like fireflies from a jar
to drift to the depths of velvet horizons
reveries no longer long to be free
as the muse charms a pulse from the page
It's there in my heart's timeless space
I hear the poems of your soul
3/16/21
Thank You...Dear Friend, Dear Poet
In this wondrous world, we are bound
to the silent realms of our poetic souls
where white doves flutter and sighing words whisper
as dreams are dreamt with a heart's fervor
of unyielding desire which brightly burns
through the words of poetry
that capture the world's glorious glimmers
which slowly drips upon the page as poems
seeking a night's landscape
of wandering wishes beneath glittering stars
from a memory in fanciful flight
on the wings of longing perfection
where a sonnet shimmers in stardust bestrewn
as the moon serenaded fades into the song
forgetting to rise and light dusky skies
lost in the magic of this intimate dark
as lips of a poet tingle the skin of a lyric
and brush with a breath thoughts soft as a flute
fantasy flies like fireflies from a jar
to drift to the depths of velvet horizons
reveries no longer long to be free
as the muse charms a pulse from the page
It's there in my heart's timeless space
I hear the poems of your soul
Frederic Parker and Susan Ashley
(a collaboration)
March 16, 2021
~ Poem Of The Week ~
March 21, 2021
*celebrated on Frederic Parker's page*
Special note: it is indeed an honor to share in the wonderful recognition of Poem Of The Week with my inspiring and gifted collaborator, Frederic Parker.
Frederic, thank you for initiating this beautiful piece and for inviting me to create poetry with you. I cherish our fruitful poetic fellowship. That our muses shared in charming a pulse from the page is truly a special gift given to me.
Poet’s note: Dear Frederic, it was both a thrill and an honor to be invited to collaborate with you on this beautiful poem. Your tender, breathtaking artistry touched my heart and enchanted my imagination. The expressive talent of your golden pen never fails to inspire me. Thank you, dear poet, dear friend, for a stirring creative experience.
I watch the rising sun of morning glow behind you
inviting my eyes to pause in soft amber light
which frames your beauty
warming my heart with a smile
bursting the seed pods of passion
allowing them to float endlessly... through my soul
pouring desire into the eyes of love
until they overflow and drip like dew from leaves
glistening in the sun spiraling towards Earth
leaving a wondrous glint in the eyes
could that this moment never end
nor escape into the unknown
Bathed is my essence in sweet dew of dawn
and wondrous is the glint that luster your eyes
as I radiate morning-glory grandeur
within your golden gaze of ardor
whose fervent seeds sow saffron dreams
wishing to possess and be possessed
I reach for you surrendering in softest amber light
luscious in the bloom of morn
captured in the nectar of each breath
taken in the heated heights of desire’s depths
this moment an amaranth
thrilling this twinkling of time never to fade like a distant star
Frederic Parker and Susan Ashley
(a collaboration)
June 2, 2019
~ Poem Of The Day ~
June 3, 2019
(celebrated on Frederic Parker's page)
Special note: it is indeed an honor to share in the wonderful recognition of Poem Of The Day with my inspiring and gifted collaborator, Frederic Parker.
Frederic, thank you for initiating this beautiful piece and for inviting me to create poetry with you. I cherish our beautiful and fruitful poetic fellowship, dear poet, dear friend.
Poet’s note: Frederic, it was both a thrill and an honor to be invited to collaborate with you on this very special and romantic poem. Your tender, breathtaking artistry touched my heart and charmed my imagination. You truly inspired me with the gift of your expressive talent and golden pen. Thank you, dear poet and my dear friend, for a beautiful creative experience.
It seems that even-tempered Ralphie Parker,
Had a side to him that was somewhat darker.
Ralphie lost his cool with his mortal protagonist,
And bloodied the beak of Farkus his antagonist!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
* A tale of a charlatan, caught pretending to be a father of a Newton Massacre
Victim----(feel free to view his hyperbole on Youtube, search Robbie Parker
Interview)
This place is not big on naming names, but you sir, are despicable! Usurp
nightmares of another. Charlatan! How can you do what you do, there, bold
face lying for world news cameras. You, the very reason mine stomach pit,
ulcer amore'! Tho' there's no clear understanding for sins you've committed.
Those children! Where are the tears Robbie Parker? Where are the tears? We
can't look at you anymore!
The epitome of evil approached the podium, unaware we were staring into
your laughing eyes. Caught red handed, you Superman'd into character.
Despise, despise! No, I won't pretend like the others that hate is not in my
heart. You see, minus hate, love remains half mast. I thank you for the
juxtaposition. Yet, sickening you are. And the truth is out Mr. Parker, you are
a farce! Now I ask...Where does the misconception end? You mock naysayers,
label them "Conspiracy Theorists" amongst other choice vulgarities. In return,
I request answers. Answers to understand where true conspiracy roams, for'
I'm no dummy little buddy, and I know where there's smoke, fire is nearby.
Meanwhile, you might want to sharpen your acting skills, for the end is nigh.
And you Robbie Parker are only a speck of the lie.
You rigged the book on Sandy Hook.
A long
A lone 8 legged spider
In a lab stringing down
Oh, there's a teen age boy
An experiment____________________________going down
The spiders in the way Oh! OH! my
Bit the boy_______________________________ on the hand
Reaction sharp as the teen darts
Up the _________________________________ wall crawling
Bitten by an radioactive spider
Heighten genetically__________ altered intermissions radiation
Guess, now Peter Parker
Your now __________________________you're a wall crawler
new hero now...
guess web head we'll call you
Spider-Man
written by James Edward Lee Sr. (c)2017
>‘That Parker Quink Ink smell’
I’m mostly writing with a pen
Not all the time, with my best one.
That is the kind, you fill with ink.
Am I advertising, if I say it’s Quink?
I only know when I was young.
I liked its smell, not a bad one.
Now I am very old.
At least, that is what I’m told.
And of course, I do use Quink.
And bless, it has not lost, its pleasant stink.
Not stink, as in them old stink bombs.
That blinking kid rolled in class along.
Teacher left us all in class.
He left laughing, watched us withering, through the door glass.
We grabbed our mate at play did do.
Squashed what sink bombs, were in his pockets true
He did not roll those bombs again.
Really, it was not a shame.
Bet you’ve guessed why, with no wink form me.
At last could smell me Quink you see.
I am not a secret ink smellier.
Smells do upset me wife.
Could leave the bottle top not screwed tight.
But I’m really happy with my life.
Writing this, writing that.
Helped occasionally, by my friend Kat.
He does not like the smell of ink.
So tops are on tightly, on my Quink.
Wonder if I’ll get any royalty?
Must write to Quink, see what they say.
Got their address, did so today.
How? Did you ask? The Google way.
Parker own Quink they really do.
Should I tell them about, me pen too?
You might ask, why did I write this poetry?
I’ll tell you now, of what I did see.
I opened the drawer of my desk.
And saw two Quink tucked up safely,in the dark no less.
Bottles both of black and blue.
So none could lose their colour true.
As if they did, I’d surely tell.
If those two Quink inks, had lost their smell.
Sorry to say there are too few characters left on this page to write the other poem I wrote today. That was whilst waiting for my second official hydrotherapy pool exercise, treatment session. Pause to read that last sentence through specifically to see if it makes sense. I think it did, so will leave it well alone. Have a nice day (The mad author)<
Pastor Parker Preaches
Pastor Allen Parker
Is certainly not a prude
Though Pastor Allen Parker
Preaches in the nude
When it’s winter in Virginia
And his skin is turning blue
Pastor Allen Parker’s pews
Are occupied by few
But when the summer crowd rolls in
With their bodies golden tan
The pews are overflowing
And some men proudly stand
I’ve never been a nudist
Don’t know how I would feel
Seeing all that naked flesh
Stand and sit or kneel
And when they pass the offer plate
I’d think it kind of strange
Seeing all the naked folks
Search for pocket change
It’s all about the message
And the lessons that he teaches
And it is just the naked truth
Pastor Allen Parker preaches
After finishing a seminar based on demand and supply,
I walked out to the street and hailed a taxi going by,
and as I sat down in the seat, the taxi driver said to me,
‘my, my, your timings perfect, you are just the same as Terry.’
I must admit he had me thinking, so of course I answered ‘Who?’
‘Terry Parker’ said the cabbie; a bloke it’s obvious he knew.
‘Yeah, anything that Terry did, he was right on every score,
he lived with perfect timing and Terry never had one flaw.’
I had never met a bloke like Terry, so I’m wary of the fact,
so I subtly gave me answer in a way most would react,
‘None of us are perfect mate,’ but the cabbie did insist
That Terry, he was faultless, and so few like him exist.
I heard that Terry was an athlete with the most amazing skills,
His golfing matched the pros, and his tennis playing simply thrills,
he could sing like Johnny Cash; and even better so I’m told,
he danced like Fred Astaire; his piano playing…simply gold.
I could only think he must be special, this Terry Parker bloke,
and the cabbie uttered ‘hang on,’ and once again he spoke,
‘there’s more to Terry yet, you see his memory never failed,
he remembered every birthday, and every one detailed.
‘He was a connoisseur on beer, and knew everything ‘bout wine,
He knew how to serve the finest foods; all simply pure divine.
And if anything needs fixing, then Terry was your shining light,
he was streets ahead of me, ‘cause I can’t do nothing right.
‘He could always read the traffic, and you’d never find him stuck,
not like me when I am driving, for I had none of Terry’s luck,
and I ought to mention women, and how he made them feel so good,
he was the ideal gentleman; he treated women how I should.
‘Terry would never answer back, even if the woman’s wrong,
he was a charming butler, and his charisma it was strong,
he kept his house immaculate, as no other person can…
no one could measure up; Terry Parker was the perfect man.’
When I reached my destination but before I stepped outside,
I paid the driver what was due, and then I thanked him for the ride,
but I thought it best I mention, at more or less a parting whim,
‘this Terry Parker is remarkable, how did you get to meet him?’
The driver took my money, and then he muttered deep and slow,
‘Actually I never met him, but I’m married to his widow.’
Her name was Susan and she was breathtaking.
She could spin a poem into a spider’s web strength and ethereal wisps.
I was smitten beyond reason.
Captured by lust quickly tuning toward love.
Then the however happened.
However, Susan was adept at spinning a gossamer web
Silently, she captured victims blinded with lust
like this one whose idea of loving her went bust
Susan was a mean girl, a Black Widow weaver
she encased him in a silk cocoon...
until her appetite for a meal woke her from peaceful rest
A smile on her face, legs crossed... all eight of them.
Patiently, she waited while giving herself a mani/pedi
Susan sat drooling at the thought of lunch
She decided she better dress for dinner
after all…
her lunch date was just hanging around.
She looked such a temptress
With scarlet lipstick smeared over her face
And perfectly manicured talons
She set to work unwrapping her prey
Ready to nibble him down to the bone
Susan’s prey appeared all debonair with bells on
She could see through his charming but fake façade
He saw her eyes glimmer, her lips red and inviting
She offered him a kiss as she wrapped her eight legs around him
His eyes bulged as she kissed his lips while suffocating him in her web
He begged her to stop as she drank from his mouth,
until he was silenced
The above verses were inspired by a prompt given to poets, Jan, Tania and Lin, by Arlo Parker, who wrote the first verse. We give credit to Arlo for inspiring us to write these verses; a joint venture of Arlo Parker and the mean girls.
Her name was Susan and she was breathtaking.
She could spin a poem into a spider’s web strength and ethereal wisps.
I was smitten beyond reason.
Captured by lust quickly tuning toward love.
Then the however happened.
However, Susan was adept at spinning a gossamer web
Silently, she captured victims blinded with lust
like this one whose idea of loving her went bust
Susan was a mean girl, a Black Widow weaver
she encased him in a silk cocoon...
until her appetite for a meal woke her from peaceful rest
A smile on her face, legs crossed... all eight of them.
Patiently, she waited while giving herself a mani/pedi
Susan sat drooling at the thought of lunch
She decided she better dress for dinner
after all…
her lunch date was just hanging around.
She looked such a temptress
With scarlet lipstick smeared over her face
And perfectly manicured talons
She set to work unwrapping her prey
Ready to nibble him down to the bone
Susan’s prey appeared all debonair with bells on
She could see through his charming but fake façade
He saw her eyes glimmer, her lips red and inviting
She offered him a kiss as she wrapped her eight legs around him
His eyes bulged as she kissed his lips while suffocating him in her web
He begged her to stop as she drank from his mouth,
until he was silenced.
The above verses were inspired by a prompt given to poets, Jan, Tania and Lin, by Arlo Parker, who wrote the first verse. We give credit to Arlo for inspiring us to write these verses; a joint venture of Arlo Parker and the mean girls.
Her name was Susan and she was breathtaking.
She could spin a poem into a spider’s web strength and ethereal wisps.
I was smitten beyond reason.
Captured by lust quickly tuning toward love.
Then the however happened.
However, Susan was adept at spinning a gossamer web
Silently, she captured victims blinded with lust
like this one whose idea of loving her went bust
Susan was a mean girl, a Black Widow weaver
she encased him in a silk cocoon...
until her appetite for a meal woke her from peaceful rest
A smile on her face, legs crossed... all eight of them.
Patiently, she waited while giving herself a mani/pedi
Susan sat drooling at the thought of lunch
She decided she better dress for dinner
after all…
her lunch date was just hanging around.
She looked such a temptress
With scarlet lipstick smeared over her face
And perfectly manicured talons
She set to work unwrapping her prey
Ready to nibble him down to the bone
Susan’s prey appeared all debonair with bells on
She could see through his charming but fake façade
He saw her eyes glimmer, her lips red and inviting
She offered him a kiss as she wrapped her eight legs around him
His eyes bulged as she kissed his lips while suffocating him in her web
He begged her to stop as she drank from his mouth,
until he was silenced
The above verses were inspired by a prompt given to poets, Jan, Tania and Lin, by Arlo Parker, who wrote the first verse. We give credit to Arlo for inspiring us to write these verses; a joint venture of Arlo Parker and the mean girls.
Myrtle Parker
Myrtle Parker lived on the Riviera,
That’s the English one not the French.
Her favourite tipple is Red Currant Cider,
Only beverage her thirst would quench.
Never did she marry no husband,
Preference for life single and free,
Though kept two doggy companions,
Twin Westies, Florence and Zebedee.
Miss Parker was a gatherer and hoarder,
Antiques, curios, lots of impractical tat.
Her catchphrase was somewhat familiar,
“I‘ll find a good use for that.”
Tumbledown Cottage name on the gate,
Aptly called for badly required repair.
The man from Devonshire Council,
Shakes his head in anguished despair.
Oh, dear Myrtle what are we to do,
I cannot see the wood for the trees,
Environment Officer is calling today,
He doesn’t like cockroach and fleas.
Myrtle lives close to Muscle shell beach,
Small cove of shingle and coarse sand,
Opposite the Cat protection league,
Where she buys new clothes second hand.
One summer had a house full of Kittens,
That grew into fully grown cats.
They left her in search of new comforts,
Plagued by visits of large rodent rats.
Myrtle decided on a radical clear out,
To make way for a new feather bed,
But could not let go of her treasures,
So continued sleeping on the sofa instead.
Seventy years old, obstinate and proud,
Devon Council man returned to her door.
“This house is making you poorly my dear,
Regretfully you cannot live here anymore.
Oh, dear Myrtle here’s what we’ll do,
Move you into a comfy town flat,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Condemn your cottage, so sorry about that.
Myrtle Parker was born in this house,
Her father he worked on the boats,
Mother stayed home baking bread,
From freshly ground buckwheat groats.
Tumbledown cottage is full of memories,
Though can’t find many for the clutter.
Diminutive rooms two up two down,
Walls dampened by broken pipe gutter.
If I have to go then take me in a box,
She chained herself to the newel post.
I’ll defend my rights for all I’m worth,
Then haunt Council man as his ghost.
Council man arrives excited with keys,
For Miss Parkers new urban home,
But Myrtle had been true to her word,
and perished on the staircase all alone.
Oh, dear Myrtle what have you done,
Your new flat was shiny and clean,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Demolition boss with bulldozer team.
I want to be Dorothy,
and the words she writes,
I want to be the simplicity,
the beauty in her rhyme.
I want to be the eternity,
of her wrong and right,
her coda is the air I breathe,
the resume of my life.
If I have to live this living,
I might as well live in her light,
I want to be Dorothy,
body, soul, and mind.
But if she said to be myself,
than I would abide,
I would be the journey,
and she could be my guide.
Sharing the same hiding place,
only separated by time,
Mrs. Parker and me or,
Mrs. Parker and I.
the red white and blue
confederate flag had them
the same color scheme