Thursday, October 10, 2013


This winter's project...Amaranthine...

Cover: my Circle of Light painting

New poetry. And selections from Spectrum, Origins, and Corundum.

Monday, August 12, 2013

Fire the Judge!

(Thank you, Coralie!)
Vision For My Future in Educational Goals

      There are so many fields of study that I am passionate about researching and would like to synthesize. This is my reason for wanting to return to school and pursue a second bachelors degree, and eventually a masters degree, to gain exposure, knowledge, and understanding in these fields, and to research and write about those things I have deep enthusiasm and ambition for. I believe opportunities in formal education will offer me significantly more than what I can accomplish and pursue apart from that.

      One of my areas of deep interest lies in the field of ancient Mesopotamian history, literature, and mythology. Of special interest to me are women in Mesopotamian society, culture, religion, and literature, and the role of the goddesses they worshipped.  It is in Mesopotamia that we have discovered the first texts of recorded literature with a highly evolved belief system. I want to understand the evolution of these things and the role that Bronze Age women had in society.

      A second area of study that I’m very interested in is comparative mythology, especially savior mythology and the parallels that link Jesus and Christianity with the myths that preceeded him. My desire is objective and scholarly research, and to see it enrich our understanding of both the similarities and diversities that exist. Many concepts present in these mythologies can enhance our appreciation for the universal longings and values that humanity shares. My passion for research in this field stems out of a deep desire to understand and appreciate the mythology, and to bridge the gap between polar opposites in how the subject matter is dealt with. 

      This merges with other areas I have love and enthusiasm for and those are Syriac Christian studies, the evolution of Syriac Christian literature, and early Christianity in Mesopotamia. I want to pursue knowledge and research in these fields, and study the related languages. It coincides with my passion for Mesopotamian history, literature, and mythology. 

      Being a poet and artist I desire a direction that would also allow me to incorporate my artistic goals. Those goals are to merge and synthesize my poetry and painting. A harmony of word and image is my focus and remains central to my artistic vision. Incorporating art history, style and technique with my other educational goals is of great, personal importance to me.

     I would be very grateful for a customized program that allows me to synthesize these fields of interest I am deeply passionate about and serious in learning.


Friday, July 19, 2013

Art 634 July Blues Fest

Last Sunday, I had the wonderful experience of attending my first artist reception for a painting I submitted at the Art 634 July Blues Festival!!!

Very dear friends endured the day’s merciless heat to help me and to celebrate with me. You know who you are. You are the best. You leave me more grateful and humbled than what I have words for, and you all are the reason why the day was most special to me. Forgive me when you came by and I had to retreat to air condition. The fact you all were there means the world to me.

A big thank you to Maggie Riggle and Carrie Joers for organizing the event and to Cuppa for keeping us cool with their awesome drinks! Even when they had to redo an order because someone –  #Iwon’tmentionanynames – (ahem) was clumsy enough to topple over her first round. ;-)




Thursday, April 18, 2013

Poetry & Painting 3

 Copyright May 2013 by Cindy Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the artist.

Painted shelf panel. Donated for the Second Annual Art for Aids Auction, sponsored by the Gay Straight Alliance of Lansing Community College.
Symmetry of earth and sea,
come to weave a dream in me,
diatomic thoughts instilled,
tides of jade, sapphire, beryl.
Let your winds and sands impart,
the poetry that steers my heart.
Capture for me the rays of light
that lend their balm to heal my sight…
I know not what journey such tides hail,
what dreams succeed, or which will fail.
I only live compelled to be
the helm of my own destiny.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Poetry & Painting 2


Copyright April 2013 by Cindy Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the artist.




A world caves in.
And no one has the time of day.
Shadows on the run.
Look. Feel. Listen.
Scratch beneath the surface
and catch them if you can.
Reaching, we falter through outlets
and other routes of escape. Everyone
in some way. Lives losing touch, losing
ground beneath blind marble
Dark fields. Dark voices.
Dark wanderings in dark dreams.
Feeling more unsafe on the inside
than out. Buried deep, but reaching.
How to stay strong. Can’t stop crying.
Reaching…but don’t know where I am.
Panic in the deaf dark heavens -- save me
from myself – please show me
what is real.
Hide-away…hide-away me
in dark spaces. Look. Search. Feel.
Leaving no stone unturned because it matters
that you’re there. Trust.
Reaching. You reach back. Finding hearts
in safe places. No one alone, in whatever struggle.
So much released, much more restored,
in the fortress of this circle.
October 2011

It has a name, I know it not.
But it cut me in half
and hollowed me out, as
nonchalantly as an avocado,
leaving nothing but a paper
shell, hanging from a tree
in a forest too absent of light
to see even the stars. It is
a matter of sanity, this
in the city. A distraction. But
the sun only rises in the windows
of the west. And I miss the stars.
Yet will I look
to You, my north star, Yeshua,
my radiance, that I not be overcome
by the darkness inside. Hide me,
oh, my brightness, hide me, from
the night of this world.




I don't even know you
and still I cry
even to this day.
The pain in your eyes
angers me. Shames
me. Haunts me. Silence
too is a crime. The speck,
the mote, the humble
grain of sand
we grind to powder. Hate
becomes the millstone
we hang around our necks
and drown ourselves
with. What fools
we are.


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Poetry & Painting

(Autumn, thank you so much for taking pictures of these!!!)
Copyright March 2013 by Cindy Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the artist.
Ashes of the Stars (left) was donated for the Second Annual Art for Aids Auction, sponsored by the Gay Straight Alliance of Lansing Community College.


The chimney swifts are here.
Soundless as they soar, what
beautiful silence speak
their wings, exquisite
ashes of the stars. Sunless
as the summer forest at night,
too detached it seems for
the city. So much resonance
escapes us.

I cannot stop. And I can hear
now the singing of the swifts,
their mantras, harmonious,
the moments. They all are little
buddhas. I fall into the uneven
mixture of todays, into
the cerulean
sea above, striving to keep
afloat of the clouds, awaking
immersed in the sun,
the fountain
that never empties, the never
ceasing spring. For I cannot
stop anymore than I can
stop the beating
of my heart.
Oh, my very great Grandmother,
I have sifted through the strata
of history you are buried within
looking for you. Perhaps you
will be the one who finds me,
here in the land of Hiawatha
and Petosegay. And far south
of the playground of Mishipeshu’s
children. Your name dances
in my wondering, a mystery
like a butterfly uncaptured
and whose journey ends
with the snow. Spring
is worth the trek. And heaven’s
lamp glows. Come then
to the land where ambered
water falls. Come.

on the floor
with her books inside
wasn’t what she expected to see,
morning after morning.
She took the books back out, one by one,
setting them inside the old pine bookcases
that still wept their amber, even after forty-some years.
They were her books, dammit. Her treasures.
Beloved fixtures in her world.
She didn’t care if she couldn’t read, anymore.
No one else had rights to them. Not yet.
Every day was the same. The heartwood sang to her.
And out of the boxes the books would come,
each one returning to its assigned place on their shelves,
her weeping carried by the sad melodies only she could
hear. Moments lived over and over.
Shadows of trees fluttered across the curtains,
tremulous, as she moaned her memories to the wind,
and emptied the boxes of her songs
that didn’t belong in cardboard coffins
just yet.
Paper knife.
No blade
to strike deep,
no blade
to twist, no
warm blood
flooding light.
No life to leave
my soul.
At peace
inside the granite
of more prevailing
words, with none
to perish me.
Faces in the woodwork, in the twilight
morning curtains.
Such strange rains,
and smiles
ingrained, wove
deep inside my
fears. I am, in dark, or light, accosted
by their stares, no named pairs, who put on airs,
crossing paths not
seen within
the sun
lairs. Crossing
through the hidden
olden woods, to the netherside of me.
the trees
are broken.
Limbs, shards of leaves,
and long held dreams, scattered to the ground. Lost
at the edge of dawn. How does one survive
the silence? Graves
of shattered
things. Blood
on my
soul. I mourn
the nights, unjoined,
and wonder where the light of life has gone.
His spirit is old as the granite
pillars of the earth and strong as Thunder-
Rolling-Over-the-Mountains. Listen. He will tell you
all about it. About the rock which was struck
and drowned in the sorrow that bled from his soul, red
like the earth. Red. Like Adam. From whose sons
he came. Like us. Yes. He will tell you all
about it. About the steel and the blades that furrowed
deep into his heart and cut him in half on the trail
of tears. The smoke that slithered like a serpent,
and roared like the world coming to an end,
booming from the iron
fonts of “manifest destiny”. He will tell you
how the little turtles were turned upside down
and torn apart by vultures.
I do not presume to know his pain.
But he will tell you like no one else can.
He will tell you
how his children screamed.

Under the open canopy of this dwelling, I
find myself to be something of a naturalist
at heart, hoping it does not disappoint
that I prefer sometimes, Shaddai
to worship You, to meet You, here, in
this place, made without hands. Is it
because I hunger for the living energy
soliloquized and sonorous within
every tree that I touch, every ripple
of the wind that dances on my skin, in
each ruffling of feathers that I hear, and
in all the rhythms You orchestrate?
Or am I deluding myself into thinking
shalom exists here, apart from the madness,
the chaos of society. Nature, afterall,
has wars of her own. I know the healing
of the world will come. And for now,
I simply take in the solace You let me
drink of, falling completely...
unconditionally, into Your arms.
At the threshold,
by west window, young,
cadent boughs turn
dark in the light.
Echoes of snow
Gaslight my night. The fire at my
hearth is strong. I am not consumed
in the circle of its divinity, but enveloped,
joined to its flames. Touch me, you burn.
Kindred spirits await each other, lyrical
lights emptying
madmen of their lies. Next to
nothing, toss their counterfeit coins
one by one into the wishing
pool of fools.
Quicksand. Redeemed is my robbed
reality. Shalom. Salaam. No more war on my
soul. My seas are incomparable
tanzanite and teal
whorls and waves. Can’t
xerox this.
Young, my coral boughs