Ther Vine Keeper

"The Vine Keeper . . . messages in poetry & prose" by William S. Peters, Sr. is an Epic offering of Bill's writing. It is 439 pages of a truly transformative work. The Book Size is 8 by 10 Perfect for just $29.95 . . . makes a great Gift of Love and Spirit for the Seeker.
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Saturday, May 28, 2011

in voice . . .

in voice

there are no words
i could ever voice
through my pen
or my imaginings
that could ever express
the unending vastness
of love i have for you

in my thoughts
as you dance and linger
there is a song of light
awakening this hunger
this hunger i have to be enjoined
once again

it is not a pain
i can explain
nor a need i can feed
to make it cease

so i lie in my solitude
and embrace the visions
of this lovely wandering
upon the path
of this spiraling bliss
which ushers forth my

i hear a calling
that of your endlessness
your beauty
your Goddess-ness
and like that of the Ocean
there is a quality you always impart
in spite of the Storms of my life
a quality that is
calm and serene
enchanting me to the beyond
as you preen my countenance
with your Aquamarine lustre
and color

and i lay here
upon this beach
of my quiet stillness
in absence of wasted movements
that day
when your passions
and mine entangle
with an urgent fervency
upon the shores
of our consciousness
and your thoughts become mine
and mine yours

i now can feel your tides
caressing me
overwhelming me
consuming me

and all that i know
of thy love
is but like a grain of sand
upon all the beaches of my dreams

and the voices of the muses
no longer scorn me
for they have warned me
that you are so much more
that i can ever fathom

and your gentle resonance of grace
that abides in my soul
is beyond my embrace of understanding
yet deep within the core of me
i am demanding
to touch that place
to see that face
that i have always longed to kiss
and those lips
that speak of our eternities
and  our never ending bliss

and though this vision
is exclusively that of my own
the reality reclusively eludes me
yet i reach anyway

and though there are no words
i can say
not now
not when
and not then
when we were in heaven
together . . .

i shall always think of your light
and your walk
your touch
and the soft sweet whispering
of your languid voice
as it caresses my dreams
into the potential
that i live for

i shall incessantly implore
my Father
my God
to open that door
that i may speak your name
once again
and let your melody
dance from my soul
to my tongue
and crest the threshold of my lips
with a sweetness
only found
in voice

© 27 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

enough . . .


the light dust sprinkled
upon the fabric of the midnight  sky
our reckoning
with soul

the ancients
who have transcended this dimension
in a time before us
look down with a knowing
of what lies before us
and i ask to be infused
with understanding
as to why man meddles
with his peace

is not love enough
i ask my self
is not the embrace of life enough
is not the wonder of breath enough
and i stop and listen
to the wisdom of my heart
beating it’s steady rhythms
keeping pace
with the pulse of Mother
is not that enough

i look again to the stars
and they too are embraced
by all that is dark
yet still they shine
with that same knowing
as they hold their places
in space
until the Sun comes

and in this moment
of my translucence
it all becomes clear
life it’s self
is enough

© 26 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

keep screaming . . .

keep screaming

his soul was incessantly screaming
into that abysmal void
where the canyon of his own nothingness
swallowed his anguish
without notice
or pertinence
to meaning

and his consciousness
always minimized
it’s seemingly import
through it’s disconnected logic
and deducements
for which the humane have no use
yet mind is always suspect
always seduced
by some distraction from truth

there were no echoes
save that of his own hollowness
reverberating upon the shallowness
of his thin reflections
of self
his cries were empty
and colorless
and embodied but a chaff
of what men used to be

the world had lost it’s vitality
and in his dismal evaluations
he no longer offered
heart felt salutations
to life’s used to be luster
for all about him
he saw too much suffering
and no matter how he rationalized
eyes opened
or closed
he could not dispose
of the visualizations
he conjured through his fellow man’s pain

and the tones of the whining babies
across the earth
never waned
and all he saw
was the inane
becoming more demanding
looking for new ways
to exercise their greed

perhaps that is why
his cries had no sound
have they stolen that too
what else
would the vultures of goodness do
and how much is enough
do they know
do you

behind the walls he hides
he knows these walls are but delusions
a self created illusion
where he could be safe
from the sound of the gunfire
he could hear it in his soul

he tired, like so many others
of the news of Wars
brothers against brothers
and the bonds of love
we once cherished
saw Families
and communities
and Nations
and Humanity
right before his CNN eyes
funny how we are no longer surprised
out raged
that we allowed this sickness
out the cage

and the scores of elitist
who jockeyed for a better position
to get higher in the pecking order
while people are starving
Daughters abused
Sons losing their Light
as we embrace the nightmares
as something peaceful
and a respite from our realities
and our rulers
can only measure borders
substantiated by
who has the bigger . . .
go figure that rationale

but in the end
my hope will be resolved
this is how my soul
finds it’s own reconciliation
in it’s denial of any affiliation
with the death march
being orchestrated by the blind ones

i shall continue to scream in the wilderness
and speak the word
and some day our voices will be heard
beyond the void
and the balance will come about
with a fury
and no jury will be able to acquit
the dark
when the light enters
and takes it’s rightful place
upon the throne of our souls

keep screaming

© 25 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

tapping on the window . . .

tapping on the window

the little child
stood at the window
peering in
leering at the still sleeping one
while tapping
on the window pane
reminding of our pain
in our sleeping consciousness
beckoning soul
to open it’s eyes

the Sun was out
it was time to play
the Gardens were filled
with smiling flowers
reaching for their Joy
embodied in the life
of this day
and in reverent gratitude
they imparted their fragrance
that they may enhance life
and all who would breath in
their attitude of Bliss

yes, there were Butterflies dancing
enhancing the visuals
of the wonder
this day
and we are sleeping
holding on to some dream
that seems somehow
to seduce our expectations
to lie in stillness
and will less
for that which is grande

the Bees were collecting the Honey
that we may taste of the sweetness
life affords
those who would come to it
and play in the garden
with ardent purpose
to partake of the ambrosiatic flavors
and taste the moment
wasted in the ether of illusionary dreams

all life is calling forth
from East to West
South to North
know that Life and Creation
is in need of your Presence
for you my Brother
my Sister
are the Present
wrapped in the Ribbons of Love
You are the Present unto thy self
awaken this day
come out and play
with the Child
who is tapping on your window

tapping on the window

© 25 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

i knocked . . .

i knocked

i was feeling some kind of way
just like the other day
out of sorts
like a man in shorts
at the North Pole
and it was cold

my soul was beckoning me
for a reckoning in me
and i could not see the light
for the forest was dense
and i could make no sense of it

so i went to that door
that i had locked
long ago
and i knocked
and the still small voice
welcomed me in

it has been so many years
some laughter
some tears
since i approached these fears
of mine
embodied by my inner child
whom i have put away
in that closet

and now here i am
once again
with yet another humble request
from the best of me
that has tested me
in his silence

i have defied
i have lied
and in my bottled anguish
i have cried
so many times

and regardless
of all the rhymes i can muster
pen or speak
there is a liquid beauty
that leaks from my soul
that does not cajole me
nor console me
or enfold me
in it’s grace

and as i stood face to face
with my better self
i was humbled
as i fumbled
for an apology
for my abject neglect

and somewhere in the recesses
i did detect
a warmth of forgiveness
in spite of my mess

and thus
 i found rest
simply because i knocked
on the door
i had once locked

i knocked

© 24 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

reflection . . .


my soul dances to the thought
of the possibility
that the day may come
where i feel your breath
upon the nape of my neck
where we resonate as one
one heart beat
one thought
one movement
in love

if at this moment i open my eyes
the pixelisations of you light presence
lose not their form
in my waking
for i still see but you
and i feel you
i taste you
and i hear your heart beat
as if it is my own

and through every known moment
of my consciousness
you were the remnant of my salvation
the reason i could press on
for that distant day of hope

the visions i embodied
of our togetherness
made each step forward
a joyful journey
of expectations

there yet has been a mountain
that could cause ebb to my zeal
there is no Valley
that could contain me
and there is no Ocean
i can not swim

for i know in our communion
we will again dance in unison
to all that is holy
to our soul

and in the absence
of our mutuality
in presence
in this dense illusion
my only conclusion
is but
because of this vision
i am whole
for you are the substance
of my dreams
my desires
and the cause
this fire burns

and i fervently yearn
with every breath
that i too may feel
my warm breath
upon the nape
of your neck


© 24 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

can you hear me ?

can you hear me ?

there were people congregated
in the vestibule
conversing about things
of no particular consequence

and the light softly filtered in
through the blinds
yet there was an opaqueness
that prevailed in the air
as the noise of voice
for no one heard
what was being spoken

there was and can be no symphony
when all the instruments are playing
from an un-scored blankness
in thanklessness
with no empathy
to belong

for the song of life
travels the road of the solitary
embracing it’s self for company
voicing questions
knowing that the answers
and the dancers
are but delusions
of it’s own spawning

and with the dawning
of each new day
one awakens again
but to play another soliloquy
for one’s own eclectic enjoyment
with but a suspect of reality

and they pretend to hear a drum
that they say sums up their reason
and the dialogue flows on
betwixt self and that other guy
called me
for no one hears but no one

and as i sit
amidst the subterfuge
of what belies about me
and within me
i seek to sort
meaning from it all
as i feel the jadedness
of the square syllables
ambling through the air
looking for an ear
to call home
but all the doors are busy
listening to their own squeaking hinges
crying to be oiled
by a reason of their own making
that simply asks
in it’s universal bequestering
still sequestering and answer
to this simple request

can you hear me ?

© 24 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

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Thursday, May 19, 2011

paint my dreams

paint my dreams

i took my dreams
and painted them
with the colors
of expectations
for i wanted to
meet them
greet them
seat them
at the table of my realities


i want to
eat with them
drink with them
discuss the day with them
and speak of
our love
and the certainty
of the absence
of the hurt in me
and the joys
of our coming days

a place
where our chase
of each other
has ceased
for we are in phase
as one
and in peace

and after we finish dining
we begin refining
our relationship
i want to put some music on
you know
that Cosmic type
and i want to dance with my Dreams
my Lover of me
i wish to swirl
and be whirled around
as i embrace the sound
of the moment

i wish to do a two step or three
or more
as i have removed the door
that once inhibited who i am
i want to dance the dance of joy
never to be contained

and we will glisten
as we listen
to the our bonded heart
that of every Girl and Boy
and the gifts
we were born with
impervious of the shift
we allowed to induce us
seduce us
by way of our trusts
we freely gave to the world

and as the “i” in me
heralds in this new thought
a perspective of life
i have long ago forgotten
i realize
with open eyes
that i am the artist
i am the creator
i am the progenitor
of what i think i am

and there is no God
but i am He who has made me
for it was His or Her
or whatever you prefer
it was the Sources Holy breath
that give’s me Life
and with a rife of attitude
and a heart of gratitude
i celebrate this day
in my way
that i created the palette
upon which i mix the colors
that i may paint the canvass of my existence
as i choose
so excuse me
for i refuse
to accuse
and people
to inhibit
my exhibit
of my Self Art
and how i elect
to paint my dreams

© 19 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Monday, May 16, 2011

write now

write now

i would like to write the poem
that dances off the page
watching as the gathered whisperings of my soul
transmute themselves into lyrics
and pour from my pen
creating a splendor of sweetness
that make you wish but to lick
the syllables of my expressions

i wish them to be of a sweetness
never thought of
that takes all souls
to that guarded garden
we all protect
and tell none of
save that of our lovers

i long for the coming of the muse
who has infused me with this desire
long ago
and the fire still burns
and i still yearn
to emote the words
of beauties not yet heard
in this etheric composition
we call life

as i dream of this coming
i am wrapped in the blanket
of a warmth
my soul has always pined for
longed for
in it’s envisioning
of what i sing for

yes, i would love to write that type of poem
that makes all who taste these emanations
evoke that of their own sweetness
and let our souls to that
everlasting Epiphanic moment
where there is but one day
that shall never cease
and joys replete
will be our way

yes, i would like to write that poem

write now

© 17 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

watching the Wind . . .

watching the Wind

the choir of leaves
upon the Trees
sing a concordant symphony
as the Winds of Change
come about
to direct their voices

each blade of Grass
and shivers
as the breezes
conjure forth their soft whispering offerings
to this grande composition

all the Flowers continually celebrate
never withholding their color
as they give even more
tithing their fragrant contribution
to the Wind
to all life
to be enjoyed

the tufts of the billowing Clouds
hang high in the sky
chuckle and smile
in the face of the Sun
watching with reverence
Mother’s acknowledgment
of their presence
as she lovingly embraces
this Holy Art
of their painted shadow smiles
and tattoos
for miles
upon Her body
and the Mountains stand resolute

the Streams and the Rivers
gurgle in their incessant
and continual flowing
and knowing
and acceptance
of what may come
as Brother Wind
entertains the all of things
singing and conducting with love
another major musical movement
of change

and i watch
i applaud
i smile
i breath
another wind
into existence

watching the Wind

© 16 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

the Art of Listening

the Art of Listening

every Soul has something to say
Soul speaks of
lessons learned
and those still yet being pondered
and developed
time and time again

within, is a great storehouse
that being purchased
with our Blood, Sweat, Tears and Laughter
and the walk we have walked
over the eons of time
and now

we all have a treasured collection
that we hold onto
in our museum of artifacts
as we judge
and surmise
who we are
where we are
why we are
when we are
what we
through our ill shaded
ill fated glasses
we call perspective

like the artist
who listens to the muses
we all paint our masterpieces
of confusion
from the sketches
that dangle in our minds
as we feebly listen
to life instruction
as we draw conclusions
on who we truly are
and measure this
against who we truly wish to be

many times we don’t get it quite right
do we ?
for we are not listening
we seem to have lost our mastery
over the Art of the process
of Self-Creation
and listening . . .

we are moved to listen to such shallow things
like infatuation
and the illusory songs
of an illusory beauty
in our illusory minds
in an illusory dimension
of thought
we bought
that belongs to someone else
never quite finding our own authenticity

and as we embrace this felicity
of our surreal state being
as we convexingly vie for the freeing
from the bonds
of our own “Self” enslavement
while walking these same pavements
upon the Avenues of Deception
with exception
as we tell ourselves “I am OK”
and still we do not listen

listen to that still small child
he or she who dwells in the closet
soaking in solace
with his hand on the Door Knob
waiting for the door to be unlocked
and be freed
that it may again dance in the light
and perhaps be held again
by their best friend
you !

listen to it’s voice
yes, it is your choice
as to whether
you are paying attention
or not
or to what
i ask
that you remove the mask
and listen

listen as the trials of life
come to you
they too serve the greater good
urging you back to where you should be
to what you were inflected to be
erected to be
i suspect

listen to the calling of your muses
as they refuse to give up on you
for they too
believe in you
as you should do
i do

listen to the Ancestors
who have paved a way
just for this day
through their errant truancies
with their nuancies
and urgent prayers
for a better life
of understanding
as they demanded
of God,
the Universe
to disperse
from the convolution of secrets
and reveal the rife
of our continual joys

listen to your eminent future
calling you
calling me
that we open our hearts
and impart to the greater
the greater
as we become one

let go of the tethers of mind
that we may find
truth in our path
that we are already on
it is right here

listen to the footsteps
you have already implanted
in the garden of experience
listen as the seeds of your actions
shed it’s hull
that has encapsulated your greater self
listen as it vies through it’s soiled darkness
anxiously vying for the Sunshine
that it may stretch forth it’s arms
for that Holy Kiss
and be nurtured
and Bud and Blossom and Grow
Strong and Healthy and Fruitful
that it too may yield unto you
and the world
a Fruit of Divine Sweetness
listen please

listen to your dreams
found in the eyes of all children
as they yearn but to enjoy
be fed
and play
without thought of the morrow
or the day
listen to their impulsive trust
in life
we too must trust
it is natural

listen to the Mother,
that of Nature
as she consistently offers to each of us
her total embodiment of Life
as she feeds us from Her Bosom
all the goodness required
for her Children to realize
the prize
all Souls seek

Mother has no agenda
but to have us be strong
and wise
and that we too will embrace
all of her children
including that of “self”
and that child you have long ago
abandoned behind that door
that closet of quiet darkness
where it’s thoughts have become foreign
for it’s thoughts
were no longer so convenient
stop and listen

listen to the Heavens about you
the Heavens within you
as they speak of your connectedness
and the deluded attitude of your dejectedness
and created rejectedness
and let go of the mess
we have created
in our elated unaskewedness
of what we call progress
for Heaven still does love you
and embraces you
in spite of all we have done
and all we do

listen to the drum
it still beats for you
follow the cadence of all life
march to the tune
and let us
the Divine Children of Source
impugn our sense of what we cling to
and if Newness of attitude is required
then that is what we do
and whatever we do
in our aspirations
of inspirations
let us re-gather our lost art form
and reconnect with each other
our Sisters and our Brothers
and resurrect this day
our light
our Glistening upon the Fabric of time
and let us be as the Night Sky
that reflects but that which is Holy
within the Zero Point
of all that has been Spawned
in the annals of Time
and this Life Rhyme
i give unto you
. . .the Art of Listening

listen to that Holy Breath of Life
. . . and LIVE !

© 15 May 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

the Day my Mother died . . .

the day my Mother Died

she has nurtured me
throughout the years of my cognizance
of life
she gave birth to all that i thought i was
and all that i am

she with assistance from Father
spawned my greater
i spawned the dark

it was upon her breast
that i learned the meaning of solace
a lesson one should not soon forget
for these days
it is integral

it was her eyes of understanding
that always was capable
of reading my soul
and many times
she spoke in silence
as she told me what time it was
even when i was late
in my compliance to the good

and these days as i remember
as i reflect
in the mirror i see clearly now
no longer i peer through the dark looking glass
for i know
that i am her child
though for a while
i did think otherwise
but my eyes of truth’s way of reconciling things
have yet to fail itself

and that is perhaps the greatest wealth
a Mother gives
the epitome
of why they live
to awaken
to that seemingly ethereal place
we have forsaken
to love
to nurture
until life is no more in this body

and somehow we embrace the lesson
and today, i am confessing
this revelation
this redundant epiphany
that with the absence of the sensation
of her physical presence
the present she imparted
was greater than my understandings
and demandings
i have cried about all my brief stay here

in the breast of her love for me
Mother has seeded my garden with
there are no fears
and through the tears
of my convoluted quest for peace within
again i must confess
that the best of who i am
is my Mother

and today this is what i celebrate
in my evocations
of how i walk through this life
in the rife of this inner peace
she has activated in me
which without cease
that calls forth
beckons my greater self
in every waking moment
every heart beat
every breath

yes, i live in this realm of love
i indwell
in this realm of joy
when i remember
the day my Mother died
that she may live in me

Happy Mother’s Day Mom

©  8 May : 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

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