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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Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark


Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

I stand in the not so silent night
Contemplating the resonating of life about me
And me is semi absent form this consciousness
What a mess
The test to find ones way
Out of their own convolutions created
Never to be abated perhaps

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

But we must believe
So they tell us
Or we will never achieve
What I may ask

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

The task at hand always
In all ways
In all the days
Is to find our way
Through our own wilderness

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

My mind stirs and picks at things
Singing song I have forgotten
To annoy me
Or incite me
To further the quest of being free

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

The body has need of things
But there is this thing inside of me
That cares not about such things
For I am enjoying just the “being”-ness of things

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

I cling to the nothingness
In my feeble attempts to make it something-ness
Another fine mess William
For thy inquisitiveness
Comes with a payload of reservations
Doubts and Fears abound
And they never flee
At the sound of my feeble
Soul Blowing of what I claim certain
And certainly I will never overcome
That which is the ultimate validity

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

The moon peaks through the clouded heavens
Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark
There is a distant train whose whistle is blowing
For those who seek the knowing
To awaken
From their soon to be forsaken journey
And still the resonant “I” in me
Wants of things

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

And the equation that fulfills it’s self
Has cosigned to imbalance
So it seems
Yet in the dreams
I am whole, wholly
Even in my folly

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

Am I the light
Or the dark
Or a contextual representation of the complete

Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark

I must ask again
Am I ?
Half Moon Light, Half Moon Dark


© 31 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Friday, January 27, 2012

Rain


Rain

i love the sound of Rain
every single uncountable drop is unique
they each bring their own color
and give it freely to life . . .

i listen to . . .
the places they fall upon
the things they have come to meet
and the sound they co-make
yet in spite of their differences
it is One Rain


(c) 27 January 2012 William S. Peters, Sr.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

losing the battle . . .


losing the battle . . .

he held his dreams closer than reason
to him the world as he knew it
was losing the battle of importance

cleverness was overrated
no one gets out alive
we were just moved to another cell
and then the rumors started

life is like that, isn’t it
you know . . .  what you believe

and we approach with reverence
laced with a fear
the edge of the abyss

the voices whisper from the void
“Jump”, but you aren’t are you ?
You will return to the village
with another adventure story
to tell the children.

They used to call them Fables,
i call them Lies
for within me belies
a certain desperation
only the cries of a desperate soul
can abate with it’s rationale
and tears and cheers and laughter and smiles

a spiritual cocktail is being concocted
by some would be Teacher somewhere,
at this very moment,

one who wishes to instruct me
how to walk my path
i say, write a Book
and maybe someday
when i have time away from my life
i will read your story
that is what you want me to do isn’t it
read yours and forget about my own ?

Another “Self Proclaimed Knower”
of things they have never seen
through the portal of any of their eyes.
Surprise, that is what “Id” does

when the “IS” ness of self fades
we envision.
Like Television we turn on
and what peace you had
is gone
faded
in the wisping ether
of the yesteryears of thought
no longer remembered
for the tethers of significance
are undone

we are filled with commercials
of
Prophets and Prophecies
and Legacies of times past
but what about NOW ?
i don’t want to dream no more
of what may be.
Dammit . . . i am a Beetle in the Bog
please . . .  “Let It Be, Let It Be”
Words of Wisdom . . .
only the “i” in Me can speak

and the irony of it all
the calling prevails
to hold on to the unseen
and he obeyed

he held his dreams closer than reason
for
to him the world as he knew it
was losing the battle of importance


(c) 19 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.




i serve the silence


i serve the silence

within the folds of silence
there is a noise
a voice
constantly beckoning
for my reckoning
and the awakening
of my greater self

all riddles have answers
i am told
all solutions
serve the equation
for that is their duty

i am listening
and i await the lighting
of the candle
that i may remove the bushel
that all in the room may see
and again the formulas fails

where, what is that cloak
that veils the essence
of this light within
casting dispersion upon self

to what end does that serve
does it validate sin’s presence
of that of the illusion

the age of confusion
is upon us
twirling and knitting
and gnarling and sitting
working convexments
around and through
the minds of men
that we may create our own delusions
by the dozens
wholesaling our souls
to the highest bidders

bloodied esteems
litter the landscapes
of the promises we dream of

for some, it is all we have left
dreams so we may think on it

so why not think on
about the uselessness
of aspiring thoughts
which are tethered
neither to deed not intent

the jackal captures the imaginings
in the throes of carnality
revealing the futility
of our mountains of civility
laced with the bitters
the poisonous flavors
of protocol
and the call
is unanswered

so this is why
i chose the silence
though it is but another tease
i yet still seek it
here upon my proverbial knees
listening for that voice i serve
for
i serve the silence


(c) 18 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.



Tuesday, January 24, 2012

losing the battle . . .


losing the battle . . .

he held his dreams closer than reason
to him the world as he knew it
was losing the battle of importance

cleverness was overrated
no one gets out alive
we were just moved to another cell
and then the rumors started

life is like that, isn’t it
you know . . .  what you believe

and we approach with reverence
laced with a fear
the edge of the abyss

the voices whisper from the void
“Jump”, but you aren’t are you ?
You will return to the village
with another adventure story
to tell the children.

They used to call them Fables,
i call them Lies
for within me belies
a certain desperation
only the cries of a desperate soul
can abate with it’s rationale
and tears and cheers and laughter and smiles

a spiritual cocktail is being concocted
by some would be Teacher somewhere,
at this very moment,

one who wishes to instruct me
how to walk my path
i say, write a Book
and maybe someday
when i have time away from my life
i will read your story
that is what you want me to do isn’t it
read yours and forget about my own ?

Another “Self Proclaimed Knower”
of things they have never seen
through the portal of any of their eyes.
Surprise, that is what “Id” does

when the “IS” ness of self fades
we envision.
Like Television we turn on
and what peace you had
is gone
faded
in the wisping ether
of the yesteryears of thought
no longer remembered
for the tethers of significance
are undone

we are filled with commercials
of
Prophets and Prophecies
and Legacies of times past
but what about NOW ?
i don’t want to dream no more
of what may be.
Dammit . . . i am a Beetle in the Bog
please . . .  “Let It Be, Let It Be”
Words of Wisdom . . .
only the “i” in Me can speak

and the irony of it all
the calling prevails
to hold on to the unseen
and he obeyed

he held his dreams closer than reason
for
to him the world as he knew it
was losing the battle of importance


(c) 19 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.




the Words . . .


the words

do you still remember the words
to the Declaration of Divinity
“I AM”
do they still resonate with you
in you
through you
will you be you
when you
speak them

tell me
do you remember
the words

New Haiku


New Haiku

lacking clarity
mud puddles stirred once again
unseen diamonds hide

1/23/2012


racism adrift
untethered consciousness speaks
streams engulf oceans

1/23/2012



war within the self
the hull lets loose the flower
smiles adorns faces

1/24/2012

anger awaiting
volcanic excuses here
peace visits again

1/24/2012



Damn Muses . . gotta love them


Damn Muses . .  gotta love them

i have taken a seat beside the waters
and i listen to the babble
of the babbling brook
while looking upon the reflective rivulets
as my life streams by

the superfluous needs are evident
for my tears are flowing to join the run
the journey
to the ocean
where perhaps meaning may be lacking
but the embrace is calming

the questions of life
i have let go
and my frustrative heart vacated as well

yes, tired is an understatement
life never did offer a full stomach
in my brief stay here
all the meals
were but a temporary cessation
to what angst ?
i can not tell
for all i know is the emptiness

oh sure, like most of us
i vied for happiness
cried as well
and as far as i can tell
it is but a state of mind
until you find something else to focus on
and then . . .
yes . . . and then it is gone
vanishes in the ether

and neither way
whether i am Yinging
or i am Yanging
can i in permanence
tether it’s attributes
to my nonplussed Soul

we speak such lies in word
like Namaste’
do you have a mirror
so that i can peer
through that looking glass
the one where you see God ?
not just feel Him
for feelings are but a tease

i wish to be blinded like Tommy
by the Light
and have Elton sing
my Wizard Song
and i will Hum along
while sitting by this babbling Brook
who took time
to dictate this Poem

Damn Muses . .  gotta love them

(c) 24 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.



Thursday, January 19, 2012

Faith . . .


Faith . . .

the Cock crew
the Crow caws
Soul falls
Man Calls
out

while housed in this vessel
we wrestle with self
grabbing for strings
to hold on to things
to secure bodies
but bodies does not
secure
that which has not
a home here

the Sun rises
we criticize
our eyes
still see that glint of wonder

light filters through
transmutes
what’s within you
and we pull the curtain shut
for we are not ready
are we ?

and the Cock still
does what he does
all through the night now
and the quandary still prevails

what ails man
that he can not find peace
will the search ever cease
for that which is everlasting

we fast
we pray
we give
we say
help me
in many languages
a mixture of joy
of hope
of anguish

souls being tried
vying
lying
crying
dying
where do they go ?

we sow seeds
perform good deeds
trying to balance a “Karma”
Ma never told me about that

the fruit of the spoils
of the sacrifice
escapes my reason
for its sweetness
is but a season
of finite pleasing
and the Gods are teasing us
yet they tell us to trust

all about me
is suffering
and you say
it is perspective.
and that soul in me
laughs
in a most sarcastic voice
and you speak to me
of the choice
of free will

the shrill and the jester
scream and dance
i hear the dichotomous symphony
of life revisited again
reminding me
of the perils of a man
who is filled with questions

self becomes the enemy
the friend
all housed in that vessel
where the eternal like wrestling match
has no time outs
except when i
deliberately delude myself
or seclude my self
in the darkness
which runs and hides from me
offering me not any lasting solace

and still those damn birds
i hear them every dawn
and all day long
reminding me
of what we mourn for
the answering of the prayer for
a better life
where there is a peace
without cease

and still yet
the Cock crew
the Crow caws
Soul falls
Man Calls
out

Faith . . .

(c) 19 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Heaven again


Heaven again

i took money
i took the toaster
i got laid

me, i took the trip
the all expense
never to be paid vacation
around the flag pole
and then they stuck
it up my azz
with the 24.99% APR

what did you take
in lieu of
your divinity
where peace of mind
and serenity
were once ours

guess i’ll buy a lottery ticket
and if i win
it’s on
Heaven again


(c) 10 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.


of things in a frame


of things in a frame

the picture frames hung upon the walls
of my house
in an ambient,
yet reverent silence
adorning my home
with a warmth of memories

and there were some
sitting on Coffee tables and such
some were ornate
others plain
but all placed where
there
as a reminder
of this path i have walked
at some time ago
into my “Now”

i sit and revisit
thoughts, smiles and tears
i had let ease into
a state of distant embrace
where these memories had been bedded
embedded into my character
shaping me
molding me
yet still holding me
in a weathered tethered web
that could not
would not
let go

there were pictures
of my children
friends, acquaintances
sisters and brothers
my Father and Mother
and grandchildren too
and many other souls
i at one time knew

and though i was somewhat cognizant
of the people
who adorned this steeple
where my life’s alter resided
which coincided in my now
there were the times
that somehow
escaped me
and left me
to become some sort of history
reminding me
of who i used to be

i look at the holders of these memories
and each perhaps had a meaning
some uplifting
some gleaning me
from my hull of self

i look at these frames
who embrace the names
of the times
in a land of rhymes
the ones i loved
and love still

yes, these frames
embrace that part of me
i no longer face
a part of me
i had long put away
just for this day
that i may reflect
while looking
on the meaning
of things in a frame

Frames
sometimes a thought
sometimes a word
sometimes a taste
sometimes a smell
sometime a touch
but always a feeling

(c) 12 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.



Chaos


Chaos

there is a presence
a chaotic noise
awaiting it’s turn to speak
lurking in the shadows
on the fringes of my peace
seeking naught but opportunity
to poison and infect my consciousness

yes, these voices
they offer reason
laced with a twisted logic
that we all can understand
and relate to
but you
can never get rid of them
once they move in

they look to sleep on your bed
lay their head
beside you
on your soft pillow
that they may whisper
in moving silent syllables
to you
in your ear
in lieu
of dreams of beauty
and other sweet ecstatic things
so we think

and we awaken
each morning
carrying forth
the darkness of doubt
into a world of sunshine
and rising suns
giving them to our Sons
and our Daughters
drawing no quarters
as we diligently attempt
to slay their futures
labeling life with such things
as respect
and obedience

i call it forced acquiescence

we make careful incisions
and infect their open wounds
that fester in their eternal souls
we pretend to suture
the holes
with the offerings
of empty
meaningless
and false compassions

but why do we have
such passions for darkness
and self inflicted pain
found under the rock of rote
and rite
and doctrine
and dogma
can you build a house upon it
shit
i think not

for it is a rock
that rocks
and sways
each day
with the winds of change
and challenges
for it is a house
that stands on its own
only in the enigmatic imaginings
of mad men
and women too
like me
like you

within each of us
there is chaos
to which we apply
such rationalizations
of actualizations
with validations
and falsely induced
affirmations

we feed this too our offspring
that they may grow to be like us
and we see that same bullshit
in the reflections
of their characters
looking just like us

i am not impressed

have we ever
truly addressed the truth
that we know Jack Shit
yeah he live next door
a doctrinal whore
who sells her soiled panties
to all who would listen
polished and glistening
the lies
to make them a bit more palatable

but a mistruth
fib
fable
deliberate misinformation
or whatever we wish to call it
is still a lie
so let us clear the table
and start all over again

clean the pots Ma
scrub them well
let us loose
all remnants of Hell
before we prepare the meal
we are all too willing to eat
and feed our children

let us not give this present
from the presence
to the world to come
by accepting the redundancy
of stupidity
and insensitivity
and indifference
with deference
and an alacrity
of our own numbness

let us sit in the silence
and take watch
and observe
the shadows dance for attention

move not
close you ears
to the incessant whispering
of their reason
and logic
for what comes thereafter
are the lost souls
who continue
the venue
and there
is but chaos


(c) 8 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Monday, January 9, 2012

she smiles . . . but not like Sarah


she smiles . . . but not like Sarah

she smiles at me
through the veil
of Pinks and Lavenders
pained
with hauntings of past lives

her heart still longs
for that embrace
that all Virgins
who came to this world
dream of
the face of our Joys

they bore an innocence
for they only knew
this simple Truth,
that Dreams do come true
only to learn . . .
but not always here
for this is a different place
with different tastes
of self effacing realities

and the shadows enticed us to play
as they tease our longings
for they too clearly understood
the Heaven we journeyed from

we come for this brief visit
seeking the exquisite promises
that show up as lies

and in our own stubbornness
and obstinate-ness
we refuse to succumb
to the dumbed-down-mess
and confess
our errancy of thoughts
and visions

yes we must manifest
and employ our will

is this but another test
we ask
as we quest
to break the self agreed upon tethers
and borders
and  boundaries

we must weather the pending storms
in this journey through
this wilderness
this fleeting mixture
of convolutions
until we find solutions
and become clear again
as we face our fear again
and the tears again
will help

so we smile
in spite of
in light of
like Sarah ? . . . perhaps not
but we smile
like we know that we can
as we peek through the Veil
of this loosely woven fabric
called yet again . . .  Reality

she smiles . . . but not like Sarah


(c) 9 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.


pets


pets

people collect pets
i suspect
that is to detect
a certain level of compassion
within themselves

we have pet Goldfish
pet Dogs
pet Cats
pet Snakes
and Rabbits
and Habits
and pet People too
why i can even be a Pet for You

the farther West you go
the bigger the Pet Test you know

in some lands
if they could get their hands
on your pet
it becomes a meal
but we don’t feel
their need do we ?

we would kill
at will
anyone who puts
their hands on our pet
that’s a bet
and yet
there is a possibility
it will come to this yet
if we let our “Compassion”
or lack there of
continue to rule
“The Days of our Lives”

there are lands
where Dogs are not safe
Cats either
and there are lands
where people eat People
don’t we

you see
it is a matter of perspective
the electives we employ
and how we deploy them

with a little Soy Sauce
and they will toss
that baby on the plate
why you ask ?
when was the last time you ate ?

Yeah, people are hungry
for something
like such things as Food
for the Body
the Spirit
the Mind
or some Hottie
who makes them salivate
to taste how it feels
for hunger
to be abated
once again

keep an eye on your Pets
and your compassion too
but first let our love
be between me and you
Feed the people


9 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.


outside the Rabbit Hole


outside the Rabbit Hole

any idea of how deep the Rabbit Hole is
well i’m the one that dug it
and i ain’t done yet
can you dig it
bet

are you having fun yet
in your illusory
collusory
delusory
world
as we herald in
what we want you to believe

dummies
diggin’ for mummies
with overstuffed tummies
and minds
what will you find
when that mirror
of self
has to be finally confronted
another blunt
or blunted
stunted
soul
in that hole
you call self
ha !

take your mind off the shelf
step out of inventory
and see the masturbatory
way
we have been livin’

outside the Rabbit Hole


(c) 7 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

again today


again today

oh where o where
o where is my mask
which one should i wear this day
my dear my dear
let me hide my face
before i go out to play

the tears i shed are hidden inside
i don my mask that i may hide
and perhaps i can fool my self as well
but i can’t, i can’t i tried

so when the play is over
our true faces must be uncovered

but just the same

oh where o where
o where is my mask
which one should i wear this day
my dear my dear
let me hide my face
before i go out to play

again today


(c) 9 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.


Glass Houses


Glass Houses

we often go shopping for windows
and Someone’s Glass House as well
“DO TELL
what the hell are
you going to do
with that Rock Son
seems like to me
you only need One

yep,
just throw it straight up in the air
and see if you can catch it
and if you are lucky
you won’t

and perhaps it will crash
and smash
that delusional reflection of self
you see
and the way you look at me
look at the world
through the windows
of your own Glass House


(c) 8 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.


Saturday, January 7, 2012

i am listening


i am listening

where i come from
where i been
only footprints
and memories can tell
and memories fail me
at times

where i am going
God only knows
at least that
is what they tell me

like a leaf in a Spring wind
i am disconnected from life
like a leaf in an Autumn breeze
the Trees that were once my solace
have let me go
to die
that i may serve

i look over my shoulder
at the plundered furrows
of the garden
that once bore luscious greens
and imaginations
and dreams
of past harvests
and fruits

yes, time
suits not the seeker
but it has served me well

i have gathered
collected
inspected
reflected
on more stories
that i can tell

and there are more
in that well
if not
me and my failing memory
will concoct a stew for you
to leave you wide-eyed
with awe
about all the things we saw
along the way
yesterday
and tomorrow too

how about you
do you have a story
about where you come from ?
please tell me . . .
i am listening


(c) 6 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.


smack me dammit till i wake up


smack me dammit till i wake up

i walked the street
in the neighborhood
i looked in the windows
and they were empty

sure, there were bodies
i called to them
and all i heard
was my own voice
reverberating
within the empty chambers
where souls once lived

there was furniture
with imprints in the seats
where spirits once sat
and laughed
together

the walls were that dirty old City grey
like the Bus Stations
polluted
colluded
by deluded reflections
for i saw myself

like the ghost town
our neighborhoods became
i too was cold
and quickly approaching
the gates where one could not pass
holding on too the ass of compassion
but i held on any way

the alleys
where we kids used to take shortcuts through
were empty
no place to hide
or surprise each other
for who wanted to play anymore
everything
i mean everything
was now too serious

and seriously
the ominous clouds of life
were becoming much too much
did i say that before ?
much too much
well that is what it is

people had let go
taking care of business
was the new flow
of the people you know
“SEE ME”
yeah right
i looked in
and i saw emptiness

i don’t know
what i was expecting
sunshine perhaps
finger snaps
hand claps
cause i was in town

something inside me laughs
at the self effacing metaphor life presents
or should i say forces upon us
with our blind consent ?

and i laugh again
for i am much too familiar
with my own sarcasm
which has now filled this void
this chasm
where i used to be warm

so in my disconnected purveyance
i took a chance
and hollered
i screamed
and there was silence
for no one
i mean no one
heard my voice
that of the lost
who walk our streets

smack me dammit till i wake up

(c) 7 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.


Friday, January 6, 2012

yes . . . i want






yes . . . i want

i want to whisper sweet things into your ear until they start to drip with honey and the sugar crystallizes so i can suck on your lobes forever . . . ya ready ? . . . do you hear me ?

i want to visit your Holy Garden and plant deep kisses in your furrow that i may restructure your mind and your vocabulary so that the only three words you will ever utter again in your life are “Oh Bill mmmmmmmmmmm”

i want to lick your Desires for Divine Ecstasy until you want no more, for that is what i come for, to make you my Vision, my Blissful Objective and i your Dream Master.

i want you to scream those three words i have taught you every time you blink your eyes for i am all you see . . . me, preparing you once again for that next step as you taste of this heaven where we become eternally connected in the Communion of a Love that makes the Angels blush and God smile.

i want to teach you the Acrobatics of Love beyond understandings of possibilities, those positions that make the Kama Sutra run away and hide like the Kids Play it is.

i want you to hold my Head Softly, Delicately, Lovingly upon your Breast, in between every Breath and every Heartbeat, for you complete me as i complete you, for i am your life essence as you are mine.

i want you to be thankful for every wrong turn you have made in life for it was those wrong turns that were the right turns, for they brought you to me, for i have been waiting for you a Lifetime  . . . and the song of your heart you now sing makes Flowers Dance and Butterflies Smile and God pats Himself on the back as He says to Himself “Well Done”

yes . . . i want


(c) 6 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

but a test you say


but a test you say

the uncertainty of the next footstep
though not prevailing
does have a permanent home
in the recesses of consciousness

with anguish and trepidation
it laces messages of woe unto all
who would listen

we call it wonder
a pretty little term
dressed in pinks and lilacs
to evade our fears

we have already prognosticated the tears
so that failure would not be so stinging
and we then can tell our selves
“I told you so”
you know what i mean

we have not yet seen
the wonder of our glorious beings
though we dream about it
speak about it
in attempt to conjure it forth
drawing it from the veiled dimensions
of our Supra Consciousness
but those whispering voices
steal our joy
before we can even deploy
something significant
in movement

so we pray
that the day will come
when we are blessed to hit the lottery
or manifest the imagery
of some other far fetched reality
that looms in the silt
buried diamonds
that need to be cleaned and polished
then sold

we sell our selves short every time
don’t we
and yet we beg
plead
to be free
from the Demons we create
that our “Fate”
is understood
and we tell ourselves
we deserve such things

over and over again
we walk this cycle
sometimes we run
that we may again
start all over

funny the pleasure we seek
know that a treasure of self is peeking
as we are seeking
to not discover
the cover of our fears
yet we dare not reveal them
so we seal them
in the seas of our convolutions
again praying for solutions
we already possess

but a test you say
well . . .


5 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

well . . .


well . . .

i was in my Sock Drawer digging
looking through my underwear drawer as well
in the closet
under the bed
i bumped my head
for . . .
i was looking for a delusion
that would fit this day
i needed one badly

the way was dark
and i needed some light
even if it was but and illusion
created for my sedated self

i woke up this morning tired
grateful yes, for i did awake
to what is the issue

the same old perspectives greeted me
in the form of Emails
and messages
and posts
and i knew right then
that the first 3 hours of my day
was toasted
a waste ?

yes i needed a delusion
that would fit this contusion
where my heart was bruised yesterday
and the day before
as it is every day

the score is
Home ~0~
Visitors ~0~
and my Hero is still
the Silver Surfer
what for you ask
‘cause he can escape
with no need of a cape
like Superman
or Batman
or that man
who feeds me lies
every day
that he knows the way
is the Truth and the Light

where is it i ask
what is the task
of obeisance i must perform
is it prayer
the loosing of my fear
or is more tears raining down on my Soul
that is required ?

the Fire is not out
but i am pissed
to be constantly dismissed
to gather more damn wood
shit i have clear cut the forest already
and Betty and Boo
still give me the finger
and in other words or gesture
they say “F” you too
what are we to do . . .  now

some how i must find that perfectly fitted delusion
that fits like a glove
they keep telling me
it is love
well . . .


(c) 5 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

the House with no Heat


the House with no Heat

i went outside this morning
and it was COLD
i said “DAMN”
it’s “Cold as a Witches Tit”
a saying i often heard
and repeated

i finished smoking my Cigarette
and went back in
and immediately huddled
next to the Fins
of my “Rolling Plug In Radiator”
and then . . .
i thought about
the House with no Heat
as i sat on this seat
constructing this ? Poem

my mind became adrift
and again i thought
quite a challenge now
because i was cold
caught in my own drama
but think i did just the same

i thought about those who may be living
in a House with no Heat
that’s “F’ed” up
imagine that
and i did
and i went to visit it
in my mind
that we, the inhabitants
may converse in kind
about that House with no Heat”
and i could complete
this ? poem ?

in spite of the dire-ness
of the situation
what i saw was
a sort of elation
for the children were bundled
and playing games
entertaining themselves
Momma was cooking
and Daddy was looking
at the newspaper. . .
last weeks i think

so i struck up a conversation
created some dialogue
about how Cold it was
in this House with no Heat
for i forgot to bundle up
my imagination
and i was shivering
quivering
as my imagination was slithering
back to a warm fireplace
burning brightly . . . hotly

so i asked them
how do you do it
and the all stopped
and looked at me
smiled at me
and said to me
that can’t you see
we are grateful
because last year this time
we were living in the street
with nothing to eat
so here we are
we have come so far
though we now live
in a
House with no Heat


(c) 4 January 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Inner Child Services Announcement

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Martina Reisz Newberry


and Her New Book Snippet from . . .
100 Select Poems plus One


 

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for Publishing concerns or queries go to


Thank You
Inner Child