on the “Fair Ways” of Life

on the “Fair Ways” of Life

i met you upon the fair ways of life

the day was bright and bonny

we made acquaintance

we share smiles

and “get to know you” conversation

we parted that day

but only for a while

for we made plans

to redress the address

of me knowing you

you knowing me

you see, it seemed

that love was perhaps getting a chance

to be redeemed

in our encounter

we spoke on the phone

and we shared our loneliness

as we decided

we no longer wished to hide

out from life

so we made a date

and God, just like you

i could not wait

so i invited you over

you came at 7

i was prepared

i was expecting heaven

and that is what i saw

when i opened

my door for you

damn you were beautiful

in all my blinded ways

but

little did i know

that the seed you had to sow

in my garden

was such a bitter fruit

you brought darkness

to my door

and you and your

convoluted disparaging angst

crossed my threshold

i felt it

yet still

i invited you in

cause i thought i needed you

we sat,

we talked,

we smiled the polite smiles . . .

we even laughed

and we . . .

and though the warning signs

were prevalent

i was lonely

and i needed someone

to touch

to hold

to share with

and hopefully

enfold

into my heart

so we pressed on

moved on

from 7:00 that evening

to the new dawn

to breakfast

it was all happening

so wonderfully fast

time skipped forward

and i thought

we were going toward

accomplishing

the vision of lovers

you know

that happily ever after

filled with love

and laughter

that was all i could think of

being loved

the right way

day and night

you were my objective

my fixation

the elation

of my dream come true . .

or should i say

the “we” in you and i

was where i wanted to be

you see,

i have been waiting

praying

anticipating

that this day would come

to my life

you know what i’m saying

i ain’t playing

this shit was and is serious

and you came along

with your sweetness

your song

and i forgot who i am

i was

cause

i was seriously delirious

furiously curious

like a man on a desert

i had desires

fires inside

that needed attending

i was broken

and i needed mending

but like so many other times

i put my trust

in the wrong things

i put it in you

instead of me

had i knew

we would come to this

i wonder now

would i have

sought that first kiss

that lead us down this road

while hoping for bliss

to ever be

damn i miss

the possibilities

of what could have been

but for me

like so many more of us

like i said

we trust in the wrong things

we trust in our head

our thinking

while slowly sinking

only to hold in disdain

the thoughts

that led us astray

many times i was aware

and there was a certain fear

that embraced my clarity

and the doubt and disparity

that loomed as a possibility

i would not have it

so i denied it

defied it

and now . .

i cry over it

shit !

the temporal delusions

were a happy place

with a happy face

yet in the end

the taste of the fruit

i now eat

is not sweet

nor replete

save for the lessons delivered

and i remember

those seemingly right turns

that i now see as wrong turns

and the road burns

along the way

but i must confess this

that even though

the bliss was an illusion

as is this confusion

i now speak about

i have no doubt

that i am the better for the experience

and for that i thank you

for through you

i have found another

piece of me

and hopefully i can learn to see

more of me

and less of that

glitz shit

on the “Fair Ways” of Life

© 27 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

happily here after

happily here after

hypocrites in the woodshed

gathering chips and shit

trying to build Castles

with waste

just like their cousins

over yonder

who build mountains

out of mole hills

i wonder

where do such dreams

come from ?

were their parents

errant

in the assertions as well ?

always attempting to dispel

cast to hell

the pre-emptive

common sense

and decency

while conjuring

visceral fancies

i be dandy

in lieu

of honesty

honestly, will we endure

this coming shift

of Creation’s

relations

to our Consciousness

or will we just

go back to the woodshed

and practice building Castles

that can not stand

and perhaps live

happily here after

© 20 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

rest in peace

rest in  peace

slippery silk knots of indifference

have formed a noose

around the neck

of my reason

and they are cinched tightly

when my convictions

comes for a visit

to my monogrammed gallows

to bid adieu

to what i once held

as my sacred righteousness

no, i do not wish to die

this day

nor any other

though i realize

it is required of me

i will pretend to acquiesce

to your ways

that i not be persecuted

in the streets

that all may see

and jeer at me

false light

from man made lanterns

illumines the path . . .back

herding us swineful

woeful ones

to the meat packing houses

we are weighed

measured

and numbers are statistically crunched

that our collective worth

for the market

be quantified

there is strength in numbers

for those whose wishes

sets before us

the fixed

trickonometry

we imbibe

with sorrowful deliberation

we garner self effacing credos

feigning a determined conformity

that we not be found out

knowingly sacrificing possibilities

that our children

may one day escape

the asylum we have endured

and made impregnable

just for them

the madness . . .

we submit to conjured fervors

and allow malcontent spirits

to seduce us

with logics

of no basis

the foundations of reason

that of the homes

where our hearts once resided

have crumbled

into our selfish little pools

of etheric tears

tell me

can not we see ?

it was once told us

“if thy eye offend thee

then pluck it out”

and perhaps the time has come

to mount the steed

this type of courage rides

for i no longer can bear

my reflection

nor that of this self righteousness

which characterizes

these Earth Borne Gods

that have taken root

and flourishes

within me

within you

a madness, a sickness

for which i pray to for cures

speaks to me

and tells me

with a questionable reassurance

that a cure is on the way

i wonder . . .

did i have the right zip code

when i addressed

my letters of supplication . . .

when i redressed my faithful bequest ?

did He get it yet ?

Can He Read  .. .

my language of anguish

in the expressive writings

i regurgitate and ingest

time after time

it pains me to think

i have brothers

who suffer as i do,

for though Love is not dead

somewhere in my head

i too am calculating

to exacerbating conclusions

of my confusion

i see no light

at the end of your tunnel . . .

and mine . . .

it has collapsed

along with those doctrines of gall

you fed me

i hear the desperate whispers

from the dismal shadows

of hopelessness

but i shall not listen

the noose is tightened once again

and i gulp

i swallow

hoping to clear

a bit of space

a passageway

while fighting to give breath . . .

just one Holy Breath

to my reason

that it too may be resurrected

while we are yearning

for divine intervention

and praying again for an end

to our forsaken statures

they are in the lab

concocting

new board games

to maintain our occupation

with the ideologies

they tell us that

those “knee born” offerings

 and supplications

to some unseen force

without us

is what we should trust in

is that Sin .. .  hhhhmmmmmm

and like you i too

do pray

offering the miniscule seeds

of desirous intent

to deliver me

from this state of lament

where our latent memories

remind us of our eclectic

disconnectedness

and all the other mess

we enjoy wallowing in

as we lay to rest

with our indifference

without deference

i say . .

rest in peace

22 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Flowers in the Wind

like flowers in the wind

we stand upon the Mountainside

witnessing a grandeur replete

with such presence

can not we help

but lend our fragrance

unto life

let my petals be plucked

and cast to the world

that all may know

that i have been

but . . .

like a flower in the wind

© Now : William S. Peters, Sr.

metaphorically speaking

metaphorically speaking

metaphorically speaking

my felicific meanderings

and masturbatory philandering

is best done

with my own pandering

of self

i mean . . .

if i can’t get my self ON

and Off

then who can

i am ready

to pop my Betty

in Boo

and you too

you see

something within me

has been brewing

stewing

all my damn life

and i think

it is time to set the table

that we may dine

the fables of this day

we have been fed

are true

the handwriting on the walls

in those holy halls

we call scripture

verse

that was dispersed

for man to ingest

was but a test

to see if we were listening

let he who has an ear hear

is what he said

yet we kept

regurgitating

the agitating doctrines

and teachings

for they disturbed

our sense of peace

but you knew

like i knew

that the day would come

when all this bullshit

had to cease

yes we knew

like Agnew knew

that’s what Gil Scott said

that song plays over and over

in my head

sometimes

yes sometimes

we do have those epiphanies

disturbing our delusional symphonies

and we get on our knees to pray

pleading for our anguish to stop

pour some milk on it

as we listen to the

Snap, Crackle and Pop

and just like Rice Crispies

they ain’t crispy no more

like whores on the first of the month

we think we got it goin’ on

getting paid

to get laid

but again

like Gil spoke

“did you hear what they said”

choke on that shit

another song of reckoning

playing between my ears

skipping recordings

beckoning me

and you too dude

to stop feuding

and fighting

with our higher self

we have been looking for treasure

and misguided temporal pleasures

when the Gold of Soul

was always within

is that the original Sin ?

Lorde help us

and we are still raiding

that damn Tree

in the Garden

blaming it on Satan

that’s what Flip quipped . . .

“the Devil made me do it”

like the only Cock in the Chicken yard

we the Bards of expressions

are parading vibrantly

teasingly

as we mock God himself

with our terse verse

please, get a grip

or you will be back again

for the next trip

around this damn

merry go round

like clowns in a Carnival

we have learned

to paint our own faces

crazy ain’t it

makeup !

Are we the Gods

of this Breath we have

while we have it ?

is this the test

we have come to take

who will pass this “GO”

you can keep the damn $200.00

i just want out of the game

where my name is the Monopoly

of how i am identified

quantified

and thus

qualified

that guy born “me”

has died a long time ago you see

and i have been struggling fervently

to recapture that essence

the presence

of who “i” in my deepest recesses

know that i am

you see,

the “i” in me is my Cosmic Gem

and i have been mining for it

minding for it

looking for what i already have

and when i did open my eyes

i realized

that you had it too

we all have

that connection

without deflection

that escapes the obvious detection

that tells us of the direction

we should go

march on

and i know

you know

what i am speaking on

i think soon come the time

when rhyme will no longer suffice

better realize

before the time is gone

metaphorically speaking

© 21 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

http://www.iaminnerchild.com/

http://www.innerchildpress.com/

www.innerchildmagazine.com

all is one big Ocean

all is one big Ocean

no, she’s not dead

she just went ahead

and i shall meet her at the pass

when i surmise

the time we spent

it went by much too fast

but through it all

the joys we shared

left me with much to tell

and though you still

watch over me

know that i am doing well

see, the love we have

is my hearts salve

and gratitude is my way

and though the winds

of life do blow

in winds we all do sway

but the memories of

our joy filled love

are memories i shall hold

for in this space

i kiss your face

that smile of shining gold

so make a space

upon your bed

and rose wine i shall bring

as we reunite

man’s end insight

and all the souls shall sing

about the joys

here not deployed

which awaits our final presence

eternity’s embrace

all hearts shall taste

the holiest of our essence

the wells shall spring

upon Angels Wing

and all re-learn to fly

our chains unfettered

no longer tethered

open’d thy single eye

for all is one

under One Sun

the Flower, the Spirit and i

thy soul is cleansed

need not amend

for Soul can not die

so here i stand

need not a plan

for what shall be shall “BE”

and i come to know

as the River does flow

that Life is eternity

all is one big Ocean

© 21 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

http://www.iaminnerchild.com/

http://www.innerchildpress.com/

www.innerchildmagazine.com

Grey Days . . .

grey days

Grey days

we sort through clouds

seeking sunshine

employing our light within

seeking passage

to the heavens that we seek

the quest of all souls

i ponder

do we all have

that innate wonder

for things unseen

but remembered

within our divine life seed

the smiles of those

who may not be familiar

it seems as that

of my own

is this another evidence

of oneness

that universal language

we all speak

a slight snicker escapes

my constraints

as i think in lyrics

while humming to some song

i know not

perhaps we can manifest

that light we desire

for it is said

we are Gods

somewhere within

a distant whispering psyche

speaks of such grandeur

i long to embrace

like a brother i know

but can not remember

but still he is mine

my inner ear twinges

with an expectation

of his voice

of familiarity

that will stir my joy

and infect my expressions

with joy

‘til then

i sit in this packaged solace

a construct of necessity

and i have weaved this quilt

tightly

and well

for it’s warmth

though

visceral

is as real as it gets

right now

though i am surrounded

by the embrace

of

grey days

© 18 April 2012 : William S. peters, Sr.

damaged goods

damaged goods

i am jaded and scarred

but i pray not that i remain calloused

for i have known love before

she visited upon me

one fair day

and my heart embraced her

i have looked upon the world

with a jaundiced eye

for the movement about me

expressed it’s self

with undue

perhaps due

pains

woes

anger

discordance

and i saw

nor felt

no reason

to dance

how my soul longs

for the faint memories

of times

that must have been

for i ache

for goodness

for love

i at times dwell betwixt

dimensions

with a dissension

from what is sold to me

as reality

and my angst grows

as my temperance wanes

for the inane claim

that this is all there is

what is my business here

this journey

where fear promulgates

upon the souls and psyches

of our brethren

the doubt we embody

that speaks lies

defying Eden

while we offer hope

and pleading

to Source

within

and without

my sarcasm

is ever vigilant

seeking to cast dispersion

upon that we see as but

experiential

never quite grasping

the Now

and the potential we possess

to alter how we address

life

we see too many lines

and not the blending

take notice to our differences

the Criers cry

oh my

who trained these vagrant souls

the Dogs

to the Water Hydrants of Life

piss on me

leave and indelible stain

and scent

of waste

and we shall build upon it

i seek the Flowers and Butterflies

Pain knows me well

but who shall it be left

to tell the Children

will we leave a legacy

written in books

that the illiterate ones

may look at the pictures

smiling faces

with desolate backgrounds

and colors of light

laced through

the darkness

i write letters, words

upon soiled sheets of paper

hoping the new messages are seen

some may ingest them

who amongst us quest for this as well

please tell me

new spirits maybe

are we just re-cloaking the lies

that we may get along

through another errant millennium

from drugs of Doctrine

to drugs of Delusion

to Zanex

and broken dreams

that were never tethered

nor anchored

nor rooted

in the soils of “Is”-ness

what business is it of ours

of yours

page #’s flying by

emoting words and thoughts

catalogued for future use

but are we truly blinded

or just faking it

who will filter what

the higher mind of us

should ingest ?

before the letting

of the final drop of blood

that we may be saved

from ourselves

with all these questions abound

i ask around town

and in the Village

there are Vendors

who lay claim

that they have the map

have you visited ?

No is the reply

but i have it on good authority

that this is the true way

so i have been told

let us build another steeple

in the quicksands of time

and sacrifice our convictions

upon the fair grasses

that the sheeple may eat

we will cast from us

the ones we label derilictionous

for they may divert

our own purpose

of control

of the masses of souls

and people will look

seek

and peek

under the skirts

of our pretty dresses of program

we most certainly

do not wish them to see their reflections

do we

for then they would see

a greater truth

that they are powerful

and divine

and truly not

the damaged goods

we have preached

all these years

and should they cry again

they will vie again

as their Soul matter is rinsed

cleansed again

and we all will see

the “I” in me

is that of a truth

of certainty

when we lay down our lives

and die again

forsaking

these man made crosses

we bear

with a tear and a smile

rejecting the illusions

home made delusions

that we are vile

representations of that

which is perfect

the prefect

of the goodness

and the damaged goods

© 18 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

http://www.iaminnerchild.com/

http://www.innerchildpress.com/

damaged goods

i am jaded and scarred

but i pray not that i remain calloused

for i have known love before

she visited upon me

one fair day

and my heart embraced her

i have looked upon the world

with a jaundiced eye

for the movement about me

expressed it’s self

with undue

perhaps due

pains

woes

anger

discordance

and i saw

nor felt

no reason

to dance

how my soul longs

for the faint memories

of times

that must have been

for i ache

for goodness

for love

i at times dwell betwixt

dimensions

with a dissension

from what is sold to me

as reality

and my angst grows

as my temperance wanes

for the inane claim

that this is all there is

what is my business here

this journey

where fear promulgates

upon the souls and psyches

of our brethren

the doubt we embody

that speaks lies

defying Eden

while we offer hope

and pleading

to Source

within

and without

my sarcasm

is ever vigilant

seeking to cast dispersion

upon that we see as but

experiential

never quite grasping

the Now

and the potential we possess

to alter how we address

life

we see too many lines

and not the blending

take notice to our differences

the Criers cry

oh my

who trained these vagrant souls

the Dogs

to the Water Hydrants of Life

piss on me

leave and indelible stain

and scent

of waste

and we shall build upon it

i seek the Flowers and Butterflies

Pain knows me well

but who shall it be left

to tell the Children

will we leave a legacy

written in books

that the illiterate ones

may look at the pictures

smiling faces

with desolate backgrounds

and colors of light

laced through

the darkness

i write letters, words

upon soiled sheets of paper

hoping the new messages are seen

some may ingest them

who amongst us quest for this as well

please tell me

new spirits maybe

are we just re-cloaking the lies

that we may get along

through another errant millennium

from drugs of Doctrine

to drugs of Delusion

to Zanex

and broken dreams

that were never tethered

nor anchored

nor rooted

in the soils of “Is”-ness

what business is it of ours

of yours

page #’s flying by

emoting words and thoughts

catalogued for future use

but are we truly blinded

or just faking it

who will filter what

the higher mind of us

should ingest ?

before the letting

of the final drop of blood

that we may be saved

from ourselves

with all these questions abound

i ask around town

and in the Village

there are Vendors

who lay claim

that they have the map

have you visited ?

No is the reply

but i have it on good authority

that this is the true way

so i have been told

let us build another steeple

in the quicksands of time

and sacrifice our convictions

upon the fair grasses

that the sheeple may eat

we will cast from us

the ones we label derilictionous

for they may divert

our own purpose

of control

of the masses of souls

and people will look

seek

and peek

under the skirts

of our pretty dresses of program

we most certainly

do not wish them to see their reflections

do we

for then they would see

a greater truth

that they are powerful

and divine

and truly not

the damaged goods

we have preached

all these years

and should they cry again

they will vie again

as their Soul matter is rinsed

cleansed again

and we all will see

the “I” in me

is that of a truth

of certainty

when we lay down our lives

and die again

forsaking

these man made crosses

we bear

with a tear and a smile

rejecting the illusions

home made delusions

that we are vile

representations of that

which is perfect

the prefect

of the goodness

and the damaged goods

© 18 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

too much blood . . . will you bleed for me Poet ?

too much blood . . . will you bleed for me Poet ?

too much blood has been spilled

by our ancestors

for us to adorn the cloak

of indifference

too many tears

have watered the garden

of our tomorrows

for us to cast the fruit

of our forefathers sacrifices

back to the ground

to rot

as if it had no meaning

too many of our siblings

were strung up in trees

to set an example

for our stupidity

of this day

have we no shame ?

too many Mothers

have gone hungry

that their children may eat

too many Fathers

have humbled themselves

below that of the shadows

that they may provide shelter

and substance

that we may come

arrive

alive

without this damn

meaningless

shuck and jive

of an unempowered life

and this day

offers no obesience

or reverence

or thankfulness

though pussy

and copulation

is important

that procreative process,

are we even aware of the test

we now are indulged in

i wonder

the children of the Creator

our Creator

are still being laid

upon the soils of bias

to bleed their retributive anguish

upon the consciousness

of their Brothers and Sisters

woe be me

woe be you

too much blood

has stained the Garden

stained the planks

of the Cargo Ships

Cargo ?

our forefathers

were naught but that

a commodity

that somebody

saw fit

to shackle and chain

upon the refrain

of civility

and here we are

the indentured servants

who willingly labor

for naught

but a few prime morsels

from the tables

from that Big House

we still vie for

die for

while denying

our greater destiny

to become the Kings

the Queens

we once were

hear me

feel me

that sovereignty

within me

within you

too much blood

continues this venue

of the Sleeping Beauties

we are

wake up

wake up

for too much blood

is still being let

upon our Streets

Humanity

our Families

and within us

as we bleed this ink

beckoning

a reckoning

that can only be

when i see

that too much blood

is

too much blood

will you bleed for me Poet ?

© 15 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

i consider . . .

i consider . . .

flicking ashes from my cigarette

a spring day

gentle breeze

the short lived butterflies

of inanimatcy

dancing

creating

smiling moments

in the surreal imaginings

of a mad man

funny how long a simple ash

can stay aloft

when there is an energy

to sustain it’s flight

sort of like the dead spirited ones

who travel the night

of men

preaching again

and again

doctrines

which have no power

to sustain

falling to the ground

and soon to camouflage themselves

in a background

of sand, leaves, grass

and such

not much left of their characters

as they pass on by

not even leaving an entry noticeable

save by the wind

and me

the mad man

i consider . . .

what is the metaphor

or analogy

for be that all things

are but reflections

a Fibonacci Code perhaps

binary experiences

touching down on the ground

before me

after it has captured

my own consciousness

as that of it’s own

Leonardo of Pisa

i consider . . .

ashes and butterflies

© 13 April 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.