Ther Vine Keeper

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Friday, April 27, 2012

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.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

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.

Saturday, April 21, 2012


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.





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.




Wednesday, April 18, 2012

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.










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.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

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.