Peace be still

Peace be still

there is a longing

in my soul

for a certain Peace,

one that i can not remember

but one that i intimately know

i once knew

where has she fled

why does she hide from me

where does her

and her family

of the Holies of me

reside

we the people

of creation

do dream of thee,

each of us

in our own way,

thus adding to the myriad

of your complexity

your regality of expression

and our collective hearts

we have been searching for you

since that “fabled” 8^th Day

which even the Prophets and Story Tellers

allude not to

nor dare not speak of

we have yearned for you

burned villages for you

as well as our brethren

at the stake

the sacrifice for your presence

is high

we attempted to negotiate

for your grace

with our deceits

our decorum

and our misgivings

found in our diplomacy

and politics . . .

to no avail

we have sat an listened

to the “Anointed” ones amongst us

as they preached

about you

and our hearts ached

for but a touch of you

please . . .

touch the hem of “my” garment

that i may know

of your

Remembrance of me

we held still with our faith

and we were resolute

in holding you

in the vestiges

of our replete mind

we created convictions

for you

and even persecuted

our reflective selves

in honor of a variable truth

we were persuaded was the embodiment

of your persona

in our lives

we and i write and speak

many words

in our Poetry,

our Prose

our Prayers

and our Letters

and our soft whisperings

in your obeisant honor

yet you show not your face

save in our own

“Self Convincing” “Self”

that you are real

embrace me

Peace where art thou

do you only visit upon

our restless nights

with dreams of fleeting grandeur

we too soon forget

how many times how many

must die

that your etheric effigy

may actualize

into some verifiable lasting reality

where all who hunger

and thirst for you

may be satisfied

i have come before the altar

of men i did not know

i have erected a few of mine own

to pay an homage and obeisance

i trusted you were worthy of . .

to Love

Peace, our hearts are needy

our minds are supple

and ready to be cultivated

Oh Peace, mold my aspirations

and my vision

cast me in the Ovens

and fire me until i become hardened

in your divine image

let thy hand caress my consciousness

and cajole me to walk the path of resolve

that we may come to understand

we all live by One collective Breath

Peace, come unto us

and Peace be unto You

Peace Be Still

© 29 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Playing the off key notes

Playing the off key notes

there was the gnashing of teeth

playing in a concordant symphony

i knocked on the door

because i had questions

i fell to my knees

no big thing i thought

if that is what is required of me

i have been to many an altar

not quite knowing how to speak

that which was troubling me

so i let my heart dwell

in its own meditative silence

i have eaten those bland tasting wafers

and drank your off brand grape juice

nothing felt quite authentic

i did not feel in touch

unless i really, really concentrated

and conjured forth another delusion

the old folks would say

“your hearts not in the right place”

maybe that’s why i hurt so much

for you

for me

for us all

and the loss of our civility

you see

this is not a new pain

and i have always

knew pain

for this insane

inane expression

on this plane

does not explain

why this rain

is flooding my soul

with salty tears

they say we should not fear

but i ask

what else is there to do

when you look about

and see so much suffering

some silently whispering to us

some shouting out loud

the holy shroud

when will it be lifted

or is that another piece of lore

a myth

that we must sift through

to find a truth

we may not recognize

with our empirically mutated eyes

even in the silence

i can hear the babies crying

they are just hungry

won’t someone feed them

the peace they seek

we speak in terms of budgets

and we have not budged yet

not nudged yet

our selves nor our fellow man

to that circle of unity

we so often elucidate

in our sermons

amongst friend and strangers

and anyone else who would listen

we do estrange our brethren don’t we

especially if there are significant choices

to be made

you know

like “Me” or “You”

and the voices of the muted souls

has resigned their self

to singing in empty choir lofts

for no one wishes to hear their misery

yet we practice a commiserable posture

with closed hands tightly clenched

around the potentials

of what we may become

and we grasp for breaths of reasonableness

that must be propped up

by our mastery

of words and charms

something we learned in school

how does one reconcile a day

in review sleep i must

that i may forget my lack

and God willing

i will dream of cartoons

sheep or dying . . .

or maybe i will just fall off that cliff

as i have done so many times before

you know

that edifice of accomplished wantings

that precipice

that has been looming

in my psyche

pretty much all my life

i never was quite grounded in those dreams

so i surmise

i will never be able to walk away

with any querulous perspective

of victory

quite a juxtaposition here

caught up between a wall

and another brick

being hurled at my fragility

senility

at times it does rhyme

and is in sync

with wisdom

is that because it is indigenous

to old folk ?

i listened

they smiled

then fell asleep

reminding me that

there was a disparaging difference

in my perceptions

as time moved in fast forwarded frames

was it an 8mm

or a Glock

that shocked me back

to a semi verifiable consciousness

and if so

where are the wheels

to this wagon

and why is it not red ?

and why is everyone gnashing their teeth

attempting to understand

what is being said here

in my discordant symphonious playing

of the off key notes

of my life

27 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

www.iaminnerchild.com

www.innerchildpress.com

i still dream

i still dream

my days of living

are not over

i still dream

yes, i want that 4 leaf clover

no splitting of the 3^rd

anymore

for

who did i fool

not even my self

but i can laugh

at my folly

all of it

and let loose any collected disdain

i will not feign

my joy

i will feel it

as i let go

and come to know

that i am lucky

to have seen

a 3 leaf clover

and i am not blinded

by my own adopted

unreasonableness

my days of living

are not over

for today

i still dream

© 26 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

http://www.iaminnerchild.com/

http://www.innerchildpress.com/

i still dream

i yield

 

i yield

 

there is a multitude of movement

about me

within me

life is in a constant flux

 

they say that all things have meaning

am i to spend countless aeons

deciphering

to what end

or should i but become

the observant

of life manifest

 

am i the confluent point

where silence meets noise

where stillness meets life

where light meets dark

where dreams meet reality

am i that cross,

that fulcrum

that balances the polarities

held betwixt nothingness

and the absolute ?

 

in my midst

there is chaos ever prevalent

that which i can conjure

or quell

 

is it i that speaks into the void

that stirs these waters

with my spirit

where my abysmal self

is yet being defined

 

can words alone contain

our exponential-ness ?

to what descriptive analogy

do we cosign ?

 

is this but evidence

of the cyclic characteristics

of death yielding unto life ?

 

and the wheel spins

weaving gold from straw

 

the karmic command

is spoken in whispers

and soul takes heed

reflecting in microcosmic ways

the whole of our potential

that can never be grasped

but let

 

yes let it be

and our eyes shall be opened

and the light from within

shall pour upon the dark firmament

awaiting our touch

of consciousness

 

i yield

in reverence

 

 

© 25 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

of that well of reason

of that well of reason

in the well of my reason

that vast multidimensional expression of self

there are possibilities

without end

to assist me

that i may defend

the ground i claim

my own

within the realm

of the unknown

we play games

of “Convince and Deny”

as we vie

to not face the retributions

that comes with

our executions

in life

or the lack thereof

there is that

never aging child within

sin free

on a spree

who simply confronts

life’s stern dictates

with a seemingly

innocent and unattached

“why?”

and then there is

the “woe is me” Me

who refuses to see

that it was he

who made that bed

he now

has to lie his head in . . .

and lyin’

is one of his many talents

he employs with a certain valiance

for he uses this gift

speaking fable

and folklore

to himself

often

and then

there is the “Word Wizard”

who can enact an acumen

with a zeal and a Zen

that can charm a snake

right out of his skin

and maketh him

feel guilty for being naked

and let us not forget

the “Cryer”

whose tears

keeps that well of reason

in supply

should the heat of the day

get too high

and that guy over there

he carries the world

on his shoulders

acting so much

bolder

telling himself

he is strong

while secretly he longs

to find a way out

where is the song ?

but my favorite one

with whom i have much fun

is the magician

who makes things disappear

yes he’s the one

with the queer

little idiosyncratic fears

he holds dear

just so he can smile at them

and all the vile gems

he has discovered

about self

through his digging

examining

with a keen gleaned eye

he laughs at them

and him self

without reason

but because he can

and again

he realizes

the insignificance

of the significance

of that well of reason

© 25 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Damn the honey

Damn the honey

I never really contemplated

being friends

nor at this juncture

is it a viable consideration

of mine

over the years i imagine

i was conscious of you,

and that alone

is the establishment

of relationship

you stay in your space

and i stay in mine

i would prefer to maintain that status

if i could

you see,

whenever you came around

you visited upon me

an indelible fear

something about your winged fancies

and your ability

to dodge my concerns

intimidated me

invariably

whenever we had an encounter

i was stung

let with a remembrance

of the pain you have given me

and the possibilities of such a thing

whenever we meet

yes, in examination

i would love for us to develop

a mutual respect

and keen awareness

of each other

because the next time

you attack me

as you have done

so many times in the past

I will vie to kill

you and every one of your kind

should i have the opportunity

Damn the honey

this was written for all the Bee Stings i have endured over my life time.

To include Bees, Wasps, Hornets and all.

© 23 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

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.

so they say

so they say

he had no true and devoted friends

just acquaintances

who painted faces

upon themselves

that they may pass by

unnoticed

no one wanted people to see them

as they truly are

so they hid

in shadowed corners

and behind pretty masks

fearing to be asked

to come to the real party

life

we all have endured

that is for sure

so much we did not agree with

haven’t we

we all have cursed ourselves

at one time or another

for going along

with the plan

the song

as interpreted

by others

smothering our own

creative intuitions

gathering names

to complete the picture

create the vision

that says we belong

to something

i’ll be your friend

what does that mean ?

i query myself  far too much

i thought

but . . .

better me than them

i reasoned

with the devil

and he smiled

and complimented me

he said i reminded me of his son

no one never told us

that the devil had children

but now that i think about it

hhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmm

i know of plenty of folks

who have given me

hell in my life

perhaps it was all in innocence

and they were just inviting me

to their home

for a visit

or sleep over

something about eternity

moves me

and another plateau

of deductive logics

invade my considerations

and all i can do is smile

in lieu of another

empty prayer

that i hear

but do not believe in

my self

do you believe in your self ?

which one may i ask

the one behind the mask

or . . .  .

well any way

as we meandered down

the multi colored brick road

we surmised it must have been

the remnants of that Lysergic Acid

that tainted our Chromosomes

cause this . . . life

is one “Hell” of a trip

oooopppppss

i meant it is “Heavenly”

forgive me Lorde

and thank you for the blessings

and the bile that goes along with it

i know you have a purpose

“for the Bible told me so”

or was it that guy with the choking white collar

who hollers at us

every Sunday or so

until he is red in the face

i do like the way the veins

pop out his head

do you think God will prevent him

from exploding

just a thought

so this soul based banter i am having

anything viable ?

i do this for me

my best friend

who hides behind the mask

and hides in shadows

for that damn light

is scary

how can it be so special

when so many people have one

so they say

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

to discover

to discover

i stood at the gate

and before me

was an ethereal garden

where the expectations

that speaks to the light

of my journey awaits

my exploration

i could hear a whisper

being spoken from the soils

begging me

to grace it’s damp earthy essence

with that of my bared Soles

of my feet

my bared Soul

footprints were awaiting

my impressions

that i may simply say

i have been this way before

and i and the garden

became one expression

of a beauty

still awaiting me

to discover

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

so much for the Putrid Stench . . . it was me !

so much for the Putrid Stench . . .  it was me !

The putrid stench of rotting dreams filled the air.
i was desperately not seeking Susan . . .
unless her Breast were full of sunshine and hope

i gingerly tiptoed through the multicultural waste
there lying in the gutter
diseased, undernourished, starved, abandoned and unloved . .

i saw the faces of the generations that would never come
yet  . . .
there they lie

there were no street cleaners or maintenance persons or the such

All, just as i, aimlessly mitigated life the best they could . . .
trying in desperation
not to touch accidentally another’s failure,
yet cheering them on.

No one had a hand full of magic . . .
there were no breaths of clean unspoiled fresh air to help
nor fuel dreams for our tomorrows

we could not ventilate the endless scene of debauchery
from our abysmal memories of failures and let downs.

I still shudder at the thought of that dark place
which i embrace so sacredly in my mind.

But . . . i have some advice . . .
as do we all ! . . . ha ha ha . . .
but who wishes to hear what has been heard ?
over and over again

It is just another collection of syllables and intent mixed together in a soup . . .
that none can digest .  . it must be Vegetable.

As i ambled down the rocky Cobblestone path of my past failed exploited dreams, i glimpsed a reflection . . . of someone who looked like me . .. was it a mirror of me, a picture . . . was this me past, present or future . . . no it was a collection of all the “Me”s.

I saw and had to face my forgotten enigmatic dreams i had put aside . . . how did i file them ? . . . impractical ? . .  or was it unreasonable ? . . .

Well, is not that what dreams are ? I saw my fear of today . . . right here at my side keeping me company, making sure i did not discover any unnecessary courage to reach out and try something i might succeed at. I mean, after all, are i not comfortable here complaining and full of this despair i choose to hold on to ? Should i reach out and try something untried? i might fail . . . or fall . . . then i would have to get my Ego and Pride cleaned once again, not to mention all that explaining i would have to do to others.

Growing weary i searched for a place of rest,
there are none  . . . so i clung to my delusions . . .
“I am not Tired” . . . “I need no rest” . . . “I understand what is happening”
yeah . . . you too ?

Just the same here we are . . . and somehow, they painted this picture . .
and named it what ? . . .Life ? . . .Hope ?
Bullshit . . . more like it . . .

Let’s all drop some Acid and take and extended Trip in to la la land . . .
or we could just fulfill the Prophesy of the “Right” . . .
and just kill all the Mockingbirds . . . cause they don’t sing no more !

so much for the Putrid Stench . . .  it was me !


© 26 July 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

the encounter

the encounter

i can’t really say that i met her

though we did notice each other

the courtesy of introduction

was amiss

so i will just say

i saw her

walking down that dimly lit street

in the twilight

ambling

meandering

with a solemn silence

her life

she was wearing a dress

that had no expectations

for her smiles

had been molested

tested

ravaged and raped

by her life experience

she was not lucky in love

ever

always abused

used

minimized

marginalized

homogenized

with her tear laden eyes

that no longer cries

yes

she was victimized

by chance

and all of his willing

insensitive friends

who only sought

her booty-full bounty

ultimately

she had resigned herself

to just co-exist

with fate

and the redundant pains

put upon her table

for her to consider

ingest

digest

she had long since forgotten

the Cow like science

of regurgitation

for she did not wish

to taste any of those meals

again

once was enough

the encounter

© 7 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

the encounter

I Love you my Child . . . Poetry

I Love you my Child . . . Poetry

I woke up this morning with a thought. I saw each of my Poems as my children. I realized at that moment and through further examination and discussion that i have not always . . . all ways been the diligent parent. Sometimes i have sent my children out to face a world completely disheveled with unbrushed teeth, not fed nor nourished. Some times i just put them out of the house for no reason at all, save to get them out of the house. Why did i not at least make them wash their faces or change their underwear, perhaps it was my own lethargy . . .my laziness.

Poetry has been good to me. She has been an integral part of my life for many years. She has seen me through my joys, my exhilaration, my disdain, my pain, the birth of my other Children and so much, much more. She took the time to help me understand and examine the things in my life that were amiss and not too apparent. When i was down, She lifted my spirits and it was her verse that assisted me in finding reason to move forward with purpose. When i was hungry, She fed me. When i did thirst, She gave me drink and replenished my soul.

When i look back upon the path we shared it is clear and evident how much i have grown over the years with her by my side as an integral part of my journey. I am not saying that life would not have happened if she were not my constant companion, for it would and did. Many times over the years i have abandoned her to only find her waiting under the lamppost at the Three pronged corners of my Consciousness, my Heart  and my Need. She has always been loving to my soul even in her bitterness and angst as well as those soft and sweet loving times we tenderly expressed to and through each other. At the end of the day, i must say i am so honored to have been given the charge of being chosen to be a steward of one of her voices. I am humbled in a certain reverence as well.

My conscious choice at this time is that i promise to be more studious to Her message and Her craft, for Poetry you are my Child. As Parents, we are not always perfect. We must continue to strive to do the best we can. Sometimes little thongs do get by us. I just pray that i am ever diligent to not put you, Poetry out in the street unkempt, that your life aura is lost in the darkness. I shall dress you prettily in becoming clothing that the world may appreciate you as much as i do. Poetry, i just love you, and i thank you for sharing your life with me.

I Love you my Child . . . Poetry



© 19 August 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.

all because of Fresh Cut Grass

all because of Fresh Cut Grass

FRESH CUT GRASS
THE SMELL OF FRESH DIRT
LOOKS LIKE RAIN...

and the pain of the "sane" people still taps lightly at their inane consciousness to remind them they are still stuck here, in this "fuck you" here vibration of the expressions of life . . . . smdh . . .again

It was Saturday again. Time for folks to get about the chores. Doors opening and closing, “SLAMMING”, people hosing down their cars and flower gardens. Children have not started making noise quite yet, but you can bet your seditious ass they will very soon . . . some time before noon. But i could hear those damn lawnmowers . . . my God, it is not even 8 o’clock yet. Don’t those people have any decency. Where is my clemency from this purgatorious awakening to another Saturday Hell . . .do tell.

In the mean time, a couple of blocks over to the slight South, the Angels were gathering firewood. . . . lots of it. There was to be a “Stake Party” later this evening after the Son went down. They along with the approval of the Over-Lourdes had selected 3 souls for their Sacrificial amusements tonight. The whole neighborhood was gleeful as they anticipated the coming martyrdom of their once embraced friends and family. I guess they were also somewhat relieved that their straw was not the short one again. Many of them had experienced this way before only to be recycled in that ever confluent path of reincarnation. This was the new age salvation. Die . . . Ascend and be Born again. Some peoples had not quite got the sequence down to rote and attempted to convince themselves they were born again even before they died. Another SMDH moment for me.

I lay in the bed looking up at the ceiling and the dancing Pixies of Light that tried to camouflage themselves in the juxtapositions of light and dark, but i could see them clearly, for i was endowed with a sight. It must have been a mistake. I noticed in my last cycle, things were a bit different. I could see things i later learned to keep to myself. Very few understood, or they feared acknowledging perhaps that they could see strange things too. Either way i was not going to live my life completely in denial. I had bridges to burn, this time around. Perhaps that would assist me with my convictions of heart as i attempt to keep the drones at bay.

They say, “This is the Day the Lorde has made” . . . not quite grasping the import of this simple edict of One’s base belief systems, i question in my ignorance, “Which Lorde” do you speak of ? In my simple observations i have see many colluded expressions of a delusional reverence exercised as a truth to be digested by the masses. Here we go, another SMDH moment. Seems to be plenty of that going around these days.

In the mean time on the other side of this finite Galaxy, there are other symbiotic dimensions being created and explored by the innocent seekers of a verifiable truth. To no avail. We being naught but projective creators are free to live that which we choose. Sometimes i question that “Gift” of Free will, for it came without instruction, guidelines nor restraints. So we are free to paint upon life’s palette in any colors or shapes as we so wish. Yet, there are reproofs and rebuke-ments being manifested to balance our equations of desire that we must suffer along. Some of us have learned the gift of song that we may hopefully entice the Gods to be merciful in our Praise Like offerings to their ears . . . sort of how our Role Model Lucifer did when he occupied the position of Ministry of Music. Now we all have garnered a new craft and skill set as we seek to be appeased and unstrung from this diseased experiential journey. In the end i wonder . . .yes i wonder, and all i can seemingly come up with are these sort of semi Epiphanic emanations of Shaking My Damn Head. it is not that i am thoroughly convinced we are damned, for i too feel a compellation and Tryst for salvation . .  a hope that will deliver me out of this continual vortex where anguish and joys conspire with one another to make for some sort of lesson. This is one for the ages where the absence of time is a reflective illusion as well . . . Oh by the way, did i allude earlier about something of “Sane” people ? Don’t believe it, for all is still yet held in the delicate balance of Chaos, for from that primal space a God of the people was borne.

all because of Fresh Cut Grass

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

Blame it on Jamie . . .

Jamie Bond sent me this in my In Box this morning

FRESH CUT GRASS
THE SMELL OF FRESH DIRT
LOOKS LIKE RAIN...

and this write ensued . . . .hope you enjoy the perspective and perhaps you will discover a contemplative look as well . . .

Love Perspectives

Love Perspectives

(a Love Collaboration with Janet Caldwell and William S. Peters, Sr.)

(BILL)

i met her upon my journey

i offered a smile

she had no trust of men

it seemed

i persisted in showing her kindness

and she began to believe

that she was worthy

you see

she arrived in my space

broken

carrying tokens

of a past denied

defied

washed away

from her sensitivities

because of all those tears

she cried

all those years

i see her tenderness

hidden just under her armor

for she was a warrior

in her own way

she fought each day

to hold at bay

her dismality

a haunting

daunting

reality

she needed me

for she needed love

and that is what i do

at least that is what i thought

(JANET)

I met him on a dreary disdainful day

love it seemed, was not in the cards
at least not mine, anyway.

you see, i thought

Men were all liars and thieves
they steal your heart, leave you
in pieces, with no reprieve.

Somehow, he was different,
he listened with his heart
i could not move away.

As I explained my past to him,

my pain to him
he gently leaned in and kissed my
forehead, I didn't know what to say.

I rambled for hours and days on end,
he never left my side, i felt he loved me
and was proving to be a great friend.

(BILL)

she began to trust me

and trust me,

she confirmed me

for i was not sure

i could trust my self

you see,

i too have been hurt

cast aside

like dirt

used

abused

confused

mostly by my own doing

but here she is

my calm healing balm

embracing me

helping me

to face me

and my deepest fears

of being alone

there were songs

and tones

that have always played in my heart

and she helped me

to hear them

to see them

to see me

that i was a symphony

of me

and of her life

as time passed

she became my wife

and i thought my strife

had left for good

but there were challenges

trials

tribulations

because the sensations i dreamed of

forgot to dream with me

and my soullessness

heartless attitude

of vagrancy

returned

and i spurned her

the only true love i could ever imagine

i burned her

and i turned from her

back to my own selfishness

(JANET)

I sensed a change,

something different
in his actions, his ways

something rearranged
I loved him anyway

I did not strive to change his mind
I continued to be sweet and kind

To love this man,

was my dream, my destiny
and I would not let him destroy this beautiful thing.

This thing called love

that which we had both
vied for
sighed for
and nearly died for

I would not let it nor him, walk out of my door.

for that is what God has made me for

to love him

and that i did

and i do

(BILL)

i thank God himself

personally

for her,

for through her

i have come to see my self

all the while

while i was struggling

to reconcile

with my own Demons

she stood by

she was my Angel

beaming brightly

with love for me

to help me see

who “WE” could be

if but we

would work as one

one heart

one vision

one smile

of

one love

(JANET)

with One Love

we found a reconciliation

in my dedication

and our appreciation

for the us of us

was found

i was his Ruth

and he my Boaz

to whom my soul

is wed

for eternity

yes, love at times can be a test

of our earnesty

and with a certainty

we can see

a higher Truth

(BOTH)

that love is truly . . . One

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