my Easter looks like this

my Easter looks like this

sometimes we act out the role

of that helpless Toddler

of our World

our Diapers are soiled

and need a changing

the Urine

and other things we Piss and Moan about

while hoping for a miraculous change

has soured and transmuted

into a caustic flavoring

encapsulating our existence

and like the Ammonia it produces

it is slowly burning the skin

from our delusions

we are no longer comfortable

with the way things are

are we ?

our caretakers

the Pharisaic Parasites

no longer

have a negligent eye

they have NO EYE

that remotely resembles nor cares

or concerns its self

about the charge it, they were elected

selected

to keep

and the people, the children weep

while looking for that Saviour promised us

and our keepers of the Throne

treat us as the Drones that we are

and they just keep on doing

what they “Will”

caring not for the people

the children

nor the home

we must all endure

for as the Gods they think themselves to be

they do what they “Will”

any damn time they wish

this is my Social Commentary

for the querulous ones

the ones who see no Sun

in their days

for the tainted corrupt ways

takes away all of our shine

and there is nothing . . . NOTHING

passive nor sublime

about this

like Cyndi Lauper says . . . .

“time after time”

our life rhymes are forced

and of course

we need this brief reprise

to give some semblance of hope

to adorn our eyes

and our dreams

with unrealized possibilities

and potentials

of what may come to be

i pray our Children do not reflect

our image, our Sums

but as they say

“The Apple does not fall far from the Tree”

So i ask . . . what kind of Tree are we ?

What Fruit do we bear ?

Am i to be cursed as that Fig Tree upon the Road

that feeds not the Hungry ?

Careful . . . the Stranger may be thy Saviour

so Save me my Brethren

Save me my Lorde

from my self !

Lorde please help us to see the “Way”

because this day

that comes upon us

we must crucify someone

and my hands

my feet

can no longer hold any nails

for the meat on my bone

is frail and lacking substance

when will we too be resurrected

and rise above

our difficulties

our challenges

our will-less-ness

we the people

the sheeple

like i, like you, like we

who know not what we do ?

what are we going to do know . . .

humph . . .

continue sitting at the foot of that cross

and watch and jeer

and cheer

as we go about the letting

of our blood

and that of others

our Sisters

our Brothers

throughout Creation ?

is it done yet ?

Progenitor, Father of all things

we come to you

requesting you visit upon us

Your Grace

and may that be sufficient.

for i am tired

and

my Easter looks like this.

© 29 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

once again

once again

once again

in the Garden

pondering the outcome

of the Fruit i now contemplate eating

i will not be cajoled by the direction without

to take that bite,

for now i know better

i stand here at the Head Waters

where the 4 Spirits meet

to conspire to feed my Soul

with a goodness we label

awareness

it is only in the Silence

of my Garden

can i hear my Lorde approach

bringing Gifts of Love

that i may be forever

exuding bliss

in all of who i am

and what i should ever

choose to be

for i am His Son

the instructions of “The Way”

are inscribed upon my heart

i need no one to remind me of this

for the etchings

from His Holy Hand

forever glows

and becomes my consciousness

when i listen

Yonder in “My” Garden

are many Fruits

all of which i may eat

for this place was created

for the indulgence

of the Children

we shall dance and sing

with the Angels

bearing Life manifest

from spirit spoken

in each and every intonating

guttural utterance

for we are Co-Creators

made in the perfect Image

of that which brought us into being

now seeing this light of truth

i prostrate my self

before the Throne

The feet of he who “IS”

She who “IS”

has planted themselves

wherever i may be

for Creation is my home

i have no money

yet i feed

i drink the Milk of Babes

and sup the Honey

and i want for nothing

i leave impressions

in the illusion

that appear as more than what they are

and you can too

for “Will” was bequeathed to us all

listen to the call listen to the Footsteps

as they approacheth

Once Again

© 26 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

in the silence

in the silence

in a solitary soliloquist seat of self silence

a new dawn of creation’s magic

comes to greet me

bearing gifts of a vaguely remembered consciousness

that was beyond a beauty of words

we sit and we listen

in our own entombed solitude

where there is no predominating presence

of anything that resembles

this world about us

there are commentaries dancing

offering insights for attention

and the lights of awareness

takes on an embryonic glow

for it is constant blooming

flashes of brilliance

that blinds the eyes we have thus before celebrated

to manifest a singularity

of our being-ness

which exudes now

an indescribable peace

the absence of time

is of no consequence

and the awareness of all devices of measurement

are no longer heard

seen

felt

tasted

nor can they be touched

even if i did have the proclivity

to do so

my fingers have expanded

and i am embracing

grasping

worlds heretofore

yet to be created

and i am at this moment

in the eternal moment

where i am the chaos

that spawns new beginnings

my form has dissipated

to become a translucent cloud

and we dance as one

in the heavens of all things

the higher expressiveness

of a Self that used to be

there is nothing to hold to

for definitions

like limits

are all nonexistent

i think i hear a music

i think i am dancing

but it is naught

yet all

of a quixotic conscious experience

of what i have come to be

and now what i realize

that i have always been

the reconciliation

of self

and the silly delusions

i clung to

that i may be defined

as something

we are something  . . . are we not

or are we everything

there could possibly be

seen . . . and unseen

known . . . an unknown

we are the seeds

we are the Bud, the Blossom, the Fruit

we are the product of the Vine

we are the Vine Keepers

that spawn from the

rich soils of creation

where the divine root resides

in the silence

© 26 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

My Newest Book “The Vine Keeper” is available at :

http://www.innerchildpress.com/william-s-peters-sr.php

Her Dreams came true

Her Dreams came true

me and Bobby were peeing

in Mommy’s Rose Garden

we were going to make Yellow Roses

Susie put 2 Tangerines

under her shirt

and pretended she had Big Ones

like Aunt Mary

Bobby gave me a Banana for my pants

but i ate it instead

oh the things

that go through the heads

of us Children

the Young Ones

and the Adults Ones too

like me

like you

we hold on to our self created delusions

hoping

praying that God hears us

and makes the allusion

to our satisfaction

without the distraction

of time

like right now

somehow

we convince our selves

our whimsical fleeting desires

will come true

Grammy always said

“Be careful what you wish for”

but just like the Lottery

i wish for many things

hoping i get lucky

i have a list

a lifetime long

and some

many of my Wishes and Dreams

i have long since forgotten

they are so old

they must be rotten now

a fruit i no longer wish to eat

like that wish i made

about some scheme

that seemed

that it would make

my life all better

another wet dream

where the cream

never did rise to the top

but still here i am

many years later

still peeing in Rose Gardens

trying to make Yellow Roses

and Susie has Big Ones Now

Her Dreams came true

© 22 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

ready for change

ready for change

i stood upon the precipice

of change

and i looked over the edge

into the abyss

of my unknown

i tired finitely

of the path that led me

to this juxtaposition

i always knew it would come to this

a place where i must face my convictions

and peer into the reflections

of my Dreams

a place from which “i” have

spawned my own nightmares

perhaps i stand here caring

caring about not caring

anymore

i have to do more than think about it,

for over the years

my thoughts only brought

tears

fears

and other temporary crutches

for me to lean on

temporarily

i was at a point

where i cared not about the wings

that used to be

attached to my beliefs

for they always

brought me back

to where i started from

my own personal Ground Zero

Heroes ? . . .

i did not trust in them

for in my eyes

i realize

that we are all Heroes

Sheroes

to have to make it through

this journey

yet, we are all Human

and in conflict

with the World

and the Heavens alike

i am not going to step off

this cliff

no, i shall leap

that i may reap

an answer with some semblance

of finality

to this quasi confirming reality

that i live

i am a smirker

not a shirker

for i am willing

to put the work in

if i am shown the way

but to whom do you give your allegiance ?

my drum still beats

and right at this moment

it is beating loudly

shall i follow it

and acquit myself

for i have been obedient

and here i am

ready for change

21 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

www.iamjustbill.com

minutes

Minutes

funny how we have taken so many for granted

it is so ironic how some are so precious

to us

where is the balance

the equity

of our equanimity

where is the parity

in our conscious frailty

that of our perhaps civility

our humanity

in this inanity

where the insanity

becomes our reality

i have breathed here

this air

for over 22,000 days

some 31 million

680 thousand minutes

and still

i know not the value

of a single breath

just one more

is what we call for

as we endure this journey

through the in-climate weather

where we are tethered

so tightly to

the fear of death

which is always

but a breath away

some would say

Live for another day

but what is guaranteed to you

if we only knew

perhaps we would get on with life

in a different way

with out all the indifference

we play at

like our life depends upon it

so hard

want to know what a minute is worth

or a second

ask the family

of someone

who just lost a beloved

in a car accident

what another minute

might have meant

a minute earlier

through that intersection

a minute later

or

a minute more

to say that i love you

but one more time

before they had to go

minutes

cherish them

they could be the last one you have

or share

care for them

lose your fear of living

and live every minute you can

we wait in lines

hoping our minute will fly pass

and our turn will come

what line are you waiting in today

which way will you spend your minutes

will you think about those

you lost

forgotten

can you remember those

someone

anyone

you have spent a few precious minutes with

at some time so long ago

embrace that moment

are they still special to you

like the second, the minute

when you first looked upon your child’s face

do you remember that special space

when your joy overcame you

that minute still lasts

if you allow it to

hold on to it

minutes

minutes

i recall many minutes in my life

and i struggle to recall more

to this altar of my consciousness

that i may praise them

show my gratitude to them

for gracing me with their time

there are so many

and each brings a smile

as a gift

along with it’s arrival

not sure if i am finished with this or not . . .

Give me a few more minutes . . .

© 20 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

13 Times

13 Times

13 times she attempted

to end it all

and 13 times no one paid real attention

not to mention

the aft counseling

did not touch her

where she needed it

instead they gave her scripts

so they would not have to touch

their own reality

nor acknowledge

their own frailties

another shit filled experience

she was left to endure

alone in so many ways

and for sure

# 14 is on it’s way

her days were dark

she hated the fucking park

where the “happy” children played

and chased those shitting pigeons

she wished she could fly

so she could shit

on the whole world

that had defecated on her dreams

right from the very beginning

they always told her

she was sinning

and would be dammed . . .

damn they were right

for she is damned

every damn day

and every damned night

all she wanted to do

was meet God

and ask a few questions

was that too much to ask ?

Jesus or Buddha would do

even you

if you have the time

but time hurts

and lasts far too long

for the Bird that can not sing

it’s song

she never did fit in to

any fucking thing

nor did she want to

for she was a very special Blue

she was an Indigo Child

cast to the wild

to fend for herself

she no longer bothered

defending herself

nor her esteem

nor her dreams

from all those assholes

she encountered

were busy

and adorned

with their plastic emotions

so she stopped dreaming

no, she did not bother to cajole them

with her reason

for season in

season out

they could not console her

nor abate her pain

the just could not understand

they had false hearts

she knew she did not belong here

someone made a mistake

she must have got on the wrong bus

the “In God We Trust” one

so in her circumspect conclusion

she had to escape this illusion

for she refused to delude herself

that people truly cared

and the only alternative she had left

was to count

13 times . . . .14

© 13 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

www.iamjustbill.com

all we must do is speak it

all we must do is speak it

with my pen

i emote words and scribe messages

upon the empty and wanting sheets

of my consciousness

that i may share them with the world

with my “Self”

my intent is focused upon

Love, Insight and Questions

of what may become

God do i have questions

i am still yet striving to formulate

i am awed by the wonder

of such cerebral things

and my spirit enjoins its self

to my evocations

some times the words are harsh

and sometimes they are joyful

but always inebriated

intoxicated

with the lure of possibilities

of the outcome

and how they may influence a world

that has yet to hear them

read them

feel them

reel them in to

their own being-ness

i am a writer

a poet

a conjurer of things

which seemingly

comes forth from nothingness

but i do know there is a something-ness

that influences my desires

to express

confess

the less

the more

of this experientialnesss

with a certain quixotic-ness

yet to be discovered

i am uncovering potentials

and the differentials

betwixt our likeness

and our deference

exacting our commonness

as well as our indifference

in our valuations

and variations

pertaining our individual journey

and elected Life Paths

there is naught that is valid here

in this land of the “Wandering Wonderer”

save that which we choose to embrace

through the words i elect

i, you, can paint upon our essence

and face that with certain convicted confidence

that which we wish to taste

for a moment

a day

a life time

or not

there is a string

that tethers us

to each other

at times with a sour dour of antithesis

but we are bound just the same

the lame and the strong

those who are fulfilled

so they think . . .

whether right, left or wrong

and those who long

for more

and as one who utilizes words

i have seen the mean

by which our connectedness

appears

in spite of that which we fear

within our selves

as we circumspectively inspect our

looming exponential-ness

by design

or default

we trudge on

even

when we see our selves as less then adequate

many times

we quickly seek to find fault

that we are not assaulted

by the guilt we allow

in our shallow understanding

of who we still have the ability to become

like a cup with no limits

and a hole in the bottom

our sums

will never fully be recognized

through the eyes of our finite

realizations

it is but a meager attempt to belong

to something

to apply our intuitive need for congruity

which seems to fail us

will trust alter the manifestation

of what is to be ?

ya better recognize

that in the mere offering of words

we can create that perfection

we all so direly desire

all we must do is speak it

and watch the movement of your consciousness

begin to bring about

a place where your doubts

dissipate

in to the ether

speak the word

© 16 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

i remember Mommy

i remember Mommy

Apron tied around her waste

Wooden Rolling Pin

and Pillsbury Flour

all over the counter top

Making Pie Shells

to hold our weekly deserts

for Sunday Dinners

I always enjoyed the Apple ones

they were sweet

Grilled Cheese Sandwiches and Hot Dogs

and Chocolate Milk

quick meals

that quieted the activities

of us hyperactive needy ones

such as my self

Bed Time Prayers

“Now i lay me down to sleep”

Bedtime Stories

with a loving tuck of the Covers

and a brief kiss

and a flick of the light switch

and i was off

to the land of Dreams

a place Mommy entrusted and knew

i would be safe in

Saturday Chores . . .

pick up your Toys

pick up your shoes

pick up your clothes

take out the Trash

Instructions

“don’t go too far”

“be home by . . . . . “

“Sit up”

“be careful”

“eat your dinner”

“be still”

“be quiet”

i still hear the instructions

“be careful”

still a mindful consideration to consider

Sunday Mornings

getting dressed for Sunday School

after our shirts were ironed

i can still smell the heat and the cotton

as the wrinkles were pressed smooth

Brushing the Boys hair

Plaiting the Girls

a little Vaseline

on our faces

do i still shine Mommy ?

Mommy always tied the Boys Ties

choking our comfort away

because we had to be presentable

with our Suits and White Shirts

My Sisters with Dresses

and Pretty Bow Tied Ribbons

in their Hair

No lipstick or gloss

no polish to adorn their nails

for they were already beautiful

that was Mommy’s message

Dinner on Sunday

did not come until we changed

out of our Church Clothes

so that we could go outside and play

while waiting

anticipating

the abating

of our growing hunger

but in the mean time

we were busy

doing things

some things perhaps

we did not want Mommy to know

as the years moved on

and we looked around

and our sunshine

our youth

was gone

along with Mommy

because she became Mom

i still hold on

to those iconic moments

and now that Mommy, Mom

has moved on as well

it is the memories

those snapshots

faded and aged

that are my treasures

and measures

the depths of my smiles

for i remember Mommy

© 13 March 2013 : william s. peters, sr.

www.innerchildpress.com

www.iamjustbill.com