Ther Vine Keeper

"The Vine Keeper . . . messages in poetry & prose" by William S. Peters, Sr. is an Epic offering of Bill's writing. It is 439 pages of a truly transformative work. The Book Size is 8 by 10 Perfect for just $29.95 . . . makes a great Gift of Love and Spirit for the Seeker.
For more of Bill's Books and CDs visit or

Now Available

Now Available
The Vine Keeper

Now Available

Words and Voice of 'just bill'

pay it forward

Donate to World Healing ~ World Peace Poetry 2014 Distribution

Total Pageviews

Friday, March 29, 2013

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
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

my Easter looks like this.

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

Thursday, March 28, 2013

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

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
nor can they be touched
even if i did have the proclivity
to do so

my fingers have expanded
and i am embracing
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 :

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
praying that God hears us
and makes the allusion
to our satisfaction
without the distraction
of time
like right now

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

i have to do more than think about it,
for over the years
my thoughts only brought
and other temporary crutches
for me to lean on

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
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.



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
a minute more
to say that i love you
but one more time
before they had to go

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

can you remember those
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


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.

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
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
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
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
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

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
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

“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
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.