ether

ether

hoping against the wind

for change

that he may learn the lesson

and get on with his journey

through this celestial kindergarten

he was never that good at algebra

figuring equations

that possessed components

of unknown value

yet that seemed to be his destiny

unknown values

just like hoping against the wind

ether

© 15 August 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

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our treasures

our treasures

days puddling

in the pools of collective memories

some with remnants

of meaning

worth remembering

most not

when i speak of the collective

of these times

the significance escapes me

like dark

slipping through the fingers

of my light graced hand

is life but a tour

are we but the sightseers

looking out some window

as the landscapes of time

slip languidly by

with naught but footnotes

an asterisk in the realm of awareness

and what is the final destination

as i circumventingly examine my thoughts

in this writing

i find my reason

fighting battles

waging war

against it’s own mirrored image

as it looks

upon it’s own vanities

and discovers yet another layer

of surrealism

struggling to stand erect

and be quantified

with certain validities

that will hold up

to the light of some sustaining truth

in this mock court

that seeks it’s own self righteousness

and sanity

vanity i say

and i am sure

the many paths traveled

by the way of men

again and again

have met this wall

where our substantive suspicions

do not overcome

get around

or go over

we just have to stop

and accept

the haunting reconciliations

of that which is fed

to us by those

who have come before us

and their created justifications

if Dorothy or Alice were still here

i fear that i too would close my eyes

and just wish

or maybe light me a spliff

that i may escape

the constant chatter

offering their own nonsensical solutions

to the problems i can not even voice

so why the choice

shall i piss in the dark

again

and we souls

who lacking in certain consciousness

are not completely unarmed

for in the fertile valleys

in the deepest recesses of self

there were dreams seeded

and we faithfully

hold to the promise of harvest

and that helps us get through it all

and in the meantime

through our tears of anguish and despair

our tears of short lived fleeting joys

do collect in that pool

of our existential reason

and we call them memories

we must create them

embrace them

remember them

for they alone

are to be cherished

we must learn

for they alone

are that of our own

our treasures

15 August 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr

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.

what ever happened to Ralph Kramden damn them

what ever happened to Ralph Kramden damn them

there are so many troubled souls

people with holes

who want to give them

to you, to me

and graciously

we accept

the deceptive drain

of our energy

people leaking

their better “self”

upon the ground

yet searching for something

wanting to be discovered

wanting to be found

for they are lost

lost in all this light

yet fighting

to realize

to open their eyes

that they may see

another reality

do you see ?

travail

on the trail

while wailing

about things past

that have lasted

too damned long

way after the song has ended

or did it not begin ?

and this concept

of Sin

archaic at best

tests us vigorously

in this quest

for authenticity

reality and certainty

and certainly

we must admit

that we know shit

we don’t know a damned thing

so i sing

continuously

that i may forget

and please

be at ease

let me at least

pretend the beast

allows me to play

just a little each day

for the way

thus far

is far

perhaps can be found

following that star

but what do you do

on cloudy nights

when the lights

have gone out

yes . . . doubt

that is what i do

how about you

if we only knew

what we came to do

we could go about

doing the do

and eventually

we would be through

with the nonsense

and the feeble attempts

to make sense

of why people treat people

this way

a new day is coming

is what they say

well dammit

i hope it is a new way

as well

cause i do not want to have to tell

God Off again

my friend

that is like playing

“Spiritual Roulette”

and i bet

being God

He ? She / I / It

remembers

every damn little thing

all that shit

as i said

we don’t know a damned thing

which is why  i sing

continuously

that i may forget

some of the adjectives

and shit

i have let

come out of my mouth

and there was a guy named Ralph

from the South

of Brooklyn

Kramden i think

what ever happened to him

yes

what ever happened to Ralph Kramden

damn them

another one bit the dust

was he driving that bus ?

© 14 August 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

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in flight . . . and the music played

in flight . . . and the music played

he closed his eyes

just after twilight

and rode his dreams

towards death

senses enlivened

seeking peace

when he arrived

at the gate

it was chained and locked

and death defied him

once more

he knew

in some uncanny way

that he had to find a way

to cross over

to the other side

for this is the life

the one he was stuck in

he was called upon

to lay down

and the music played

if there was to be change

then all had to change

no remnants of memory

could be held on to

and all the nuances of past pretense

past character

had to be removed

he needed more

than absolution

and this was the solution

the holy revealed unto him

and the music played

he unmounted his steed

and stood by the gate

pondering

wondering

about this plight

this night

and the locked gate

which he had given flight

to only arrive

and be refused entry

and the music played

and gently

he began to weep

and the tears flowed

from his sleep

into his nightmares

and upon his feathered pillow

only to touch again

the resonance of his awareness

in this dream

and the music played

there were shadows

and it seemed

that he was existing

listing

betwixt the two dimensions

for most men’s realities

and there hapless actualities

created when one seek to escape

as he did

when he mounted

his steed

in search of the need

he  thought he needed

only to find the gate locked

as he did every night

in his flight

towards death

and the music played

© 11 August 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

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The Journey . . .

This Journey

the journey has been long

and arduous

with sunshine,

flowers

and smiles along the way

and this day

here i stand

in my own sacred halls

of memories

the floors are littered

with gratitude

and neglect

and the walls

are mirrored reflections

of the people

the places

and the feelings

i reach out to touch the surface

of this wall

in this hall

and i at once

am in touch

with years past

i have seemingly

thought i have forgotten

the sunshine seemed so different then

was it brighter ?

hotter ?

yellower ?

Yellower . . .

my word

i add to the collection

of my eclectic memories

my own living color

Yellower

ha

yet,

the smiles seemed bigger

and brighter as well

no not Yellower

but brighter

and wider

just the same

in my now-ness

i am still asserting blame

naming the things

and the people

which have affronted my Shine

Now i know

it was mine to give

and i gave it

away,

so i thought

but here it is

within these halls

hanging on the walls

waiting this visit

of self

to self

interned

what have i learned

i ask

as i bask

in the enveloping warmth of self

and my quasi indelible

etchings

and sketchings

upon these cherished

reflections

and

Holy circumspections

which embody

the all-ness of my meaning

not much i think

but this

blaming and naming

circumstance

never did alleviate me

from responsibility

even when i tried to blind my self to it

they were collected anyway

warehoused here

for this day

and thus they are here

hanging on these wall

and thus they are a part of me

with a valid certainty

yet

they do not define my sum

the dreams i had are here too

but not the ones of the morrow

for they are dreams

there are pools of tears

on the floor

muddied puddles

some are discolored

with anguish and sorrow

some are joyful

in their movement

into my conscious awareness

and yet

they both shine

and reflect my greater aspirations

of what i had hope to become

and there is an overflowing

a knowing

from that chalice

that held

and holds still

my visions

and all the deeds

that i have sown

upon all the landscapes

the forests

the wilderness’

the arroyos’

and the deserts

and all that i have seeded

in my life’s garden

did manifest into my fruit

my harvest

some i ate

along the way

some i gave away

some i never saw

sitting on the table

in front of me

many have spoiled

rotted

most are faintly recognizable

and incredibly

some have dehydrated

and yet are still edible

i guess this is their time

shall i taste now

that which long ago

i so longed for ?

yes, this journey

this sacred journey

have had many twists

and turns

and it has been long

and arduous

but it did have it’s rewards

and as i stand

in these Scared Halls of Self

looking upon the many reflections

of introspections

and the paths i have chosen

i realize

with eyes wide open

i am right where i am supposed to be

on

This Journey

© 9 August 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

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and let the Taboos loose

and let the Taboos loose

taboos have disappeared

vanished

as has all the fears

and self condemnation

lent to our souls

by those who dare note

touch them selves

or allow their essence

to be touched

stirred

or moved

though they do dream

of what we do

openly

in love

with love

their recourse

is to pray for forgiveness

for their own expressive beauty

gifted by the creator

of all

and they perceive

that they are falling

and they attempt to deny

the calling

of their senses

that know of the taste

of the dripping sweetness

found in all fruits

the seeds of men’s souls

yearn to complete their cycle

Gardeners we are

our duty is but

to plant seed

procreate the beauty of being

populate our Celestial awareness

with expansion

but first we must let go

then touch again

and again

and again

and again

become a part of the movement

of life

unto life

for life

is our holy appointment

and no anointing from man

shall circumvent

this primal dictum

i beseech you all

to lick them dreams

embrace them

hide them not in the closets

of your convolutions

of destitution

where bondage to darkness

is the order of the eternal day

the way to salvation

is light

what is spoken in darkness

will soon come

as it echoes in the void

and reverberates

upon the walls

of reason

that is not of obeisance

nor the appeasing manner

with which we are told to live

we must give of self

yield to the field

of exponentiality

while listening to the music

that has within

the harmonics

for attunement

that that which we always were

look upon the sacred scroll

inscribed and encoded

upon the Tablets

and watch the absence of definitions

borders

orders

from those who fear

draw your quarters

and lines in the sand

and stand over

what once was thought to be civility

and gather your ability

to see again

and let the Taboos loose

© 4 August 2011 : William s. Peters, Sr.

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can someone fix Jesus for me

can someone fix Jesus for me

since i can remember

i have been told he died for my sins

i would never wish that on anyone

it saddens me

that anyone has to die

especially for me

can someone fix Jesus for me

yes,

i have felt guilty about this for a while

can you fix Jesus

take the holes out his hands

i got holes in my hands too

i must

cause everything good in my life

slips right through my fingers

right out of my hands

am i a Jesus too

and someone fix my hands

when they fix Jesus

i don’t know how Jesus

could call his friends, friends

when he needed them

they got ghost

and Peter . . . WOW

but, maybe

“that’s what friends are for”

to make you independent

stronger

and the longer you have them

the greater the test

of who is the best

for you

and Jesus  found out

without a doubt

there was no one

for the “Son”

the Sun of God

from the Land of Nod

to Shahrazad

to here

where Tommy Hilfiger,

Donna and

Gucci and Versace

and

Izod are the Gods

that rule this empire

Sire

can someone fix Jesus for me

they gather

sing Hymns

of praise

to raise

Money

and the spirits

but do they really hear it

or just fake it

and make it seem real

for Sundays

and Prayer Meetings

and special seatings

in the pews

nothing new

in the news of man

and the plan

still works

doesn’t it

follow me

said the Pharisee

for i follow Moses

and he is the closest

we will ever come

to understand the sum

of who God is

while all the

Little Jack Horners

are sitting in the Corners

in the shadows of conscious awareness

afraid of the light

holding tightly to the cloak

of their nights

eating un-ripened Plumbs

pretending they are sweet

can someone fix Jesus for me

if i am to understand this thing

you sing about

shout about

create doubt and fear about

we need a new teaching

and some new style preaching

that liberates me

equivocates me

delineates me

from that old paradigm

you spoke to me

trying to get me

to follow

belong to

blindly

even though

i can see what you have done

what you are doing

and what you hope to do

yeah i said it

you don’t want to fix Jesus

cause the real Jesus

who lives within me

won’t please us

and our plan you say

but today

i am here to say this to you

the real Jesus

the real Buddha

the Real Krishna

and each and every one of us

yes, all of us

are entrusted with that gift

and in the coming shift

of our truths

to truth

and certainty

you will certainly become aware

and  assuredly see

that God who lived in Jesus

lives in me

and just like you

Source is me

for of course

we are Source manifest

and the best is yet to come

but in the meantime

fix your mind

and align your self

to the sublime

within you

so i am tasking you

and i am asking you

can someone fix Jesus for me

He’s Broken

7 August 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.