as i am . . .

as i am

the rusty hinge

upon the gate

perspectives finite

though i have been moved

repositioned

many times

in the past

my duty

my purpose

is ever fixed

defined

and the line

i do hold

in alignment

as i do the gate

that any wayfarer

may pass through

as i am

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

Photography by Darko Kotevski

cycles

cycles

dreams fading

losing their lustre

and the waning moon

melts into the redundancy

of all things cyclic

they shall wax again

and full his heavens again

with hope

and the light shall beam again

filling his night skies

with possibilities

and a sparkle

and he shall dream once more

cycles

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

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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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http://www.innerchild.ning.com

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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