The Journeys Of Peter

The Journeys Of Peter


are the journeys

of Peter

through the darkness

and the night.

Living off the

the fat of his dreams,

and who by imperfect light

sits purifying

himself alone

late at night.

from the black ,

by reading Cavafy

and Layton,

considering Merciful books

of Cohen

surfing the lines

of Seferis,

empathizing with

the plight of Plath,

and considering

the weight

of Pound .

Oh how they made

him suffer

carefully not making him

a Martyr

and ensuring

he couldn’t keep up

or current

with the fight,

while old age,

and decay

did the rest and

put the final stop

on his pipes

and his kindness.

The thought

strikes fear

in his heart .

In the night.

These are the

Journeys of Peter

blind as a bat

he still sees

in the dark

The voice tells him,

just where to go,

exploring emotions

and the general plight

of his kind .

These are the journeys

of Peter flying


through the darkness,

late at night .


From “No Subject Here Just Light” by PWChaltas

The Travellers

The Travellers


Each one of us

is a traveller

and often a wastrel,

with a soul like

a feather in the wind.

Winds blow it

mercilessly hard and cold

in furious storms without meaning

into thankless death.

Lead our souls like a feather in the wind

like a sheep and like a naïve lamb

led by a loving hand .

Its such a long way to go,

over the waters .

Thalassa, thalassa,

the wind blows ,

and we travel far

from the gentle start

in the morning.

We all have a choice to make

as we go .

“You have come down

now visible ,

Infinite and Eternal one

to conceal yourself

as the manifest force of nature

and to allow evil to have free reign

and to exist in this world ,

only to raise us high

and to test us to reveal ,

through your blowing

and changing winds ,

the traits of leadership

that you have given us,

and placed quietly within.

In your eternal will,

you wait patiently

to spring out

and fulfill . “ *                                      *Kabbalistic Prayer

From “Dreams for a Saturday Morning” by PWChaltas





By the Shrine of the Little
Flower ,
near the crumbling cliffs of clay
on the sky, sand, and blue water ,
I stopped with
a few words to say.
Where a cross sword
set in stone stands
on the expressway island
and stone statue
in white flowing robe,
all sooted with grey,
kneels and clasps hands
in eternity of night and day .
Under the green and rising dome ,
a remembrance of those in the past
who struggled in the times
and lands far away.

By the home where
both the children
and the young men
once use to play,
there I stopped to catch
my final breath at last ,
and quietly drift away .

Waiting for a Sign


Waiting for a Sign

Waiting for a Sign

He knew her beauty
He knew her dreams
He knew she came apart
at certain seams
So he was gentle
and he was kind
but he was also
partly blind
He waited calmly
and patiently for the sign
but she left him
one grey October
to travel on a journey ,
endless abandon
with kind and tribe .
He was torn
once more alone
but now he knew
not only blind
but also
a fool
for love .
And yet
he never stopped
living her .

Haven’t Been


Haven’t  Been

I haven’t been

where you have been.

I don’t know

the things you know

but as sure,

as surely,

as you have been

and known the places

and the things

that you have seen ,

I will journey there


and on my own

and will return

after I have

been and seen

and known ,

the places where

you’ve been.

And we shall then


to be,

those who live within

each other

and within

the very one


the one within

ourselves .

From “A Matter of 4” by PWChaltas

Van Gogh Watches Volleyball



Van Gogh Watches Volleyball

Van Gogh
Is lounging at
his waterside table
drinking beer
a Mickey mouse tattoo
set on his shoulder.
The piercing stare
of his green eyes
turned blue
focuses on the
volleyball game
playing out
before him .
The water is
a deep, deep blue
his eyes .
His tantrum
tank top is
a delirious ultramarine
as if squeezed out
in a rounded
sharp edged
from a artist’s tube
on to his palette .
He seems quite sane
all in all
as he moves his head
only slightly
to the music,
and enjoys the game.

No crows are flying here.
He’s just intense,
Perhaps looking
for ear lopping
companionship .
He stares at passing girls.
His eyes are burning
with an intense
cool blue flame .
His short hair
and tight cropped beard
off a look that
brands him,
the tortured genius.
He reminds me of my
cousin ,
long departed.
He too
alone at times
loved by children,
in awe of nature,
seeking companionship
and kinship .

A talented painter
in pastels and in oils
of ancient Greek warriors,
some times Spartacus,
or landscapes ,
his eyes often said:
Old man look
at my life.
He died a much
too young
like Van Gogh.

Van Gogh reminds
me too
of Kirk Douglas
in the movie
Spartacus .
Douglas was a man
of incalculable
passion and
intense verve .
Van Gogh could
have been a
Spartacus in the
Arles arena
had be been born
and in the circumstances of
a Gladiator,
rather than a painter .
He would have
and lopped off ears
in shows of mercy
to win his freedom.
Van Gogh
has now suddenly
into the thin nostalgic air.
He must have dashed
out madly.
His table with empty
Heineken bottle is
left blank,
as an empty
white canvas .
in his absence
left behind
is black,
black as the crows
that devoured him
so long ago.

From “The Black and other Base Elements” by PWChaltas