The Journeys Of Peter

The Journeys Of Peter

These

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

blind

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

Scarborough

Image

Scarborough

Scarborough

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
tall
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

Image

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
afternoon
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 .