The Land

The land was distant

and unknown.

Fathers had spoken of it often,

but back then we simply

couldnt have known

that

there was no becoming then.

We were not ripe,

We we were not grown.

Years past

we laboured

and it remained

a sepia coloured

picture slightly stained.

A place far away

and vast;

A place away,

A place unknown,

A place of peace,

And just a dream,

a single digit out of grasp.

A place trees,

of dancing leaves,

of stone,

of flowing streams;

A place of sunlight

set in midday dreams,

that quiet white blankets

covered on distant winter eves.

As generations grew

to men and women,

as did the strifes and labours too,

with loss and fear,

And costly prices paid

the children died,

the children grew.

Yet with many long and distant

journeys,

coursing back and forth,

sometimes with the many,

sometimes one alone,

The father’s dream in time

became,

the children’s

father’s home.

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