reads . . .                     

the promise


the promise

hidden in the fruit

loosed fear

upon the consciousness


the four rivers

could not wash it away


though the light was on

and we saw all we needed

the dark offered more


we toiled the soil


but the fruit

did not satisfy


we adopted ritual

in hopes to evoke

an awakening

an understanding

of how to retrace our paths



we saw the Fire Bush

that still burns

within the essence

of our yearning

for eternity

and we feel the calling


the golden thread

is not found

in the Temple of Bricks and Mortar

go ye to the Temple of Breath


burn the dross

worry not the cost

of losing one’s self

for in the center of your garden

lives the promise


17 July 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.


for this thing i feel . . .


they told me i would burn in hell

for this thing i feel for you

and if that be my lot

please God

let me excise this Demon

before i submit


let me experience this itch

and it’s scratching

and the caresses

ushered through space

by the breath of Venus

for never before

have i seen this

self of me in such a state

of need


they ask of me penance

before the sentence

of the letter of condemnation

i must wear

to let all know

i followed my lust

in trust


i believe

that what i was feeling

was meant to be shared

as i bared my self

and stood naked

in the reflections

of my basest of passion

for you


Condemn me

if you must Teacher

Condemn me my Holy Preacher

Condemn this Soul

that was never yours


and in the course

of your path

i am sure

we will meet again


and i pray for you

as you say you do for me

i pray for clarity

and not another truth

but reality

a valid certainty

that uncovers the “IS”ness

of creation

and it’s Progenitor’s visions


i want to know

who has sown

this Fruit of Passion

upon my loins

that makes me

want to taste you

and share

my sweetest imaginings

with you


yes, i want to feel

the liquid essence

of our love communion


across my lips

in this eternal moment


let me savor

the infinite embrace

found only in “Oneness”


if i am sleep

damn the awakening

as i feel all that i am


with an yet to be fulfilled


that grows ever more

with each breath


my heart is suspended

in the realm of anticipation

as this elation

without equivocation

continues to march

to the possibilities

of this journey


i be damned the Old one’s say

but i need you to know

that this day

i shall follow the ways of my Desires

i shall sit by the Fires of Passion

that burn within my Longings

i shall sup of the spirit of Blissful Thoughts

i shall dine at the table of Expectations

and i shall listen

in the Movement of Silence

in Stillness

to that Holy Resonance

that stirs my Soul


for this thing i feel . . .


© 19 July 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.




the unspoken memories

of our chaotic past

is lived out each day

within us


we remember the place

of our grande spawning

all too well


the Stars of the dark night sky

faithfully light the way

back home

and still we do not listen

as they resonate

like beacons

for wayward ships

who are lost at sea


we have been cruising


while wailing

in anguish

about our plight

and the absence of

what we once embraced


and in our convoluted expressions

betwixt our generic selves

and illusion

we find

there is no solace,

for mind

is now at the helm


and in that distant realm

we once inhabited

the table has been set

but we have not arrived yet


will the food spoil ?

will the drink become stale ?

as we fail to come to the reckoning

that is beckoning

us to let go

of this anchor

we have bound our souls to


most times

in this Sea of Forgetfulness

it is quite difficult

to effectively employs one’s rudder

and without a Compass

a Sextant

and a Charted course

of course we will get lost


and as we are tossed about

upon the Tides of Fear and Doubt

never to understand

the Moon’s purposeful work

and presence


and our quirky rationales

fail us often

and never soften

the blows

when we crash upon the rock

and the dry desolate shores

of isolated islands

of our consciousness


too often we see ourselves as separate

from the whole

of the Soul

of all things


disconnected in circumspect

of our own self created inner hauntings

never to grasp how undaunting

the task at hand really is

when we turn about

and face our self


there is a plethoric sweetness of fruit

that ripens in the garden of Soul

where untold wealth springs forth

with but a simple asking

yet still here we are basking

in the shade of the Dark Sun

where all light is made of deception

that which we confirm into existence

with no resistance whatsoever

to the unaccountable endeavors

of those who would choose our fates for us


and yet though we do not trust them

we go along anyway

down a path of diminishing possibilities of survival

while waiting for some mythical revival

of an anointed enigma

to remove the stigma

of the Dark suit we have adorned

with glee

that we call me


and the sanctity of it all

does not reside

in any thing that can be real

and we convince our self daily

that we feel something



we march along

to some Piper’s Song

as we faintly hear

the unspoken memories

of our chaotic past

that is lived out

each day

within us

as a token of truth

yet . . .




©  05 June 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.


the Saints Walk By


the Saints are walking in the Holy Parade

playing the music we hear

whispering and singing and shouting and screams

within our dreams

wanna play ?

charades is the game of choice

in this game we call life

i pick up the blade, the knife

i attempt to consciously disengage

my consciousness . . .

the Spider Web of Doctrines and Beliefs

and the Foods of my Ancestors . . .

have i overeaten ?

they do say you are what you eat

but . . .

what was in that Casserole ?

my stomach hurts mommy

here she says . . .

take another pill

it will be all right in a little while

i trusted her

i trusted in the intentional goodness

and i am now contentionally weeping

in my soul

seeking resolve

as i evolve


the next day i fell

i skinned the knees of my divine self

i bled

they gave me a Band-Aid and some orange stinging liquid

that shit hurt !

must we be pained to heal ?

yet i am still bleeding

and the blood pours forth every day

by now i should be dead

for i have been bleeding it seems

since the beginning of time

my hands have been pierced in the palms

i can no longer grasp any truth

or any thing else for that matter

yes, i too bear a cross

upon which many times over i have been nailed

i look down from my perch of forsakenness

and i see yet still

the Saints Walk By


(c) 17 November 2010 : William S. Peters, Sr.


Morning Sun


here i am

sitting in the morning Sun

freshly awakened

from my land of dreams


the warm Sun beams brightly

and i close my eyes

and there she is

painted on the inside of my lids

lying there

upon my bed

arms and such open

welcoming me into her warmth

once again

and the dream continues

while sitting here

in the warm Morning Sun


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



i am  . . . absolved


the Demons of Darkness

are dancing with glee

for the Children

have not yet fully awakened


the bells on the Steeple

are still ringing

calling home all who have forsaken

their Cosmic Birthright

in the midst of this night

adorned with things

which ushers forth the grande delusion


and the collusion betwixt the fallen

the conspiracy

found within their heresy

has stifled the sound

the sound of the calling

which we have been waiting for

for so many eons


my soul is screaming

let us arise

let us get up

let us dance in the night

let us dance in the light

of the distant memories

and the faintly twinkling Stars

and the liquid luminescence of the Moon

let us dance the dance

of a truth

that is not moved

and is not soothed

by the smooth tongues of deceit


let us speak that word

known only to the Great Soul

that which resides within me

that word

that has not been heard

since “Life’s Tree”

has been planted in the Garden



by the Four Rivers i stand

with eyes opened

and out stretched hands

that i may receive

thy blessings Father

anoint me


hearken unto my plea

that overflows with the anguish

of illusions endured

and the hunger

for joys still yet desired

that which emanates

within the abysmal depths of me


and i beseech thee

let not death

nor her family of trickery

have it’s way

nor triumph

this day


for the morrow

when my Sun arises

and recognizes who i am

my sorrow is reconciled

and all vile things

shall  no longer be

for i am awakening

and i most assuredly see

the legacy

of the Bliss filled life

You would have for me

when i commune

and realize

that i am One with Thee


and my Soul Speaks “aye”

and i will not deny

that in a “Twinkling of an Eye”

the lie is vanquished

and the Ancient language of thy love

will be spoken freely once again


we will dance to the tune

and all be it

none to soon

and Truth will forever reign

as my tears rain down

and i submit to the divine acknowledgement

of the presence of the Holy

of all things manifest


i will bask in the light of “BE”ing


and no longer fleeing

that inner light i could never escape


and i bow in “The Know”

that as the Four Rivers do flow

into Eternity . . . Eternally

that i too am “The Infinite”

and that i am

as i have always been


“I AM”


and in that moment

when the final Epiphany

greets my consciousness

with that Sacred Kiss


i am  . . . absolved



© 3 April 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

Every Saturday


my Son and i awakened that Saturday Morning

the Sun was bright

it was a lovely Spring Day


we brushed our teeth

washed our face

as we prepared for our weekly visit

to the market

needless to say he was so excited

we both were


we dressed

in a sort of reverent appreciation

for life

a warm silence

permeated the air

and we could hear our own hearts beating

with anticipation


we exited the house

that morning about 10 o’clock

the birds were singing

while digging in the lush green lawn

looking for brunch i guess

just as they did every Saturday Morning

when we went about our quest

to the market


yes my Son and i were on a mission

we had things to do

Brown Bags to fill

with edible Discoveries of the day


we jumped in the car

i turned the key

which cranked the engine

and my son

he asked if he could drive

i smiled as i did every other Saturday

and i replied

“One Day Soon Son”

he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye

and he said

“OK Daddy . . .Cool”

i chuckled

as we buckled our Seat Belts


we pulled out of the Drive way

many of our neighbors were busy

mowing their lawns

tending their Flower Gardens

and all sorts of Saturday Morning things


and this Saturday Morning

just like every Saturday Morning

He, my Son waved

and said hello to them all

and told everyone

“we are on the way to the mall”

i softly looked at him in love

and i accepted his perspective in silence

as i do every Saturday


we arrived at the market

and he anxiously bounced in car

in the seat

while i parked it

when we came to a stop

he hurriedly unbuckled his belt

and i chuckled for i felt

his glee

all in me


he quickly ran to the Market

ahead of me

you see

he had a routine

which was a part of his joy

his life

his need

and before i could plead with him to slow down

he was through the doors

and into the store

seeking to satisfy his heart’s wishes


and as i approached

he came back out again

with a smile that had no end

and he exclaimed

“I know what i am going to buy Mommy”

i smiled warmly

and before i could evoke the question “what?”

he spoke of such things in the bakery

like the Pastry with Nuts

and such

but today he wanted to get Chesse Cake

yes Cheese Cake

just as he does every Saturday


we both knew that was her favorite

if she was here with us

she would savor it

and her Favorite of course

was Strawberry


we went into the market

to the Bakery

as we did every Saturday

and John the Baker

came to the counter

and said cheerily

with deliberate flattery

How can i help you young man.

and my son beamed in bright wonder

for John had acknowledge him

as an growing equal

a man soon to be

one who could make valid decisions

for him self

and his Mother


He placed his order

and John lovingly wrapped it

with a certain and knowing care

he put a special bow of string on it

as he did every Saturday morning


my son surveyed the package

took his order gingerly

and held it

in the crest of his arms

he did not want his gift damaged

it was heartfully special to him


we completed our errands in the market

and we went to the car where we parked it

we got in our seats

our mission complete

we buckled our Seat belts

and we drove home


there was a hanging silence in the car at this time

as we both knew what was to come

we pulled into the Driveway

exited the Car

and entered the house

with a prevalent awareness

of each and every now laborious step

we entered the Kitchen


My son unwrapped the Cheesecake

and placed it on the Plate

his Mother’s Favorite plate

that which she loved

as long as we could remember


we sat at the Table

and we bowed our heads

and offered a Prayer

to Mommy

for Mommy was not here

she was in the world of Spirit

and the Prayer we prayed

was that She could hear it


we prayed that Cancer

would never take another Mommy from a child

and though Mommy has been gone from us a while

we still felt her presence


the Tears flowed from within us

and began to drip on the Table

and in a knowing Silence

that Mommy was not dead


we each grabbed a napkin

and wiped our eyes

and as we did each and every Saturday

we realized

just how much she still means to us


we gave thanks


and my Son

the coming Man

did understand

something quite profound

that  grounded him

and that was

that through it all

we must continue to answer the call

every Saturday

every Day

for Mommy

for God

for Us


Love Prevails . . .

every Day

every Saturday


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


that poem


i stood

i looked life in the eye

and i began to speak


i spoke of my

dancing heart

my dancing thoughts

my dancing dreams

in dancing tones



i danced through the syllables

with joy

formulating words

to create verse

for i was being

that poem

called gratitude

called life


that poem


© 1 June 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

in Wyoming


we stopped at McDonalds

in Wyoming


it was all too familiar

the Golden Arches

the smell of breakfast

Drive-In spilling over

people placing orders

Mountains without borders


the people stared

i guess there were

not many Black People

in Wyoming


it was nice being the focus

of another Sister’s and Brother’s


and curiosity


all i want now is a hug

and then you can feel me

and then you can see

that i am just like you

in Wyoming


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



we did not know

what sort of Birds they were

but they flew any way

exposing the power

and fallibilities of knowledge


knowing does not make a thing

what it is

for it “IS”


or  without

our consent

to experience dwarfs “knowing”


to feel again

is life’s most memorable treasure

the faint shadows of living


© 16 July 2011 : William S, Peters, Sr.


needful things


i stood facing the East

my longings bared

and upon the surface

of my consciousness

seeking an understanding

that would fulfill


there were things


not only of body,


but of heart


needful things


we endure the lack

with hopes

that our cries are heard

while the tears of despair

stain our hopeful light

and pricks the bladder

that holds the air

of wantings

and desires


we are the ones . . .

for sure we are,

yet we cling

we let loose

we cling

we let loose

in our cyclic understanding

of our abilities

wedged betwixt the teachings

of our faith


needful things



matters not whether it is perception

nor illusion

the impact is the same

and when the Sun rises to greet me

i only wish to hear the utterance

of a name

i can call on

that requires not my patience

or the holding of etheric wishes

to greet me

where life’s authenticity resides


i am not hiding

yet there are shadows seeking

to engulf me

and what little light i see

about me

within me


and as a knight

in the night

i draw my sword of discernment

dashing it’s blade

slashing at my own


and elective delusions,

those that i see

in the deceptive

reflective light of the Moon


waxing or waning


needful things


shall i be the Champion

of my own making ?

am i the Wizard

of this Soul Spoken Alchemy

the Masters,

the Mystics

and Sage speak of ?

is love truly the answer ?

and what does Romance have to do with it ?

and do i truly understand

the demands upon my call

for my evolution

beyond the presence

of what i call light ?


i stand in the Halls of the Holy

the moment of “NOW”

OPEN . . . .


and ready

as best i can


as a man

and as a child


is the compelling nature

of my desirous essence

and suspect presence


so this is the moment

here i am

offering that which i own

the nothingness

the emptiness

that i may be filled

as i spill my request




while Confessing

and the offering of Prayers


yes, i have

done it all

and still i have these


needful things


© 19 July 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.


 the South Side of Heaven


it was another beautiful day

here on the South Side of Heaven

not too warm as one would expect

the infernal fires of condemnation

still burned ferociously

in a few hearts here and there

but there was this cool breeze of indifference that prevailed

no one really truly seemed to give a damn

about what those guys in the robes had to say any more


though they still were begging in the streets

preaching and frothing at the mouth

about such things as Tithes

and payment for some old concept of behavior

they called sin

no one bought into it any more

every one had lost their fear

we all embraced love

even for those misinformed fools

in their Satin and Silk Robes

of Regal Reds and Purples


i remember long ago when i was a kid

the many nightmare i had

where this horned Red Beast

who breathed fire use to come and visit


i have even forgiven them for that

stealing my inner light

and holding it ransom

for their misinterpretation

of how i could get back home

to heaven


do you think they knew

all along that Heaven was always mine

it was within me

just like the Christ guy said

we have looked all around

for what we always had

the key to the gate


and now as i sit and ponder

the migration of spiritual man

i realize we did not have to go as far as we thought

it was all that erroneous stuff

that we bought into

that inhibited our understanding

and the Shepherds of this flock we call Human

had their own agendas

they wanted such empty things as





Not one of them could fit through that needle’s eye

and they refused to ask why

perhaps it was something about

that Log in their eye

that kept them blinded


and i am reminded

of all the centuries of time

and all the Poet’s Rhymes

that tried to tell us there was so much more

in less

and the leaders tried their best

to keep the knowledge amongst them selves

only to discover this truth i

the real Hell

lives within as well


funny how things change over the ages

the Sages become the Fools

and the Jesters run the schools

for freedom is what we all truly vied for

and died for

and now that the score is back to zero

we are at that point of understanding

that demanding anything

is not the “Secret” of Attraction

nor it’s Law.

we have all lived

and we saw with our own eyes

a greater realization

and that was to but speak a word

and let it be


and here on the South Side of Heaven

I am free


©  10 March 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

the “Seeker’s Path”


the clouds of understanding are before me

as i stand upon the “Seeker’s” Path

seeking a home

a place of resolution

where all is cozy and safe and warm


all life about me stands

as it always has

in witness of some quiet knowing



and i am continually sowing

seeds . . .

to what end my friend ?


somewhere in the unknown

or forgotten recesses of me

my “i”

i can not see the Harvest

but in my ever light projections

i trust it will come

as i attempt to remain aplomb

to this journey

this world

this experience


it does not matter whether i am really “HERE” or not

for i forgot to some degree

what it is i am supposed to do

yet, the Ether of understanding

that i hold in my hands

whispers faintly

of a time Long ago . . . Now

and i sow the seeds of wantonness

more or less

upon the wisping Clouds of  my desires

as the fires consume me


this aching for Soulful conciliations

may just be the key to what i seek

upon this “Seeker’s Path”


yes, i open my Heart

with the empty Hands of need

and i continually sow this seed

of love in – deed

that the Fruit may come

to fulfill my Pleading Soul

to be whole

once again

as i journey . . .


the “Seeker’s Path”



(c) October 2010 : William S. Peters, Sr.


the seed to eternity


she offered him her womb

but he did not want to go that deep

he was not willing to explore her possibilities

all he wanted to do was plunder her gardens

to eat of the fruits

and labor not


yes he wanted to give her his seed

but not fulfill her needs

he wanted no commitment

to the possibilities of the situation

and her equations of happiness

again went unfulfilled


in her dreams

she constantly tilled the soils of her hopes

only to have them despoiled

is disdain

of her pains


no one of her suitors

seemed willing

to be that suitable completion

of the possibilities of her magic

she knew she was worthy

for she had a love unrequited

that has never known the darkness of despair

yet, each time

these divisive thieves of dreams and visions

stole a bit more of the air

that she so desperately needed

for her wings to work


you see, she was an angel of love

and all these walking dead could think of

was the physical

non-committal acts

they could enact

for a nights cessations

never realizing that their needs

would never cease as well

and an empty shell of a man they would remain

and they would be compelled

to forever be the zombies

of the nights

of ill gotten plights

and their souls would suffer

as it was for her

never realizing that there was a gift divine

lying in front of them

as she offered them her womb

the seed to eternity


© 23 February 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

yes, he was homeless


he sat on the sidewalk

near the corner

by the Bus Stop

where the passengers would pass him by


he was stuck in a convoluted vortex

between Despair and Hope

not necessarily of his own doing

he was just looking for a way to cope

with the invisible rope

around the neck of his dead dreams

yes, he was homeless


it has been quite some time

more than he could even remember

since he saw his little girl

yes, she and  his family was his world

but she probably was not little any more

it has been so many years

so many tears

and all the fears

he once embraced

have now fled

for all that he once prized

has been bled

from his prideful grasp

right before his eyes . . .

his Family

his Home

and now he has been destined to roam

these streets of continuing anguish

yes, he was homeless


as he spends his days

in his own chosen ways

he has never held out his hand

to beg

though his life was out of hand

there still resided an uncertain pride

and dignity

his humanity

with a somewhat suspect certainty

yes, he was homeless


in spite of himself

he tried

and would not allow his noble spirit

to be denied

yes, he defied

the indifference to his suffering

and perhaps the Societal expectations

that told him to give up on life

to just become a part of the collection of statistics

and rollover and die

but still he vied

for more

yes, he was homeless


somewhere buried deeply in his heart

there still lived something warm

and it was all his alone

he found this quite special

it was the only thing left

yes it was his alone

and it could not be taken

nor forsaken

yes, he was homeless


there were pictures there he prized

he held them forever in his inner eye

embraced them

saw his face in them

there were pictures of a “White Pickett Fence”

with a Gate

that somehow he believed

would alter his fate

as it led to a brighter day

and this dark night would dissipate

and become sunshine once again

and then he could brightly


embrace his joy of expectation but one more time


in this same vision

he saw Sidewalks

but the only apparent purpose they served

was for Little Red Wagons

Hopscotch and Skates

and the endless Smiles and Sunshine

upon the Face of the Children

and such

a place where he could touch

a place in space not forgotten


and though he was homeless

he still had a heart

and his sanity

and this heart was the Home

of his Humanity

so though he was homeless

he still was so much more

than the man at the Bus Stop


and though he was just the man on the Sidewalk

of our City


it is not Pity one should give

Perhaps a Meal, your Heart, a Gesture, a Smile

stop and take some time to converse for a while

share your Humanity

share your Heart

for therein resides the Home

. . . of us all


yes, he was Homeless


(c) 28 December 2010 : William S. Peters, Sr.



the sleeper’s song . . .


he sat on the perch of life and deliberately began to bear his soul

and he spoke in a tongue that has not been heard since the days of old

yes he knew the language of the Ancients now hidden

and he was aware that this tongue of light was quite forbidden

but the day has come and he somehow knew this

the invasion of the Darkness had to desist

for many a child would be lost to the war

and that was what he was sent here for

to awaken the sleepers from the mist and enchantment

to sever the chords of illusions dependence

to open the gates before it was too late

for that was the cause of his Soul and fate

the time for song was ebbing once more

yes he had visited upon this dimension before

the story has not changed nor has the game

and he was the keeper of this Holy Flame

a “Gate Keeper” is what they called him

eleven more guarded the abyss’ sharp edged rim

and once again it was he who sounded the Drum

as the sleepers awakened and embraced their sum

the war was beginning betwixt the Ying and the Yang

and you could hear the solemn song as they sang

for eons we have awaited this time and space

and now comes the time when we will see His face

i watched as the fiery light began to dance in the air

consuming all there is, the blight and the fair

and the sleeper’s song began shred the shroud

and the silence of death danced through the crowd

the words they did utter gave cause to the quake

for now the words has been spoken, and the sleeper’s awake


a sleeper can not sing . . . the sleeper’s song . . .


(c) September 2010 : William S. Peters, Sr.

a Rose


if you hold it’s beauty to tightly

it’s petals will list

and it’s fragrance will be short lived


if you are careless

surely the thorns

will bring forth

a new

or forgotten



thus is love


a Rose


© 1 June 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.


by the Stream


as we lay upon the blanket

that lays upon the grass

under the Tree which weeps

as it’s willows reached

to touch the earth

there was a certain ease

that lazy afternoon


Mother was busy conducting the Orchestra

of beauty

of life

just for us

and the Sun applauded brightly


the Chirping Birds, and the Crickets

the Butterflies and the Bees a humming

and the Ants

all played their part

perfectly Que’d

to our concordant heartbeats


while the Stream streamed

her lyrical melody

we were aware of movement

in things

some were in the undercurrent

of consciousness


thought was not required here

for the Smörgåsbord of verdant fragrances

and scents of life

displaced their necessity


as we indwelled

in the realm

of our Heaven

there was no more

unleavened bread to eat of

for sorrows have taken leave


all i could possibly sense

was you and i

and Mother’s Holy performance

as we lay upon the blanket

that lay upon the grass

under the Tree that weeped

by the Stream


© 6 March 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

ever for


my soul joyfully weeps in anticipation . . .

of your coming


i know with all due certainty

that you bear for me a bountiful heart,

filled with the gifts of “Heart”,

with no limitations.


Through many restless nights

i rode the dream streams

of colorful light beams

looking over the horizons

of my aspirations . . .

looking for you


All my senses enlivened

with the urge but to be of you . . .

through you . . .

in you . . .

once again . . .

for you complete

the “me” of  “me”.


Over the eons

i have watched

the waxing and waning

of my passions and desires,

knowing that only your heart

could align my path with my truth.


Need i say that

the warm velvet of your ethereal touch

grounds me in the soil

of the garden of “Birth and Death”

exposing my silly illusions . . .

that i am finite.


Yes Love,

in my delusional haste to live

and the creations of my own hauntings,

i knew you were always there . . .

heart in hand

flowing with the essence of all life

. . . love.

For with Love,

Death willingly is trumped

and thus submits it’s veil of deceit

to what “IS” . . . Life!


So.  my dear

bring me the breath of “BE”ing that sustains us . . .

bring me the Joy Divine

bring me my Life’s Light . . .

Light my Lantern once again

bring me our life

that permeates all “BE”ing . . .

that i may awaken

and be transformed in the . . .


ever for.


(c) 2010 : William S. Peters, Sr.

of this day


from the Dawn of this Morning

i call to you

as you call to me

for the spirit of who we are

are but reflections of something greater

something beyond

most earthly comprehension


does not the Sun rise from his bed each morn

to make way for our day

does not the Sun light the way

that our path this day

may be seen

with the utmost of clarity


i celebrate you

and your grandeur

as you reflect

that which is greater in you

for now i see


in the light

of this day


© 2 June 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.



the silence taunts me,

and my manifestation

embodied in body

is restless

stirring consciousness

to speak on it’s behalf

in hopes that its whisperings

may entice my soul

to movement


the dance of light

in illusion

is still what it is


and all meaning perhaps

slips from our grasp

as it has done

over the eons


understanding is not seclusive

though our precluded observation

have moved to a house

with no foundations


and invariably

the fall approaches

with a taste of reproach

for our elective disconnectedness


and then upon the collapse

of the dreams

embraced by the ether

brings stillness in the wake


and then we hear


the silence

which taunts

the souls of men



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