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Apr 2020 · 70
Those Special Hours
Peter Farsje Apr 2020
The magic begins
as the sun bids farewell to the day.
Work is done.
A hush creeps over the world.
Peach in the sky
turns pale, to dark blue,
then fades to black.

Stars begin to awaken from their daily nap.
They blink and rub the sleep from their eyes
as night birds begin their lullabies.
The moon slowly shows her face.

These special hours.
Time to be still.
Reflect on work well done.
Treasure family and friends.
Remember many good times
and count life's blessings.

Sadly
all too soon,
before the counting comes to a close,
the Sandman returns for his nightly visit.
sandman dusk twilight stars moon mood blessings peaceful blessings lullaby
Peter Farsje Mar 2020
After the funeral
back at the house,
adults gathered talking
in hushed platitudes.

While wandering the house
I looked out the window.
There she was, on the front lawn
by the blue hydrangea.

Rising from the ground
like an apparition...

GRANDMA!

She is the last person
I know
who went to heaven.

(little Peter, age 6)
Mar 2020 · 185
Who Is This??
Peter Farsje Mar 2020
Who is this old man I see in the mirror?
I see his weathered, wrinkled face
and his white, thinning hair.
His tired eyes look back
appraising me.
Who can this be?
Surely not me.
It cannot be me.
Never Me...

In my mind I see myself
thin, strong, energetic.
I feel a lust for life,
eager for new adventures
and a hunger to explore
new ideas.
I have a youthful sense of humor
and a ready laugh.

No.
That image in the mirror
is not me.
The mirror is playing
a trick on me...

Yes! That's the answer!
Feb 2020 · 436
Beware the Pirate Cove
Peter Farsje Feb 2020
Beware young and old alike
for the place that is a scary sight.
Its the Pirate's Cove
sure enough, by jove.

Protected by Sunset Reef,
raiders there will come to grief.

There amongst the shoals
many here have lost their souls.

Daring ones who venture
there by skiff,
often fail to spy their shack,
under the cliff.

The shack is there
though hard to see.
Tattered and weathered
and leaning alee.

Their fighting ship
is hard to seek,
for its hidden well up
the nearby creek.

Bloodthirsty pirates
ready to take your life,
to poke you or stab you
with their long, sharp knife.

In the early morning
they may be snoring,
after a wild night
of drinking and sporting.

Pray not wake them
or you risk your life,
by tasting the
bite of their trusty knife.

Seeking their chests
filled with gold
may land you down
in the depths so cold.

So lads and lasses
stay away
and live to see
another day.
Feb 2020 · 266
I Shop, Therefore I Am
Peter Farsje Feb 2020
March! March! March!
Marketing's pounding drum.

Beat! Beat! Beat!
Hear the thundering feet.

Come one, Come all!
Answer the piper's call.

Act fast! Act fast!
The sale will not last!

Need, Need, Need!
You will not be freed.

Credit, Credit, Credit!
As long as you can get it.

Spend, Spend, Spend!
Will it never end?

Pawn, Pawns, Pawns,

The illusion We are in control.
Feb 2020 · 582
My Old Grandad
Peter Farsje Feb 2020
I just love my old grandad.
He was born in Kentucky,
I think he has aged well.

He joins us at family parties.
He sits staight and tall
but rarely, if ever, says anything.

He brings warmth
and good cheer while he
quietly sits listening.

Sometimes I look for him
at the grocery store,
though I seldom see him there.

I just love my Old Grandad.
He is the head of the bourbon family.

Old Grandad.
Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.
Feb 2020 · 237
The Grotto
Peter Farsje Feb 2020
Hidden from the world lies a place so divine,
dark and quiet, it heralds peace within.

A place know to
but a chosen few,
its walls laced with delicate ferns
dripping with crystaline dew.

Hear the drops and trickles falling
musically to the stream below.

Deep within its walls
dwell those shadowy few,
nymphs and faeries
and others too.

Niads and hyriads
and their spirit kind,
lie in serene repose.

Ye blessed visitors
who this place find,
Keep these secrets
so divine
Feb 2020 · 191
Dispair
Peter Farsje Feb 2020
The deep, dark pit
holds me tight,

Though my arms fight
with all my might.

Its pitchy blackness
filled with gloom,

Every hour
spreading doom.

On and on, I try to flee,
knowing well its not to be.

— The End —