"peters" poems
They look out from the terrace.
At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.
BANG!
An artificial cloud.
“Mira,” she points, “Venga!”
They fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.
Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.
"¡Ya vienen!"
Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.
Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.
Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and closer, louder, gallops sound.
Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;
indoors,
apart,
he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner
with long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
it
crashes
in.
She turns and the fear is paralysing.
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
He hurdles the stairs
and explodes
but it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.
He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering
paves
it
peters
off
down
the
street.
"¿Que ha pasado?
¿Quien ha sido?
¡El Balbotin
y la Chicha!
¡Que una vaca
les ha pillado!"
"¿Estas bien?"
Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.
"Podria haber sido peor"
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
New Orleans has its Oaks, the most beautiful in the world
The Oaks they had an occupant, little squawky squirrel
Squawky squirrel stepped out one day, cross the street he made his way
And if he hadn’t changed his mind, he’d still be here today
The widow sweet Ms. Peters, did receive a call
From a handsome gentleman, who went by the name of Paul
Ms. Peters had been interested, in Paul’s cautious advance
But decided she would wait a while, not to take a chance
Now Paul has found his one and only
Ms. Peters spends her nights quite lonely
Oh yes the case of the pretty pilot
Just seventeen in a flying machine
The weather turned black so she headed back
But her boyfriend intervened
Now close if I may - here's what I say
Trust yourself - the odds break your way
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
evan peters,
your so fine.
i've seen your behind, atleast 4 times.
i think you should know that you're a dime.
will you be my valentine?
evan peters,
is one hell of a man,
he can even pull off lobster hands.
evan peters i am your biggest fan.
i would love to tell you this over a can of spam.
but ****
you're emmas man.
evan peters,
you're so fly,
you're bootylicious,i can't denie, to hell with shakira,
your hips do not lie,
american horror story, until the day i die!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé
It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.
In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.
Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”
That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.
Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 10:51 PM UTC
I have discovered that most of
the beauties of travel are due to
the strange hours we keep to see them:
the domes of the Church of
the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
against a smoky dawn—the heart stirred —
are beautiful as Saint Peters
approached after years of anticipation.
3k
for Ashley and Trent
Joyous tears lie just ahead,
for Trent and Ashley
will seal their love today.
Pipes, strings, brass and voices
will soar beneath
Saint Peters towering nave
and we'll rise as one to affirm
their pledge of love and faith.
They met in band at Belleville East
and always seemed to know
that on some spring morn in June
they would stand at the altar
to vow their lives to constancy.
We all knew it too and today
we would be no other place
for hope unbounded rules the day
and echoes in our grateful hearts.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
They brace the moonlight with forgotten words
and follow broken trails
as if on a reconnaissance
to St Peters gate,
where they would be earnestly brushed away
without so much as a shed tear.
They feast on wild boar
and laugh into their mead,
those intrepid souls
without so much as a purpose,
render themselves to the dying winds.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
I was doing it
A L L W R O N G
Because I thought about it,
I thought of
David Levithan
and his books
and I thought of
Alex Sanchez and
HIS books,
and
I thought about
Julia Anne Peters and
HER books.
And after I was done
thinking I realised
I was doing what
I hated.
Boy meets Boy isn't
a gay story.
It's a story about love.
Keeping You A Secret
is not a
lesbian love story,
it's just a love story.
Rainbow Boys Trilogy is not
a gay trilogy it's
a story about growing up and
getting along and
being in love and
being scared and
being stupid
and being brave
and being
a
friend.
I'm just thinking about them as
being about gayness because
they are gay,
even if you take away everything they
are love
stories
and
that's
it.
Love Is The Higher law--
about 9/11.
I Am J--
Being yourself--
a common theme.
Wide Awake--
finding courage and
finding yourself.
All these books,
and I've been looking at them
W R O N G.
I mean,
ten years ago
Boy Meets Boy
and
Keeping You A Secret
and
Rainbow Boys
was a
H U G E D E A L,
but now...
not
so much.
Maybe it's from living in a
household where gay
didn't exist,
Don't get me wrong,
I still want a book about
a character living in a
fantasy world or
utopia as a..
clone, maybe.
Or a dragon slayer.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
She’s got a cheap cigarette
she uses to bury us all in smoke.
It hangs off her lips
and wobbles when she talks.
She’s cracked open a new book,
another ****** romance.
It’s always romance,
she says, taking a drag from her cigarette.
*It’s in everything, in every **** book.*
Each word she speaks is followed by a puff of smoke,
small clouds that form as she talks
and roll off of the curve of her lips,
the very same lips
that told me romance
is for suckers, told me talks
of love are talks of nothing rolled into a cigarette
she’d never smoke.
She buries her nose in her book
once more, leaving me to stare at the book
cover and nervously gnaw at my lips.
The empty space between us is full of tension and smoke
and somehow, a stubborn romance
that hangs in the air like a half hit cigarette
hangs on the edge of an ashtray. She talks
to me, around me, and about me, but our talks
never include that tension, though I could write a book
full of the way she glances past her cigarette
at me, how her inviting lips
beg me to foolishly romance
her by hurling apprehensive smiles through her wall of smoke.
The tiny wisps of smoke
that swirl around her dance as she talks
about this dime-store romance
novel she happened to pick up, a devastating book
about a man who spent his life with his lips
sewed shut. She finally puts out her cigarette.
The smoke from her cigarette peters out and silence settles over the two of us.
I move my lips and no sound comes out. When she finally talks
again, I cross my fingers in hopes of being the next romance book she wants to discuss.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
There's a room somewhere,
locked fast behind an unassuming door
looming grey-brown at the end of a
misshapen corridor.
Inside, the relics of a time lost in time
to time.
A mitt, engraved with the counterfeit signature
of a ballplayer whose name once rang a bell,
smelling of adolescent sweat,
still dusted with sandlot crumbs,
a reminder of those ground *****
that sped by too fast to field,
those fly ***** just out of reach,
suspended in a June twilight
lost to time.
Ribbons and awards and certificates,
signed by leaders of puny regimes
paved and repaved over,
proof of a world before this,
an era of (now) perceived achievement,
legitimized, glorified by Old English type
printed on recyclable stock paper.
Ticket stubs from blockbuster flops,
receipts of a linear plotline:
Drama, comedy, a budding romance -
Temporarily amusing on such a spacious screen
but ultimately unfulfilling;
the plot peters towards the end.
Lost in time the boy cries out
with no one left to answer but the man
who, as quietly as he entered it,
exits the room,
as always, leaving the door just ajar,
enough to muffle the shrieks of a little boy
chasing an invisible horizon.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
#
***The twilight clouds
went scudding past
like witches on their brooms.
The sound of laughter
filled the night
as ghouls departed tombs.
"Trick or treat!"
resounded
as menageries filed by...
Filling up their bags with loot
while candy stores ran dry.
Dentists filled appointments books
in brisk anticipation...
Knowing that enamel
would not stand
such laceration.
Zombies stagger down the street
and vampires trip on capes.
Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles,
Frankenstein escapes!
Princesses and knights with swords,
mummies by the score...
Ghosts and goblins saunter by
and darkened homes ignore.
Masks of every shape and type
monsters and the like...
Arriving via motor pool
on foot, skateboard and bike.
Kids of every age invade
demanding tribute thus...
(Oh dear...
here comes another group
arriving on a bus.)
People donning hobo clothes
adorned in eye-holed sheets...
Wearing out the doorbells
on the darkened,
porch lit streets.
Jack o lanterns
hiss and spit
as candles soon expire.
Children head back home
to count their swag
and then retire.
At last
the tempest peters out.
The pageantry is gone.
I look out
at the candy wrappers
littering the lawn.
Another Halloween is done.
I hope they had their fill.
"Trick or treat!"
still resonates
I hear its echoes still.
But... just around the corner
as Thanksgiving season nears...
We hear the spiels and ads
of all the rabid marketeers.
Turkeys gobble restlessly
at axes sharp and keen...
For them...
this is a nightmare...
just another Halloween.***
#
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
If this is all there is
If everything I've seen so far in life
Is all there is to live,
And you are never ever coming back
Then let me be happy with it.
Because I so desperately want to be happy.
Let me see every new new day like
A mother sees her child, eyes open wide
Staring at something I had a hand in making
That could just as easily go wrong as it could right.
Let me hear every seven AM wake up call as
The bells of St Peters to the ear of a choir boy
Calling me to worship with unquestionable faith.
Let me eat every burnt slice of toast like
A convicted criminal ensconced in solitary
Devours his last meal on death row.
Let me feel laughter as something other,
Than just the vibration of vocal chords.
Let me always speak with the conviction
Of a dreamer, a believer, an activist
Shouting every syllable
From the pinnacle of an overturned soapbox
And treating every street corner like a stage.
Let me stop trying to predict rain
And accept that if there are going to be downpours
There are certain seeds I need to sow.
Let me stop watching the television screen
As though all of life's mysteries
Can be answered by documentaries.
And that I can finally tune in, by connecting with fictional shows.
Let me see wonder
Because for a long time now I've been dreaming in colour
Its real life that seems trapped in monochrome.
If this is all there is
If everything I've lived in life has taken all I have to give
And you are never ever coming back.
Then lets get it over with.
Because I so desperately want this to be over.
Let me breathe in smoke for the rest of my days
Until tar spills from my lungs, to my heart
And burns my capillaries with that nicotine flame
Let me make heartbreak an art.
Because it reminds me of you
And I don't deserve any better.
Let me walk like I'm walking on eggshells
How I always used to do for you.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:11 PM UTC
*Once each one made a lotus bloom in other's blood pool,
by each brooding on the thought of the other, but time flies,
their songs, adventurous white swans, flew to distant lands,
in meditative moments they can see, those birds rest in eternity's nest-
hitting the bull's eye triggering enlightenment, but the blue bird
their pet, both loved, is still perched somewhere in a higher branch, not that visible,
echoes of ecstasy visit them now and then, but they knew illusions won't last.
He is now fire and wind, she is earth and water, time to part it is
tears welling in her eyes, she asks: what shall I offer, as a parting gift?
"A bit of salt, from your blood, sweat and tears, too I appreciate"
his voice peters out to silence.Eternity their true abode, is waiting.*
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
Since Mrs Ranger's remarkable return to good health
She and Doctor Granger have come into wealth
They bought a ticket in the national lottery
To celebrate her startling recovery
Mrs Thrift is taking care of Mrs Ranger's pet dog and home
As the good doctor and Mrs Ranger have gone on holiday to Rome
They plan to be wed at Saint Peters on New Years Day
After that they'll journey to a romantic bay
Mrs Ranger has given her permission
For a story to be told about her chronic health conditions
She's employed a ghost writer to tell the tale
With Doctor Granger advising on the medical details
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
*Can't be sad that I have no Easter poem, the bible says it all
that whence He died, He died for my Soul
He took beatings, insults and all sorts of pains
including crowning with thorns to free my chains
He carried a cross in shame whipped by scorn and hate
just so you and me could have tickets to Heaven,He changed our fate
He stood up each time the weight got Him succumbing to gravity
because He knew we ain't no Devil's property
He even descended into the hades,it was no fairy tale
and that way we all, to go to paradise won't have to go through Hell
He beat the Devil in many ways including the forty days
when the cunning lad tried to tempt Him with Earthly praise and raise
At the Gardens in Gethsemane whilst the disciples slept He bled
and didn't end there,on the third day He rose fresh from the dead
ask me not how I gained from Jesus' suffering death and resurrection
for it's beyond measure, it's as miraculous as the transfiguration
but my lesson besides the gain is that I can overcome pain
that no matter how steep the hills may seem there's always a plain
that even when all hope is gone there's a third day to rise
that the devil is out there in the desert, I should always shine my eyes
He taught me that those who crown us with thorns don't define who we are
We're kings and Authors of our stories, different from what they claim by far
Jesus taught us to forgive the Judas and the Peters
We shouldn't forsake them just because they looked on while the world beat us
that while on my cross,some are going to give me inspirational talk
sincerely while others are just going to satirise and mock
that there are still good people in this world who can help me with my load
Just like Simon of Cyrene lifted the cross that burdened my lord
I just have to let them in, a crowd of adversaries can't lack a friend
He reminded me that in this world I am but a visitor
you should always remember this even after Easter
so many lessons there are but mostly, that death is not the end*
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
Halloween.
Where the Queen of the imps, pimps her minions and daemons fly
where the good man asks why
and the bad ones don't care,
Halloween
is in the air.
Lock your window,bolt the door,keep the cat in,
dogs are for barking when goblins are larking about,
hear a shout and cover your ears,
let your fingers hide the fears,
hold your heart in,
don't take part in
Halloween.
The Pope pipes out hope in St Peters Square
but Halloween is in the air,
where will you be
under the bed hiding with me?
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
Color rides the universe-
The final present in a hole should fade-
Stories of fresh love-
Words of wisdom kings to be made-
Fresh shame haunts-so-slow those devils inside-
Relenting exhaustion-putting all hurt-aside-
Relinquishing in love-
Passion drive drugs-
Hugs are forgotten-but not these cold shrugs-
Pride to the wilderness-Standing at St. Peters gate-
Amongst the villains to be judged-
Grandeur-we wait-
He stands before his maker-
Dancing clouds in the sky-
Love making love to you-
Is the dream of goodnight-
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
weary soul
worn down
like sneakers
that have walked the line
far too long
the line far to thin
to make a difference
no delineation,
no real sides
to be taken
just a staging area
between the black and grey
of a half life lived in half shadow
with the promise of
an hours sunshine
each day...
weary soul
wandering along
to the end of this line
that peters out
in a morse code message
of mental and physical decline
a repatriation of lost time
a moments deviation defined
by years spent waiting for
a chance to rewind, declined
by a judgemental man,
signing on the dotted line
weary, wearied soul
worn out and now
just a faded memory
blown, dust to the wind
as the coffin winds down.
lines now terminated
ultimately, forever, segregated
from the life within
and on the topside,
a mourners line
thin and tired
throw soil
upon the lid
weary souls
crying for justice
but reaping sorrow
fearing for the break of morrow
marrow jelly and breaking bones
wend their way, back to broken homes
to sit on couches filled with dust
to watch television that peddle lust
and throwaway goods for throwaway lives
no call for effort,
no need to strive,
just be a drone!
live for the hive!
groan and moan,
give graft on loan
have your muttered say,
about the state of play
whilst, living lives, the deepest shade of grey
growing weary and more wearied evey day
waiting for the great big sleep
wading through beaucoup de petites morts
drowning in une petite vie
jamais las, éternellement usé
porter des clowns espadrilles
et un froncement de sourcils
*forever weary, eternally worn down
wearing clowns sneakers and a frown*
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
I have stood in a thousand formations
and beared witness to the greatest men
who've recieved the greatest honors
I have stood in few formations
where i have cried
tears for my fallen brothers
I have stood at attention
as the casket was loaded
and away they flew
I have flown the heroes
no longer here
and cried every minute
I have rendered a million salutes
but the ones i remember
are for the fallen
With flag draped casket
etched upon my memory
never to see another golden sunset
Lost but never forgotten
the heroes, my brothers, my comrades
for as i breathe you'll never be forgotten
Rest In Peace
Shadow Brethren
SSG Powell And Sgt Silk
May you sleep with angels
on the wings of doves
to the pearly gates at ST. Peters Steps
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
i will die.
the sun,
and by the way
did you know?
(i do)
in the summer it
leaps wholly freshness
into the sweating backs of knees
a yowl
a dream
a distinctly arousing
a corded and steeply ***** shyness.
it peters sharply
from girl cuts
into niceness
a cringing of night
to less darkly foil
the trees
(amongst 'em
where will sleep
me when i
cease my hands to try) roots
reachness of worms
and the rushing of oceans
wind
wind
wind
coolly teasing
with teeth so
cruelly pleasing
(upon which rise
the curving hushness
of body's plummet
isthe
falling of darkness' lushness
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
Trickster drizzle peters,
Expectant trees are mawkish;
Rain’s failed sweet promise!
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
Saturday Boy
Pound of Cumberland, Mrs Finn?
Hand grab sausage swirl - in the bag.
**** for Mrs Peters, fillet for Mr Snyde.
Money in, meat out.
Out of sight saw-grind
cleaver-chop through bone.
Thick-set carcass/Gaffer neck
tea and toast and tea.
Meat fridge full of flesh
sky hanging dry on hooks
bags of liver and lights
pig head, sheep foot.
Open to Closed on the door
chain-link mesh pulled back
blocks scoured with wire-tipped brush
– scrub don’t tickle.
Gaffer writes tomorrow’s boards
saw, cleaver and blade soaked
floor swept and mopped
blood and bleach.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
HI DUDES
I JUST UPLOADED THIS WEEKS VERSION OF MY CHART SHOW, WHERE MY MOTTO IS
PLAY THE OLD MUSIC, COUNTDOWN THE NEW, AND I UPLOADED TWO SONGS FROM
ANGRY ANDERSON FROM YESTERDAYS CONVOY FESTIVAL AT GUNGAHLIN
PRETTY RAD ISN’T IT, I USE MY CHARACTER, BERNETTE PETERS, WHO IS MY LITTLE GIRL IN ME
THE ORANGE HAIR WANNA BE, THIS ISN’T STRANGE BEHAVIOUR, THIS IS COOL BEHAVIOUR
PERFORMING ON YOUTUBE, AND THANKS FOR GIVING ME A FEW VIEWS, I LOOK AT ESTIMATED TIME WATCHED
AND I THANK YOU THERE TOO, DON’T STOP BEING ENTERTAINED BY ME, I WILL BE A YOUTUBER TILL THE END
WHICH I HOPE ISN’T FOR A LONG TIME
WELL DONE TO THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS, BEATING SEATTLE, 4TH WIN THIS CENTURY
I AM BOPPING BERNETTE PETERSON, AND I SHAKE MY HEAD TO TOE, I SHAKE ALL OVER TILL I ROCK ‘EM ALL OVER YEAH
I PARTY RIGHT, YEAH, I PARTY RIGHT
YEAH, IF YA LIKE ANGRY ANDERSON, CHECK OUT MY VIDS OF ROCK AND ROLL OUTLAW AND WE CAN’T BE BEATEN
I WILL UPLOAD MORE IN THE FUTURE, ESPECIALLY THE PARADE
SORRY FOR MY ONES THAT DIDN’T MAKE IT, MY COMPUTER ONLY ALLOWS A FEW QUICKIES A DAY, OK
AAA YOUTUBE TV, IS WHERE THE NEW UPLOADS ARE OK
THANKS TO TWITTER FOR FAVOURITING MY WE CAN’T BE BEATEN UPLOAD, OK DUDES
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
Cats eyes line the meanders, drifting off right, wondering left.
Clutching fog lamps, casting back a luminous dot to dot;
morse code decorated trenches: cracks in the trails ahead.
White noise peters in as waves crack the shore,
salt water droplets - tortoise and hare; that game
you played as a kid willing the underdog to win.
The dogs on his back in the backseat, legs in the air.
Underneath him the blanket you wore the first time
we jumped from the pier to the sea, a pair of young fools
romantically free, not strung to the walls of marital tension,
mortgage loans, pensions pressing the wind out your lungs
and life out your heart; the bond we shared has drifted apart.
Crash on the land, the pounding waves;
gush of the tides shivers down your braids.
One hand on the wheel, one hand on yours
you take it away as we brush past the moors.
Rumble over rubble, our suspension knocks
wooden slats creek as we speed past the docks.
Turn to me teary eyed nostalgia, I swerve between the bench
and the toll booth, two dodgy dogs notice running and flailing,
as the last fence approaches. The tiniest movement, a twitch
of the wrist could take a toll on our carriage of bliss.
The carnage we left, lit from the west
your glistening pupils and rain soaked vest
tinted gold from the sunlight and pink
from the sky. The clouds above part as prepared,
those adulterous pedigrees, tore our peace treaty
your cuffed hand reaches over muffled screeches
that beloved mut in-the-back, most bedraggled
of creatures howls as you pull the hand break
twist the wheel our tires carve etches.
At the end of the structure, we howl with the dog,
and the tyre with all the punctualness rendered
functionless with two deep punctures
hisses and sinks with much of a muchness.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
Crucified and left to dwell,
if you had to do it all again, would you?
Hindsight.
a sign that hangs on the gates of hell,
when you see the fires and half measure desires,
how does the pain feel as you cry your,
no surrender,
this place takes you further than pain ,
than torture that burns your heart and your anguish tame no two lifes the same,
a picture postcard of a misspent youth,
both ends burning in a midnight vocation,
burn baby burn,
no return to the familar choir,
as you sink into the fire,
oh i would carry my own cross again and again to feel the warmth of my mother and kiss those cherry holy lips and change the water into wine if i could hold back time and hear st peters bell chime, and hold the chalice and swear to my fathers, father as the flames grow higher, just to hold you one last time my Mary is my hearts desire.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 7:21 AM UTC