Rod M.Peters

Black bird perched on the eave
Croaking a dissonant note amidst
So many Nightingales
Are you aware of my gaze?
...

Little Peter Featherhead
Dreams away his days in bed
Writing secret vows.
...

He once ceased to see the colors
And the lights
And the glimmering of the sea
And the sparkle in the eye.
...

Yours is wondrous Poetry
Laden with the ripe fruits of emotion,
The lustrous layers of your longing.
One should only very carefully tread
...

I often dreamt of Swiss chocolate raining down
From the heavens above
And quaint Swiss clocks ticking accurately,
Making our messy little lives more precise,
...

The madman that sits on my chair
Picks up the breadcrumbs
From the coffee table
But leaves one for the wandering little ant
...

I drag my feet through nameless streets
Wasting away in the throes
Of metallic death-rattles.
The sound of my soles awakens
...

Her kisses drink me up slowly
Her mouth sipping keenly
Then playfully holding back,
Her moist lips thirsting,
...

The old sturgeon held his fishing pole
Sitting well away from the busy shoal
Right on the pond's mossy bed.
He swung it once, swung with might,
...

I bought an old book of poems
By Walter de la Mare
And thought it a great thing
With my beloved to share,
...

Be not a real man, my boy
When you grow up
For that will surely pull awry
Many faces in disgust.
...

Surf on the crest of a solar flare
Skirting the icy suburbs
Of a glowing Mercury.
String the Pleiades in a star necklace
...

Inside the big subterranean city
That strives to affirm itself apart
From the infinite, all-encompassing Ether
By the subterfuge of a thin layer of skin,
...

Oh, indeed it'd easier to abdicate
And walk out into exile in a cove of silence
Than to raise a bridge of words
And steal over the ocean of your indifference.
...

I've not been haunted, like you,
By eerily glowing dragonflies
The size of young doves
Stopping you cold on your feet
...

I tip the crystal goblet of my soul
And pour out the water of mercy
But it cuts like exploding shrapnel
The parched face of the thirsty.
...

No tale that tells of the innocents' death
Should be spoken in other than faint whispers.
Of unblemished porcelain figurines in school shorts
And quaint little jackets with embroidered blazons
...

A dazzled worm peering out of a red apple;
A painted dinosaur grazing on freshly
Dewed grass while a giant meteorite
Looms on a rose-coloured Paleolithic sky;
...

So you finally made good
On all your promises to uproot
The children of the tiller man.
You're done dancing
...

...