Rod M.Peters Poems

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Gratitude To A Black Bird

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

Peter Featherhead

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

He Once Ceased To See The Colors

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

Yodeling Fool

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

Silver Bird

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

The Land Of Plenty

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,

Be Not A Real Man

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

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