Category Archives: Peter’s Writings

Things Peter writes for his own benefit, not necessarily intended for or made available to the general public.

Snake Oil – Thoughts on Temporal Hope

Where do you turn when hope seems lost?

Several years ago, a friend of mine shared his thoughts on this topic.  Jim was probably one of the happiest and kindest men I had ever met.  His whole life had been dedicated to the cheerful service of others, and he was beloved by a great many as a result.   Unfortunately, tragedy doesn’t seem to respect these kinds of distinctions, and struck Jim and his family rather abruptly and harshly.   Several months before the exchange around which this article is based, Jim and his wife Helen had traveled to Europe for the … Read the rest

Snake Oil

My patented and perfect cure
Is worth it's weight in gold
Composed of extracts much more pure
Than ever have been sold.

The larva from a tse-tse fly
In tincture with exotic salt
Applied just right to tired eye
Will heal a ghastly fault. 

Pure essence of a tiger's blood 
To strengthen timid hearts 
And extract of a cobra's bile 
Rebuild your weaker parts.

Fix your ills in just one dose 
Or ten, or maybe more 
A dose a day for just six weeks 
Will heal an ulcered sore. 

Taken for six hundred days 
While drifting out at sea 
Will 
Read the rest

Treasure

Guarded and gathered with zealous pride,
More treasured than the sultan's horde,
Kisses, caresses and hours at your side,
Priceless, treasured, craved and adored.

Warm with promise of hope and renewal,
Spring's rays touch my up-turned face,
But absent your eye the sun takes a fall, 
Shining icy and cold into desolate space.

Unworthy I ponder what magic was played,
To win your companionship, love and trust,
A debtor in truth for a future now saved,
You give purpose to rise from the dust.

Building Memories

It's not about precision 
Or doing it correctly
Efficiency would call it waste
When done this indirectly

The final product may be flawed
And lack a finer finish
The craftsmanship could use some work
Have defects or a blemish

It could be done much quicker
If I did it all myself
It'd last a little longer
Or look better on the shelf

What lesson would that teach them
What mem'ries would they find
If I took it from their hands
And kept it just for mine

Lighthouse

I don't think that I'd like to live there,
Too many steps to the top.
No corners to park naughty children,
A light that will never stop.

Fog that rolls in calls for non-pointed horns,
Warns sailors but wakes lookers on.
Sea-spray and salt coat both precious and poor,
corroding and rusting 'till gone.

A lighthouse in name, it's massive and tall,
Concrete and steel aren't light.
Not fit for a family to call it a home,
A house where I'll not spend a night.

Not Under a Rhyming Star

The rhyming star is a fickle friend,
With mystic rays that shimmer and bend,  
Around and past the would be poet,
With fullest heart though none may know it.

Visions of beauty and scenes in his mind,
Are trapped without outlet and won't be defined,
'Till lamely he finds a flavorless phrase,
Lost in a labyrinthian linguistic maze. 

"I was not born under a rhyming star",
He howls in despair to the silence afar,
An echo returns with taunting and spite,
So he sets down his pen and calls it a night.

Flying Solo

Way back in the dark ages when I was single and in college, I seriously contemplated spending the time and money required to get my private pilots’ license.  I even went so far as to get a few hours behind the controls of a Cessna 182.  It was enough to convince me I would love it and that I couldn’t afford to maintain it as a hobby if I was ever going to have a family.   I gave up my quest before my first “solo” flight.  I was disappointed, but accepted my fate with magnanimity; knowing that my first solo … Read the rest