Category Archives: Peter’s Writings

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


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


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


The truth will set you free they say,
Give you strength and show the way.
Help you stand when threats come strong,
Make clear the route to carry on.

Sometimes it's true that truth is kind,
Healing hands and heart and mind.
But all too oft it carries weight,
Truths that grind, and crush, and grate.

A knowledge of a harsher sort,
Breaks through to light, a sharp retort.
The darkened hearts that plot and plan,
To hurt, oppress, and exploit man.

Patterns followed o'er again,
Truth and right now labeled sin.
Done before, the outcome's clear,
But boldly on, 
Read the rest

Company Man

While much of the poetry that I write is deeply personal, this one stems from an experience I had helping a friend and colleague through the collapse and beginnings of reconstructing his marriage.

Twenty years he towed the line,
In the lead or just behind,
Purpose bent to meet his task,
Ever solid, firm, steadfast.

Many nights would find him still,
At his work for hours 'till,
Exhaustion bid him pause a while,
Then homeward trudge without a smile.

Daybreak bids him e'er again,
Drawn as moth to candle's flame,
Weary eyes in a care-worn face,
Search for meaning in 
Read the rest