Category Archives: Peter’s Stuff

Things Peter is doing, interested in, or otherwise feels like posting

Poetry is for sissies and the lost DVD

It’s been a while since I wrote anything about the family…  It seems I’ve been on a poetry bender for the last several months, and have left the more weighty matters to moulder.  I can’t for the life of me understand why it is that I feel inclined to make up silly rhymes to go with stupid pictures, but I guess I find it somewhat therapeutic to pull myself away from the world of analytical and sterile language that dominates my days at work.  Unfortunately, that probably means that the three or so family members who have ever read this … Read the rest


A graying sky comes pressing on
It's twilight at noon day
Air's heavy since the early dawn
Seems a storm is on it's way.

A distant rumble passes by
The horses snort and stomp
A sudden flash lights up the sky
My outside work must stop.

In the barn a drum beat starts
Quick tapping on tin roof
A yearling kid now jumps and darts
Beats dirt under her hoof.

The tapping turns into a roar
Explosions shake the walls
Howling winds pound on the door
The roof makes water falls.

A thirsty earth gapes wide the mouth
To drink 
Read the rest

Pray for Rain

'Mid searing heat we pray for rain
And hope for cloudy skies
To wet the earth and cool the air
Make shade for squinting eyes

Withered plants cry out for damp
And wilt in summer's heat
On cracking earth with fissures wide 
Growth turned in fast retreat

Dust and sun and baking winds
Blow grit in eye and ear
Peeling skin and cracking hands
Pray that rain is near

The Elephant

Acknowledged but unspoken,
Sitting heavy in this space,
A weight on every shoulder,
Tensile strain in every face.

It's name must not be sounded,
Nor its presence e'en confirmed,
It's substance flat discounted,
It's existence not affirmed.

If aired, the thoughts and feelings,
Formed about the ugly beast,
Would stir it from a slumber,
Then it on my peace would feast.

So better to ignore it now,
accept the stagnant stink,
Give up what was my breathing room,
Turn off my will to think.

Confine myself to smaller space,
Be glad I have some left,
Then hope it won't demand 
Read the rest


How is it that they cannot walk,
When slower speed is wanted,
Can play all day and jump and climb,
On into night undaunted. 

Bounding to and fro with mirth,
While chasing wind and rain,
Grubbing, digging, wrestling too,
Impervious to pain.

But task them with some simple thing,
Then comes a sudden crash,
Aching backs and swollen tongues,
With joint-pain and a rash.

Bathroom breaks that take an hour,
Drinks that last all day,
Just anything to slow the pace, 
Because it isn't play.


There is a kind of tired,
That resting can't assuage,
Not caused by sweat and labor,
Nor a product of great age.

Oft it creeps in slowly,
Caused by labors of the mind,
When truths compete as valid,
But no resolution find.

They grind against each other,
Then life adds in some grit,
Of reason, hope and longing,
That block and warp the fit;

Which erstwhile might be forming,
Were the process left alone,
To smooth the roughened edges,
Like a knife against the hone.

And form a polished surface,
Where the two can both reside,
Supporting one another, 
Read the rest

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 
Read the rest


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