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, the crash comes near. On every side distinctive signs, describe the flaxen cords that bind. Yet no one stirs to shake them off, Some warn, entreat, but yet they scoff. To see the truth through sophistry, An ancient path of catastrophe, Makes knowledge a burden heavy and grave, No freedom here... I am truth's slave.
Category: Peter’s Writings
Things Peter writes for his own benefit, not necessarily intended for or made available to the general public.
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Burden
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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 this place. He comfort seeks in a future distant, When the work will all be done, Yet each day the tasks insistent, Bid him stay 'till time is gone. While in his poor neglected home, His life's companion sits alone, Grieving over memories dear, Of promised changes ever near. All alone in thought and deed, Her guard let down, she feels a need, Then knocking at her lonely door, Ancient friends entice her more. Hardening with cold neglect, Losing e'en her self respect, She wanders off the beaten path, a one-way road - no turning back. One halt step to test the road, And swiftly others more profound, 'Till shucking off her heavy load, Faith shatters on unholy ground. Youth now entangled by the fray, Their children know not how to pray, Or whom to ask for lighter loads, Ne'er taught to seek in His abodes. The promise made of finer things, A house of playing cards now seems, They never wanted more than time, To share their thoughts and speak their mind. They see the strain in mothers face, Her tender heart with ice replaced, Withdrawn and secret, pained and sore, She loves their father now no more. Pulled and yanked at every joint, they wish for what will never be, Voices shout and fingers point, A shattered future now they see. In days gone by 'midst hope and joy, He'd scheme for idler times employ, Speak of happy things he'd do, When the work was truly through. Yet every time he'd start anew, Some labor kind, or service do, In habits set, he quick returned, To toil in his profession learned. Seeking joy where never found, Dashing hopes on stony ground, Accolades and praise received, Clearly had him then deceived. Now too late begins to dawn, Through misty eyes and broken heart, How changes made so early on, Can stop the pain before its start.
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Monumental
Large even from an airplane window seen, sixty miles away. Built to send people where nobody's been, the vacuum of space. Buses could park on the stripes of the flag, if it laid down. A symbol of pride, a nation's great brag, look what we did. Here they built monsters of metal and flame, they tore at the air. Hyperbole claimed we would conquer and tame, the vastness of space. Pushing man and machine to limits then past, They risked all to explore. Lionized pilots who flew fearless and fast, some died on the way. The men are gone - the structure stands still, shelved to history. A monument to engineering, cunning and will, empty and mute.
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Fireants
Countless small sparks in a maze of maneuver Like flickering flames buried deep in the dark Shimmering, shifting, and boiling below Less venomous than fire ants I've known; At least from a distance. Much prettier too; From a distance.
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Warnings
We must be warned that coffee's hot, that smoking hurts the lung. Knives are sharp and spoons are not, and sunscreen blocks the sun. We must not eat the non-food pack, that freshens packaged foods. Know calories might make us fat, and sleep might make us drool. Labels warn that water's wet, and bullets might go bang. Signs to warn of dangers met, adorn each mundane thing. We used to use our eyes and think, to see, assess, then act. Replaced with warnings bold in ink, a talisman of words and fact.
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Heavy
A million years of sand and rain made me who I am Built up, compressed, washed clean and worn down. Rusty red, sandy blond, and streaked with black. I defy the elements openly as an acrobat would For Newton pulls heavy on my ancient spine. Yet I arch high overhead triumphant and grand Shade from a withering sun for strangers below.
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Speculation
If only people understood how un-cool secret stuff really is… Scott Adams came close in this strip:
The super secret squirrels convened Their meeting in the vault Each day at noon they gathered there Discussing who knows what The watchers all looked in from out As blind and dumb and deaf As though they had no mouth or ears To use for baited breath Whispers swirled from left to right Then back around again Tales of conquests in the works Cabals of greed and sin Murmurings of secret tech Sensors, planes, and tools Laser guns and mind control Oh man... it sounded cool While all along the secret squirrels Sat bored and languid then And hour by hour discussed at length The font for slide one-ten
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The Parrot
Almost endless years of school Countless hours of study Promotions moving ever up An awful sense of duty To be the expert and make change A constant goal since youth Use of hands and head at once Connecting truth with truth Explore and build to meet demand Reflect on what's been made More to know you've done it right Than strictly to get paid A phantom of some lingering dream Haunting daily chores Wants unmet in truthful life Like salt in open sores No new ideas are his today Great works he builds no more He simply gathers and compiles Then brings it to the fore With words they laud and stroke him Encourage, praise and bless But in his mind he is a fraud A parrot or even less
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Fog
I’ve always liked writing, but rarely get a chance to write things not formal, technical, or even worse… bureaucratic. Given my background, you’d think anything artistic would have atrophied years ago, and in truth it probably has. However, though unqualified and not particularly gifted, every once in a while I get an urge to dust off the non-analytical parts of my self and see just how much of it is left.
In a home filled with artistic, musical, and literary talent, I often end up filling the requirement for an audience. It’s unlikely anyone would ask me to perform when they have access to Liz, Sydney, and Isaac. Over the years, I’ve been less and less likely to publicly attempt any form of art. Even deciding to post this to be visible for the three or so people who might occasionally read this blog has been an internal struggle.
That said, I had a few hours to myself this morning after taking Sydney to her EARLY morning babysitting job, and didn’t want to go back to bed for fear of waking Liz. The urge came upon me to write, so I did.
Shiftless anticipation Stirred by clouded foresight Knowing that life is a journey To struggle, to labor, to fight How many rounds 'till it's over? Will I overcome in the end? Have I strength and the power For these care burdened hours? Not to crack, not to buckle nor bend? Blind in a void of unknowing There's something required of me Yet I can't quite descry it Or even imply it Such a hungry desire to see... So reluctantly I've followed Paths thought hidden and crookedly bent Longing for places I've already been Guided by signposts unseen As I wonder to whom I am sent Certainly something is building Each step has a purpose occult Guided to paths I've not wanted By a prod, a hard nudge, or a jolt Weakness calls out now to slumber Says it always works out in the end Doubting there's life can I touch Often too weak to do much Tapped out, no strength left now to lend Stop on the way and set down your load Let some other son pick up the slack Rest for a season right where you stand Drop the burdens now placed on your back Reality's quick with the answer: Sleep is the prodigal's child No gift that you claim Is for those of your name It is wrong from your neighbor to hide In answer I cry out in anquish Fatigue swelling large in my breast I have done what I can When is it enough? Must I really go on without rest? When the strength is all gone And my will neigh to break A lantern shows dimly ahead Another's weak glimmer drives shadows away Their light extinguishes dread It winks to me comfort and courage It tells me that I'm not alone You're smart and you're strong And you will carry on We'll continue together 'till done So into the darkness one nudge at a time Groping and feeling my way Hoping and praying the work that I do Will brighten another's dark day