Category Archives: Peter’s Writings

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

The Clown

The saddest man I've ever found
Is probably the circus clown
Who wanders round from town to town
Seeking praise and world renown.

Acting playful happiness
Giving crowds an hour of bliss
Pretending nothing is amiss
Blowing kids a goofy​ kiss.

But when the crowds have ceased to shout
His inward-self starts coming out
He wonders what he's all about
Giving space to long held doubt.

Once alone there's naught remains
No joyful kids or family pain
No loving wife who helps sustain
Just fellow travelers on the train.

Gypsy wandering drags him down
Another night, another town
A stable 
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Forgeting

I forget my keys and people's names, 
Just every kind of thing.
Schedules, dates and meeting times,
To the forefront I can't bring.

Why is it then that there are things
That would be best forgot,
That never will be deep repressed,
Ere I will or not?

Unimportant

Second fiddle, second rate
Left to swallow bitter fate
Wanting more, wanting praise
To have at least some glory days
Even friends seem not to see
The deeper longing inside me
And sorrow when I'm pushed aside
My disappointment I just hide.

Half a sentence uttered when
They interrupt me, cutting in
Didn't notice I was there
And moved along without a care
Thoughts of mine are questioned quick
As if my logic wouldn't stick
Wrong by default, why ask me
Never mind, just ignore me.

Drip

Drip, drip, drip, drop,
To the bottom from the top,
Through the night I hear plip plop,
While in bed I flip and flop,
Should jiggle handle on the pot,
To cut the noise and make it stop,
But I never leave my spot.

Allergies

Whoever thought a body part,
Could run and win a race,
Especially without arms or legs,
And stuck onto my face.

Its endurance is remarkable,
And speed is quite profound,
Running non-stop day and night,
With jumping, leaps and bounds.

You'd think it would've proved it's point,
And stopped to rest by now,
But my runny nose just won't stop,
To rest or take a bow.

I don’t believe in fairy tales

A yellow bird with three-foot legs,
Gypsies stealing rotten brats,
A bunny poopin' chocolate eggs,
Vampires who fly like bats,

The monster underneath my bed,
A fairy thief who stole my tooth,
Krampus behind Santa's sled,
The troll under the attic roof,

I'm sure these are a made up lot,
To frighten kids and keep them straight,
But I don't buy it -- not a jot,
I'm much too smart to take the bait.

But Santa on the other hand,
Who never once has brought me grief,
And brings me presents very grand,
Is surely worthy of belief.

 

Gray Area

When you're young you know it all,
The world seems black and white.
Complex issues broken down,
Devolve to wrong or right.

But vision blurs with heightened age
The crispness fades away,
Hardened edges smear and smudge,
Sharp contrast blends to gray.

Living lessons teach restraint,
In judging others deeds,
Right and wrong still hold their ground,
But leave space in-between.

To be a bird

Would you like to be a bird,
And fly up in the sky,
Dart around the puffy clouds,
And soar up oh so high?

Eating worms and slimy things,
Pecking bark for grubs,
Munching fleas and bottle flies,
And other kinds of bugs?

Would you like to be a bird,
The sovereign of the sky?
If you do, so please yourself,
But as for me... Not I!

Sour Sucker

A pickle puss and sour sucker,
Sam was such a boy,
That nothing ever pleased him,
Nor gave him any joy.

When given treats and candy,
He would fret about his teeth,
When taken to a movie,
He complained about his seat.

The swimming pool was much too cool,
The hot tub much too warm,
The sofa cushions way to soft,
Rain showers were all storms.

Then one day a passing man,
Questioned very loud,
If there could be anything,
Of which Sam would be proud.

Hearing this Sam wondered,
Just what it was he liked,
And smiling he concluded 
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