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Peter Fifield

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Revelstoke, BC, CA

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I am

by

Peter Fifield

I am who this poem is making.
This shy monster beginning to understand
that in life one must release the roar.
Surrender to this nameless moment;
This product of destiny waiting
for the clattered clouds of Spring
to turn the seasons.
No tomorrow, no yesterday,
just this naked awakening.
I have dressed myself with this cloak
of my devotion;
Drawn it about me like the calmer clouds
of June, and it is everywhere inside of me.
I am this silent joy,
like summer clouds crumbling to the vague
voice of August Sun.
Poet, poem, poetry, drifting freely
like the lonely clouds of Autumn,
not yet possessed by that harsher reality.
I am who this fading verse has made,
and all it has done, is meaningless...

Pedro


It's all been said

by

Peter Fifield

Time has taken all from me,
with those Poets gone before.
All the words I wish could be,
have been exercised to the core.

Ah Love! How they describe,
to the end of all knowing.
It is the bane of my Diatribe,
and the fret of frustration showing.

Those ancient Poets stole my sight,
all the ones I did not know.
My words are like dust at night,
likened to the way theirs did glow.

Oh death! A thousand ways appraised,
and so rightly reasoned out as well.
But my wrath they all have raised,
For there is nothing left for me to tell.

I now can only mock their lines,
and chide them all for their guile.
They each occupied all that defines,
with every imaginable taste and style.

And life! They have all but decided chance,
of the dreams of men and men's thirst.
Lo it is of time and circumstance
that I am late, and so lately cursed

Through the centuries long since past,
their verses have blended and bloomed.
And Lo, here I am the very last,
a Poet out of words, and quite doomed.


Eternal Question

by

Peter Fifield

Eternal Question
Where is the G spot?

Itís hidden in the secret eye,
held ransom in a straining blush.
It soothes that pleasure with a sigh,
and brings sweet loveís delighted rush.

Itís beside a lake, beneath the trees,
wandering lonely as a glance.
Itís trembling in breath and breeze,
waiting deep within loveís dearest dance.

Itís in a moment we cannot see,
cheering from that most tender brink.
Itís sometimes deemed that it might be,
a prisoner of the way all love does think.

Itís an ecstasy of then and there,
fixed somewhere hidden in the hips.
And lo I feel it is most unfair,
it is oh so seldom at my finger tips.


Andrea's Sister

by

Peter Fifield



How strange my fate that does me thus,
whereupon to thy sister I must compare.
Twas thy smile that stirred this fuss,
but like hers, is twice as rare.

Though her eyes like diamonds glow,
and yours with such beauty shine;
Oh what this soul would give to know
if thy heart could someday be mine.

So brief the time whence we first met,
and long my joy at thy first sight.
But now alas! My heart must fret,
for loveís last chance hath taken flight.

If thy sister, in a garden were an Orchid,
then thee would most surely be a rose.
With all my heart and soul I would bid
to have a bouquet of thee to soothe my woes.

This poetís thoughts fly on enchanted wings,
and soar high upon some lofty air.
It is of thee that this poem sings,
and that makes thy charms more the fair.


Time

by

Peter Fifield

Ah!, cruel cold time,
what makes you so damn hard.
While we pamper you,
You steal our most precious thing;
Come on time,
Get over yourself.

Oh mystic mover, of things
to do with the heart, and inspiration.
How dare you time,
tease us like that by promising us
the temples of our dreams.

Ah!, unkind bold time,
you're always on my mind.
Why don't you finds something
better to do,
and let me get on with my life.

Oh!, powerful demanding time,
Why don't you just cut me some slack.
You're making me waste to much
of mine,
writing this stupid poem.

Oh!, God, I just remembered,
my time is almost up;
So thank you time,
for listening.
I hope you're
on my side,
You know?
WHEN!


This page

by

Peter Fifield

This page is my transitory fate;
A place for my perfect truths.
This wide sheet of daring,
a refuge for my leaping thoughts.

I shall assail it with a fury
from my disconsolate heart.


This page

by

Peter Fifield

This page is a smooth sallow glacier;
The head-waters of expression.

What unanswerable flow of words will it allow?
What trickle of relief will be pulled from its meandering?

I shall drown this page in a pool of frothy words.


This page

by

Peter Fifield

This page is a span of colorless distraction;
A setting for ones inquisitive gestures.
What wisdom will it hold between its unguarded borders?

I shall deposit my unraveled thoughts
with an ooze of black ink.


This Page

by

Peter Fifield


This page is a span of colorless distraction;
A stark setting for ones inquisitive gestures.
What wisdom will it hold between its unguarded borders?

I shall deposit my unraveled thoughts
with an ooze of black ink.


This poem

by

Peter Fifield


This page is a slim ledger;
That anonymous place to tally the thoughts
of rational judgment.

It is a worthy medium for truth.
What convenient accounting will it foretell?

I shall fatten its appetite with honesty.


This Page

by

Peter Fifield


This page is a span of colorless distraction;
A stark setting for ones inquisitive gestures.
What wisdom will it hold between its unguarded borders?

I shall deposit my unraveled thoughts
with an ooze of black ink.


This poem

by

Peter Fifield


This page is a slim ledger;
That anonymous place to tally the thoughts
of rational judgment.

It is a worthy medium for truth.
What convenient accounting will it foretell?

I shall fatten its appetite with honesty.


Man beside a lake.

by

Peter Fifield


Today is an invitation;
One cannot begin a poem without invitation

This is the day that leads me on.
Thoughts of labor fade

I shed yesterday.
I am a spirit settling in the wonderment of this concealed spot

Many nights have I dreamed;
Here I will fight nothing but blue sky

Now I am all one valley of astonishment;
I have felt the sun on my face

An unnamable joy marches through me.
My home is under miraculous skies

For the first time since I can recall;
I do not need my worry stone

A land of ancient stars safely resting above;
This clear night must somehow come to a close

I witness the dawn light up;
Find reasons for this journey into my heart

Ah yes, I hang on to this waking mistress
as she takes off her dark robes

My name is tomorrow;
I am a mile wide and mountain thick

Today I know not what my heart will allow;
What singing breeze will dance out of this day

The sun carves golden scars;
Bold trees go unwounded

I catch trout with poetry;
I throw them back

Tonight the sky is a peach; Cobbled clouds and all.
I witness a custard moon

Rod Stuart knows itís late;
We sing the dawn

This was no normal day.
There is no poem I can write about it

An orange moon sank into the crater of night.
Lava flowed across the lake

What a pleasant surprise;
Dawn yawning in my coffee

All those hard-nippled mountains;
I like big tits

A Loon paddles silently on this glossy lake;
This is his future

An Osprey, its beak sharp as Flintstone,
Spears the lake

Plucking out only silver drippings of liquid.
Talons clenched on nothing

Across the lake a logging road marches through a clear-cut;
Bares its wounded rocks

A blue blotch of sky hangs like a tattered rag
From this curtain called day

This day the sun set in me;
Pulled me into her cavity of darkness

A low-slung moon stretched down the lake;
A great golden glimmering scratch

There is no turning back;
Iíve made my pledges; I have the Ravenís tongue

Here I will never grow old;
Iím too tangled in her roots

The abrupt voice of a Loon;
Pulls me into morning

Here there is no true time;
Moon after light Sun after night

Both sun and moon serve as my lamp;
I do not blow them out

I am slowly being stripped of my Armour;
The end will justify the means

Death from the jaws of a beast;
The thought takes me outside of myself

I am a recluse fused to this place,
Like dew to sunlight; Dream to night

I gather insight; Sit long enough
To write no dangerous poems

A startled Grouse tests my balance;
Momentarily shifting my muscles and bones

The sun burst over the horizon;
Created another majestic resurrection

Morning falls on me;
I plunge forward. Shape myself

Todayís hunger is a vast open blue sky;
I salute the authority of these mountains

A flock of sparrows left holes in my sky;
Dotted my landscape

I am hinged to this moment; both destination and arrival.
I observe these disappearing hours

Slowly the sun pondered to the sleepy west;
An unbelievable wonder

The moon sits like a ghost, half swallowed by mid-night.
The soul of summer flung into its mysteries

A wash of sunlight emerges through the mist;
I take no sleeping pills

The Loon understands the mist;
The beauty of dumb animals

A Blue Jay flew through my syllables;
I had illusions of poetry

Wild horses with cloudy manes
Combed my sky

A clutch of goslings sang out of tune;
Trailed their tiny voices down the lake

At mid-day, midget birds freckled my sky;
A mass of hasty activities

I saw a Black Bear, I scrabbled;
Scoured the landscape

You cannot invent a sunset;
But you can discover one

If I close my eyes;
Will I disappear

Night creeps over my edges;
I am a one-man empire

There is a pulse of loneliness;
Darkness is my tormenter

Today came down and lifted my heart;
I sit here delighted; I envy my triumph. Drink it up

I must rise; Fall into reality.
Make bacon and expressions

I am only a thing; Things build no great nests;
I am not a book of knowledge

I do not have to prove this day perfect;
I do approve of its perfection

Thinking of my wife makes me more alone.
Time flows through me; Moments become eternities

I love her; Her beauty fills my dreams.
She is my reality

She sits beside me; we sing from one memory.
I am like a child wandering beyond my boundaries

The simple lack of her presence forces me to ponder existence.
Poetry brings her no closer

I am all suddenly old; my mind addled with remembrance
that does tease me so

I take my heavy body, my heavy heart to bed;
My pillow a sad substitute for hugging. We cry

Last light has gone out of me;
The moon leaves me dark in my bed

I awoke; I am a simple thing.
I thank God there is a God

A Crowís mocking anger picked me clean.
I am adequately humiliated

This day is a fat trout that Iíve already caught;
I am the birdís eye view

I stare at everything; I am too pleased to grin.
I sit in rhyme

A Rabbit chased by me;
I was immovable. Nature does strange things

Eveningís grand entrance; Pink clouds
drawing strength from todayís naked soul

This clear courage I sip
Boldens the spirit

I am two fingers tall;
Stilled and distilled

I slop words; Spill syllables.
Build hangovers

Iím a muddled Moose, heavy with antlers;
Void of meat

My rack waits;
What foul moon curses my anger

Dawn arose; my heart beats to this new ecstasy;
I am not person enough to outsit this day

I stand before her poems;
My eyes full of green and blue

I rent this view;
I cannot afford this passionate peace

I watch as one who is evaporating into tomorrow;
I am an absorbed man

This is natureís art; my transfiguration.
Slowly my resolve leaks away

This is all mine until mid-night;
We have our secret agreements

How will I ever give up all of this;
I surely will weep when I depart

I am weather beaten; suffer no complaints.
I will ransack this final hour

I have learned how to wait.
Silence ribbons through me every now and then

I cannot wait until tomorrow to see what I will become.
I am a poem

The core of darkness burns her fires;
Tomorrow will rise from her ashes

First light seeps into the lake,
I am an unfed creature; I consort with biscuits

Thin streams fill this lake;
Smaller things die sooner

A Raven is always ready with opinion;
My black-feathered shadow

These mountains stare me down;
I exercise discipline

A Dragonfly sleeps on a twig;
What designer imagined him

I admire the long shadows of slender saplings;
The way they whip the breeze

I am dotted with yellow,
where the Dandelions snooze happily

Afternoon pours out of me;
Giant Cedar Cathedrals owe nothing to man

Grains of sand are a victory;
They have such small destinations

Ron Bacardi gives me courage;
My anger does the rest

The Stink Bugs are so big,
you can feel them breathing on your skin

I can see paradise;
To everyone their idiosyncrasies.

Last night swallowed by dawn;
Which I now enter

This is no normal day;
There is no poem I can write about it

Horse flies cannot be discouraged
by waving poems at them

A waterfall of color swept out of the canyon;
Where the Maples ran into the lake

Friday night neighbors arrived;
Poetry sours; I lose my edges

I hear the scream of an injured beast;
I scrabble like a child; Death frightens me

I never throw forty pounders back;
I drink them; They are returnable

I battle no sleep; Night concentrates me;
I sleep on peaceful shores

I swore I would not fail this day;
Innate laziness has controlled my decisions

I wave poetry at this day;
Build poems with big stones

An angry Owl missed its pray;
A cry that came and went

Iíve had my fingers in her roots;
Blood flows, we are one

I am master of this hour; though humble
I may be

I sit in foliage woven in laughter;
An endless garland of whispers

The lady of this lake holds me in her bosom;
She has soft lullabies

Today, I finally pissed overboard;
No witnesses

Iíve seen a lot of sunsets
over the rim of a glass

I imagine tomorrow;
Feel it coming

Skunk cabbage with its foul independence
crops the moistened shore of the lakeís edge

The two voices of summer spoke today;
Wind and rain with their obvious messages

A quickening wind denied the lake her slatches;
Ran up her sleeve.

An Osprey performed a crescendo of flapping wings;
Hoisting its glittering offering to its high home

Rock, wind and water her vital features;
I feel her completeness

A Rainbow Trout splashed on my horizon;
Swallowed me whole

When it rained, the water was pocked with wounds;
I was a changed individual

A Rainbow spread its gesture over the lake;
Natureís apology

A Mule Deer poised on the shadowís black edge;
Arched against eveningís cruel calling

Phantom clouds again begin to weep;
Heavy black swooping figures to rinse my thoughts

I sucked the sorrow from the clouds;
Damn near drown

Lonely sits this lake;
I am the last man on Earth

Thunderstorm last night;
A whole lotta shakin goin on

A lone Loon on this lake;
Must be a cure for something

I smell something moving;
Imagination hunts me

I imitate nothing
that does not brighten my day

The truth of this place;
It travels through the body

My fishing rod is useless;
Like me, limp most of the time

Black Ants have ferocious attitudes;
My sandal is their God; Glad we got that straight

Tomorrow will be my victory;
I washed today from my hands. Almost

The final answer for today;
A full Moon

Trees across the lake
stand like a crowd of extras.

I stole their food, cursed their winter;
These berries were no meant for me

Every time I turn my head I replenish;
Restock my years

She gives me too much scenery;
I get lost in her poetry

Today simmered;
Trees with their emblems felt the blue presence

Ron Bacardi ran down my throat;
OK, so I led him on

I weather events; Entertain this moment.
Resume my vigil

My tackle box is a failure;
So many shiny trinkets

I shall fill myself with this beauty;
Will never lose the Moon.

All too often I feel incomplete;
I may have stayed here too long

I came face to face with myself;
I lost all my convictions

This is the most beautiful place after it rains;
There are lessons here to be discovered

I eat lunch with wild birds;
Them like perched sitting across from me

Iím enfolded in the warmth of this place;
I think Iím losing my corners

Two weeks have passed since I toiled with my hands;
Itíll be hard to draw myself back

How will I be able to give up all this;
I surely will weep when I leave

Her memories I will wear often.
For I returned_ And found the man

I devoured all that she offered;
I swallowed a whole season

I found meaning in her fragile moments;
She was safe nourishment

I closed some open wounds;
I took it all in like a poem

Tomorrow will be just a little sweeter;
I stole some of her endurance

I am a person who does not kill things;
My end would be too sudden

The Osprey and me catch only shallow fish;
We have our limits

The darkest clouds are not a penalty;
I survive their passing

I shake the shore from my feet;
I am the piney prince of poetry

I allow hunger to work me over;
Food in cans is too confining

I write fat poems; My syllables will
Not perish on this abundance

I fear what I cannot see;
Tonight the moon conspired and pulled me under

A flock of Geese split the moon;
I am quite over-looked in the scheme of things

The stars alarm me with their punctuality;
I am untouched by daily woes

Crystal spears of rain lance the lake;
A wet butterfly clings to driftwood out of spite

I am a spectator in the undergrowth;
I see the clear shimmering of leaves

I stay close to camp; Bind myself to the shore.
Cultivate cautious thoughts

A peeved Raven shudders to the sky;
Rainís pecking barbs filling his eyes with tears

The rain leaves proof of its passing;
A bold arc of color descends over the lake

Small tracks mean nothing;
Death has silent paws and swift surprises

Today common ground was reached;
Bird, Man, Sky, all giving way to drizzle

I burn only fragments; The green gone out
Of each; Cedar has a fierce ripeness

I sleep on the edge of silence;
My heart resting in the white moon

I almost grasped a delicate heaven;
There is comfort in all of her

I must now take my jealousy;
Make it my happiness whenever I recall

How will I be able to give up all of this;
I surely will weep when I go

What a place she is for a Poet;
I saw my own solemn reality

There is always something new;
Never more than now do I know

How will I ever give up all of this.


Mount Pen

by

Peter Fifield

All night long my pen is a beacon
to entice these drunken and perplexed voices
from the foam of this lager;
from the grief that splashes
from my eyes.

Words floating in the abyss
of my churning heart.
My pen charts this sea of turmoil,
where the moon sinks into
the froth of my mind.

Yet!
Stronger than fear,
this stream of sorrow
with its triumphant rolling.
It was your blue laughing eyes of sunlight,
that so did mock my ineffable journey.
What sudden surrender will
answer this unheeding.

The last offering of this pen at dawn,
Gone to the sea of lost words.
What deep solutions will embrace its secrets.

This pen will drag the delicacy of your truth
from the depths of this wandering.
All night my pen is a beacon_
It keeps what I do so love alive
for me.

My heart will not mend
before the red sunset of anguish
once again will appear.
These moments of grief are slow.

The still clamor of my sorrow
sleeps in the wound of night.
All night my pen is a beacon
upon these dark shores.


Poetry you say!

by

Peter Fifield

Any fool can tattoo a page with words,
or paint a picture that would make a picnic for your eyes.
Iíd rather keep the days turning with my hands,
than urging them on with my mind.
And what grand truths would grab your sight;
Or build a bridge between life and love.
Poetry you say!
Any fool can draw clouds into your sky,
or give you sunshine to fill your empty life.
Me, Iíd rather stumble through reality
than get lost in someone elseís shadows.
Poetry cannot empty the color from a September sky,
or set the days to marching one after the other
towards winter.
Me, Iíd rather taste the strife and stress,
over the fleeting comfort of someone elseís saved dreams.
And you, what trivial words will teach you to forget
how to cry.
Will you know what kind of world
lives beyond your windows.
Poetry you say!
Any fool can bend over and touch the day
with their eyes,
or walk on ground thatís been walked on before.
Me, Iíd rather have this constant wanting,
knowing there must be something more.
And you, what happiness will you catch
in a world of second hand thoughts.
Will your outstretched hands hold more than poems.
Poetry you say!
If you have read this poem hard enough
you might have discovered what I meant to say.
And when youíre done with me
what other poem will offer you safety.
What memorized words will have you going out_
Looking once again.


Embarking

by

Peter Fifield

If you think I am embarking
I am not embarking, I am merely pretending
that I have departed.
Even the wind pulls me along,
pulls me out of this tangled space through
the eye of my ceiling;
Nothing moves below the edges of the universe.
The night sky burps forth glimmering stars
where patches of light explode with remarkable
brilliance.
I go out when the moon is new;
Carry the stars on my shoulders.
When the wind is high I hang on to the robes
of the graceful moon.
I am an embarking stranger in these new fields of
golden light that flourish above my darkness.
I am afraid to relax as I look down; I cannot
conquer this fear that I have avoided for too long.
The ground is covered in a patchwork of silent surprises.

A newborn night is harmless and cheerful for a while,
then it begins to demand all the limits of me.
I fear my shadow will be stolen; I simply cannot give
up my shadow to the turning moon.
I am a sequence of thoughts leading away from home.
I never expected to be a captive voyager pirouetting
through space;
yet!
I am this silent audience excepted to applaud this
procession of time.
I am here, I am breathing, I am.
I have reached out from my abode to dust off the stars of heaven.
If you think I am embarking I am not embarking,
I am merely imagining departing.


This is what I remember

by

Peter Fifield


I remember the might Moose that rose
like springtime from the marsh.
I recall its antlers cradling the moon
where the shadows lay_ sad and silent.
Poets cannot read his ageless tracks
and foretell of some pending doom.
But he can_"Hail" this relentless giant
that feeds on the frosted boughs.
The stump_ that once was the Cedar
knows all about death.
Go free_and headstrong into the river,
and take with you youíre great-humped spirit.
Epic poems cannot ease your pain
by going against the rush of your tears.
Peer out across your vast horizons
and listen to the madness of deathís echo.
This once long ago was your place_
You may walk on it one more time.
Remember your precious tundra
when you feel the sharp sting of winter.

When I close my eyes to glimpse the future you are not there.

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Oh what joy

by

Peter Fifield

Oh what sweet joy springtime brings,
whereupon your smile I am allowed to gaze.
It truly is the grandest of things,
and twill keep me in high spirits for many days.

And soon youíll be hearing me_ Yelling FORE!
because I address you and not my ball.
Your smile is going to influence my score,
and if thatís the price I pay, then I think its small.

Be not afraid to polish your grin,
and put that extra special twinkle in your eyes;
I simply canít wait for golf season to begin,
so I can enjoy all the pleasure your beauty supplies.

Worry not of this old and forgotten bard;
Waste not your dearest waking hours.
I shall hold thee in the highest regard,
and my pen shall soothe thee like springtime showers.

The Phantom Poet

Submit a poem for analysis.

The Poet

by

Peter Fifield

For most of us that survive,
The hell of it is, not knowing who we are.
And I think maybe knowing would be a torment.
When I waken, the poem is there,
Itís rhythm and melody beseeching me to write.
It calls me from the wind, and the meadows where I walk.
I must choose the loveliest of words,
and worry that my poem is too perfect for human brains to understand.
It stirs me to awareness at midnight with its curious mystery.
I write the verses that make the heavens cry_ as only I can.
Daily now these poems play with my heart.
It is strange how oftentimes my ears go deaf,
like when Iím waste deep in a river of words.
Hate sometimes lays too closely to love.
I only practice here now, to make this indulgence more pleasant than before.
The silver flute shall play the praises of my poetry.
I am alive_ albeit in this half stupor somewhere between here and the stars.
The poet! Who is the poet? Who indeed?
Is it the writer_ or is it the person who reads?
For what poet ever wrote a poem for himself.
It is a daily chore to make the transference from my head_
and put my words into yours.

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Behold the Raven

by

Peter Fifield

Behold my buddy, Raven,
hunter from the north;
Talking his bold obscenities
and prancing back and forth.

He stands proud and cocky,
this renegade with a gun.
He listens to his walky-talky,
Ainít hunting a whole lot of fun.

Behold the Raven, my buddy,
greatest outdoorsman around.
My legs often turn to putty,
when he says something profound.

He hunts where the clear winds blow,
out where the Bald Eagles fly.
There is no territory he donít know,
Raven really is quite a wonderful guy.

Behold the Raven, my comrade,
heís at one with his hunting terrain.
I wish I had the courage he had,
Iíd like to help him rule his great domain.

He sneaks through the darkest shadows of day,
and hunkers down to stay out of sight.
He can sometimes smell his prey,
even on the darkest blustery night.

Behold the Raven, my guide,
greatest sportsman on earth.
Heís the king of all the back countryside,
for he knows all of natureís worth.

Desolate

by

Peter Fifield

All evening long my thoughts were desolate;
Such a long contemplation through so gloomy a night.
Too many times I have begged at your garden gate,
that of my companionship you would invite.

My heart throbs in pain with the rising sun,
where all my agonies and fret lay unconfined;
And long before this darkness is fully run,
all stark reality before me will sadly unwind.

Loveís expectations deem it a shame
that I was not chosen to die in your arms.
Loveís eternal and fervent flame
shall ever burn, in a tribute to your charms.

Tomorrow

by

Peter Fifield

Tomorrow

Tomorrow always comes;
Comes and waits at my door.
I do not answer_
For today is more than I can bear.

What good will come
of another day
when this one sits beside me
lonely and sad like me.

I watch the Sun slide into the west,
watch it groan upward from the east.
I live in this room of memory,
Yesterday never leaves.

Will tomorrow teach me not to hope?
Tomorrow is unreachable.

last night

by

Peter Fifield


Last night I almost gave up on you,
my faith started running rather thin.
Why do you do the things you do,
when you know I cannot win?

Late yesterday in the early eve,
I observed your smile in the sun.
I know itís really hard to believe,
but you really are the one.

Twas but a fortnight ago
that thou were such a sweet maiden.
Surly thine heart must know,
how mine, thee hath laden.

To what past do I travel,
that the future does not already know?
Will my life unravel_
Which way will it go?

I think I shall walk

by

Peter Fifield

I think that I shall walk
up the mountain and to the other side;
All of natureís secrets I hope to unlock
just by keeping my eyes opened wide.

I have the Eagleís scream in my heart
and the ghost of the moon in my soul;
And somehow, before I depart
I will fulfill my goal.

My partner says

by

Peter Fifield

Tenth of October today my partner says,
surveying the mountainís last colors.
October leaves falling around us,
fallen around us like snow.
Picks up his rifle, puts it down--the futility of it all,
yesterday's hunt fresh in his mind.
We should be doing more than this;
consider the winter, the spectacle, and the wind.
My father, for instance, taking his rifle for a walk;
coming home with the captured memories,
the splendor of the leaves against the late sky,
smells of forests and fields, and thinking
there should be more to this than hunting,
more to Autumn.
My partner picks up his rifle;
Thereís hunting to be done he says;
Restoring order to his season.
If only it were that simple!

my love poem

by

Peter Fifield

I have picked fresh flowers,
bright and sparkling with dew,
picked them early this morning before the sun had rose,
and day was still half night.

Dazzling reds and yellows
like a rainbow,
I kept them in a vase of water
by your bedroom window.
Iíll give them to you when you wake up.

The program

by

Peter Fifield

Three full days of instructions in an intimate setting,
with some of our finest writers and mentors.
our workshops will feature lectures and readings
for each and every poet that enters.
We do regret having to tell you there is a nominal fee;
It cost a lot of money to go one-on-one with a Bard.
Lunches and the final banquet are included when you register.
We value your talent with utmost esteem and regard.
All of the testimonials speak well of our program,
and never once have we had any complaints.
Vegetarian meals will be optional at a modest price.
This years motto is; "how to worship the Saints."
A registration form is enclosed for your convenience,
also you can save seven dollar if you sign up today.
It's only one hundred and forty nine dollars and ten cents,
i recommend you don't hesitate or delay.
We really are looking forward to you being there,
because we've read your poetry and we like what we see.
Come to our seminar and let us hone your skills,
maybe we can bring up your talent another degree.

See you there Peter

what big name?

by

Peter Fifield

We all spill into this world bloody and red; gasping with delicate breath.
What big name will you give me that might shield me from death?
Big names should never apply to our visions or our wishes; or to flesh and bone.
Mountains and rivers and stars deserve big names; big names should leave the newborn alone.
Give not a newborn child a big name, for it will be his defeat; so if you're smart you'll name him something innocent and sweet.
we should use our names like chariots to charge through the valleys of this life.
Let meglimpse all the colors of creation; weaving and unweaving.
Let my young tears bedew my cheek, lest I should feel any pain.
Let the moon greet my eyes, lest I should have any doubt.
May I stride through life, like a soldier marching on a true and steady course.
What big name will improve my most radiant hours, or save me from the darkest night?
Let me experience my as of yet,unseen imperfections, lest my journey be in vain.
Let me make my way in the world a rewarded soul, to take pleasure in all I ever hope to see.
Let my innocence be my strength; not the overpowering-might of a big name.
Let my course lead me to my own indiscretions; lest it be expected of my name.
Let my untested spirit lead me to my chosen individuality; lest I head straight into death.
Will I be a master worthy of fame, or will I be a predetermined destination?
Let my personality be applied, let me have someone gentle at his side.
Let me never in vain, have the need to complain.
What big name will tame uncertain soul? What big name will take me to my rightful goal?
What big name will comfort me through the hours of each and every day?

What big name?


dream

by

Peter Fifield

Through my drunken mind
sails this thought-devouring reflection;
my dream becomes a twisted fist;
my heart held high
to receive the tender tear.

Sickly I ponder pending death;
forsaking laughter and thought.
My darkness
all naked with soft and drunken moans.

I to the truth have never listened,
or to the cause of this pain;
devouring death requires such bravery,
such a commitment of the heart.

Today

by

Peter Fifield

Today is blooming in my body, just like the awaking flower.
It is a joy that is far more rewarding than love.
I am aware the sun is present in me; I will discover its eternal secrets.
If all I do today is sit and dream; the tempo of life churns forward.
I think I am becoming a tree_ at any rate, something swaying and green.
I feel I resemble a pine tree; do pines have hearts I wonder?
I should like to believe so; hearts of understanding perhaps; hearts of sleep.
I am a skyline stretched to my limits; that which is, is!
I do not question this metamorphosis; the change is slow and lethargic.

I am the big bang I am no theory.
I am the future today has taken me over.
What will tonightís moon bring with all its constant stalking of the night.

Death is a certainty now at least in the overwhelming sense that it wakens at night and howls through the wolf.
But everything fades and waves into something else; I am a seasonal cycle.
The spirits from my past have all vanished; only today remains.
I am a critical mass; I cannot be scattered beyond tomorrow.

Each moment in time is a mountain I understand that it is impossible to die.
The laws of nature are the laws of poetry; freedom is life itself; is living.
Please let me be this liberty is like a friend welcoming me under the canopy of this great unfolding.
Things are done this way to confuse you; deceive you.
It brings comfort, and does not startle.
I will make order out of this. You will see that I am brilliant and understanding,
And all will be revealed as so it is not so! I will die against any voice not repeated.
There is no mystery in me I welcome you when you appear but I did not invite you!
I can only speak of sorrow nothing will hold sorrow sorrow will not be contained.

I can shake myself into being and speak your thoughts into my language.

You figure it out

by

Peter Fifield


When the whole of the verse is greater than the sum of its words;
this poem is not a poem, itís an allegory to test your sensibilities.
It has not eaten in seven days. Its words will stain out on this paper and conceal all its true reasons for melancholy; its wordsí a spectacular blizzard of disparity. It lies where it is easily overlooked; it is not a rooted stump.
It cannot talk to you without suffering; without lose of the ability to appreciate the rules.
This poem is not a poem! Glad we got that straight.
Pedro

Untitled

by

Peter Fifield

This pen that I wield is peculiar;
It certainly does not care about you;
But it will obey this determined poet.
This pen needs me_ needs this poem.
Me, I need this peculiarity.
This poem is born of this pen.
I do not need this pen, it needs me.

Untitled

by

Peter Fifield

Tonight the sky is all tangled with stars. Heavenís lighted fires on full display. I sit here at her golden fringes; I am the mystery. Do not tell me there will be no tomorrow. I rely on this nightly ritual, to gaze into the cold eyes of darkness. I am warm and comfortable inside. I will ascend into dreams and slumber beneath these tangled stars.

I am like the forest

by

Peter Fifield

I am like this forest, some of my scars run deep.
She has her hidden secrets and I have a few I must keep.
We have our ups and downs and our high points and our low,
We have our darker moods, yet we both continue to grow.
This forest is a land of temptation, its views are vast.
I am an expanse of contemplation, I know no past.
I am like this forest. I have my quiet moods.
I too will flourish snug in my many interludes.