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Peter Fifield

of

Nanaimo, BC, CA

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pfifield@shaw.ca (Peter Fifield)


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Man bside a lake

by

Peter Fifield

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 poetry.
I am only a thing; things build no great shrines;
I am not a book of knowledge.
I do not have to prove this day perfect; but I do approve of its perfection.
Thinking of my wife makes me more alone.
I love her; her beauty fills my dreams; she is my reality.
In my thoughts she sits beside me; we sing from one memory.
Time flows through me; moments become eternities.
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 voice picked me clean. I am sufficiently 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 scurried by me; I was immovable; nature does strange things.
Evening makes her grand entrance; pink clouds drawing strength from todayís exposed soul.
This clear courage I sip emboldens the spirit. I am two fingers tall; stilled and distilled.
I slop words; spill syllables; build a hangover.
Iím a muddled Moose, heavy with antlers; void of meat. My rack waits; what foul moon curses my inebriation?

Dawn arose; my heart beats to this new ecstasy; I am not poet enough to out sit this day.
I stand before her poems; my eyes full of green and blue. I rent this view;
I cannot pay for 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.


Man beside a lake

by

Peter Fifield

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 poetry.
I am only a thing; things leave no lasting scars;
I am not a book of knowledge.
I do not have to prove this day perfect; but I do approve of its perfection.
Thinking of my wife makes me more alone.
I love her; her beauty fills my dreams; she is my reality.
In my thoughts she sits beside me; we sing from one memory.
Time flows through me; moments become eternities.
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 voice picked me clean. I am sufficiently happy again.
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 scurried by me; I was immovable; nature does strange things.
Evening makes her grand entrance; pink clouds drawing strength from todayís exposed soul.
This clear courage I sip emboldens the spirit. I am two fingers tall; stilled and distilled.
I slop words; spill syllables; build a hangover.
Iím a muddled Moose, heavy with antlers; void of meat. My rack waits; what foul moon curses my inebriation?

Dawn arose; my heart beats to this new ecstasy; I am not poet enough to outsit this day.
I stand before her poems; my eyes full of green and blue.
I cannot pay for 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.