from Word Literary Magazine ’91

September 30, 2010

“Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You walk through any one that suits you.”  -James Douglas Morrison

The Stolen Night
by Peter L Richardson, 1991

Sleep, dear child,
Away the fright-ended day,
The last cold hour’s timely pain.
Embrace the night:
Crossed arms clutch your breast—
Dream the dream of a day yet to come
     or days once past.
Dance in the night
Chaperoned by the moon’s pale blue light.
Make love to the heavens above~
     the stars…
You in the universe
     so small and alone.
The universe in you
     become one.
Take the burden of
     a thousand times children
     starven and beaten
     raped and eaten of
          their mind-senses-love.

Give up with the burnt out star—
Feel it’s children dry and freeze.
No longer able to take milk from
     the mother-father-god.
Wash the blood off your hands of
     a million warriors
     from a thousand wars.

You in the night fits so right.
Give the painful joy of
     a newborn life.
Give life to the earth from
     cloud rebirth.
Your sorrowful rain pours down
     the souls of all of us.
Save us.
Slave us.

We worship the sun which
     brings forth light,
     sooths our fright
     of the stolen night.

“Men crave nothing so much as
      something to worship.”
            -Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Showdown, PLR '91

Teenage Winter Blues
by Peter L Richardson, 1991

Been four long years since I seen the sun,
Just a few more months
     ‘fore another one.
Now the winter winds
     shred my soul,
I’m forced to examine
     this life I stole.
But soon the snow will break,
     as will my cage:
Buds blossom with life
     to release this rage!

Bask in the sun at the glorious beach,
Rejoice with the waves—
     my life I’ve reached!
And the summer, she shall
     present me with love:
Of a girl? Of life?
     Either of the above!

The last summer sun sets upon the ocean,
The colors of my sin paint
     a beautiful picture.
Falling leaves burn red
     embers, desires
The chill in the air starts
     distant scares…

Autumn knows nostalgia:
The pain of long dead loves
     come up from the caskets
     corroded and dirty,
     lovely and certainly
Her eyes still shone.

from Word Literary Magazine '91


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