from Peter John

Archive for the ‘Mirrors in a Prism’ Category

Love Survives

Photo of George Clark Stone walking across wilderness bridge with fishing pole

George Clark Stone May 25, 1936 – November 4, 2012

Love Survives
By Peter John

Do you search for an answer in the rising Sun?
Do you reach out for comfort from the Moon?
Does your heart long for friendship when the day is done,
When the sky seems dark too soon?

Love survives in the desert.
Love survives in the sea.
Love survives in the memories
Of you and me.
From before we are born
To beyond our lives
Love survives.
Love survives!

When you welcomed your brother who was on the street
Did you offer him shelter from the rain?
At the crossroads where happiness and sorrow meet
The joy overcomes the pain.

Love survives frigid alleys.
Love survives fields of snow,
But it still takes a burning
For a hearth to glow.
When our vengeance has answered
Our hateful drives
Love survives.
Only love could still survive.
Love survives.

It dangles our hearts on a web between
The best and the worst we can feel.
For love sends a scalpel to slice our souls,
And love brings a balsam to heal.

Love survives every promise we fail to keep.
Love endures every fault we pass by.
After anger and envy have wept to sleep
Love alone still survives.

Love attends to the sunshine
But can offer the shade.
Love inhabits the hovels
That our hatred made.
When the night’s creeping darkness
Has left us blind, fear arrives
Love endures it and survives …

When you’ve found all your answers in the sunset’s glow,
When you’ve danced with the moonbeams on the sea,
When I’m never returning, only then you’ll know
The depth of your love for me.

Love survives — I remember
Tender nights, you and I —
Love survives when we wish
That it could simply die.
From before we are born
To beyond our lives
Fate contrives,
Anger weakens,
Hate deprives.
Love survives.

(c) 1991 Peter John Stone. All Rights Reserved.
COntact the author for permissions.

Read Why it's important to say "I love you"on the Mind Candy Blog


Autumn Weeps

Image of "Autumn Weeps", Croveted Tree by "The Amazing Noodle"

Photo of crochet sculpture "Autumn Weeps" from Used by permission of Kerri Lincoln of "The Amazing Noodle". Click image to visit "The Amazing Noodle" on the Web.

Autumn Weeps
by Peter John

Smile in Summer’s sanity,
Wail in Winter’s madness
Springtime laughs in vanity.
Autumn weeps in sadness.

Broken hands on faceless clocks
That tide will never turn –
Friendly animosities
That bridges never burn –
These are all of yesterday
Our children care to learn.
These are all we dare to leave behind

Smile in Summer’s sanity,
Wail in Winter’s madness.
Springtime laughs in vanity.
Autumn weeps in sadness.

Jagged scars on swollen breasts
That healings never smooth –
Raped emotions throb in screams
That drugs will never soothe.
Yesterday has offered these
To help our children toothe,
All we hope their teeth will never try.

Smile in Summer’s sanity,
Wail in Winter’s madness.
Springtime laughs in vanity.
Autumn weeps in sadness.

These have marked the women’s days,
Crystal cages,
Passion plays,
Scattered leaves and prophecies
All wasted by the wind,
All the fruit of all that men have sinned.

Running in a walking race,
Cursing in a pew,
Promising a harvest
From a seed that never grew –
All our children smell the bread
We ration to a few.
Who are men to say which children die?
Who are men?

Smile in Summer’s sanity.
Wail in Winter’s madness.
April rains the teardrops shed
When Autumn weeps in sadness.
Autumn weeps.
Each secret keeps,
And Autumn weeps in sadness.

Immage of nest and eggs detail of crocheted tree sculpture.

Detail of "Autumn Weeps", Nest and Eggs. Used by permission of Kerri Lincoln of "The Amazing Noodle". Click image to see more surprising details at . See more of "The Amazing Noodle" on Facebook,

Poem “Autumn Weeps” © 1991 by Peter John Stone. All rights reserved. Contact the author for permissions, which are on reasonable terms.

Simon Says

Simon Says
by Peter John

Simon says take one step backward.
Simon says jump up and down.
Simon says pretend you’re laughing
Even if you want to frown.
Spill your milk, or question roads
The grown-ups fear to tread —
Now you’re out, you stupid child.
That’s not what Simon said.

Simon says go out for baseball.
Simon says you play to win.
Simon says arise and shine and
Take your dose of Ritalin
Play for fun, or try a different
Drug to still your head,
Now you’re grounded foolish kid.
That’s not what Simon said.

Simon says to pay your taxes.
Simon says that men don’t cry.
Simon says to drop for push-ups,
Shoot your gun and kill, or die.
Call the game insanity,
Refuse to even play.
Join the ragged ranks of
Honored madness held at bay,
And soaring genius crucified
‘Cause Simon didn’t say.
(c) 1991 by Peter John Stone All Rights Reserved. No use is authorized without permission from author, but the author offers reasonable terms, and entertains any proposals.

Dark Oracles

Dark Oracles
By Peter John

Electric jungles, black and white,
With bullets broadcast every night,
And body counts from Walter Cronkite.
That’s the way it was …

When screams from someone else’s war
Entranced me on the parlor floor
And Daddy said, “We’re killing for the right
Our country does.”

Now Technicolor airwaves beam the battles from abroad.
The heavy decades of regret and still we’re playing God,
But I have shed the biases my father taught his son,
And recognize the wrong our country’s done …

Now I scream –
This is the wave of tomorrow, it’s breaking,
No soldiers to train.
No sons for the motherland.
No daughters to chain.
No fathers can force us to follow
The trails their lies have worn
No beatings can bring us to follow
The empty oathes they’ve sworn.

Dark Oracles blind us from knowing
The destiny we earn.
They tell us tomorrow must burn,
But the tables still can turn.

Today we are contemplating
Destroying Earth and sky.
No armies will need to be marshaled
If we should ever let the missiles fly.
Our navies will drift unattended
On seas of glowing blood.
Our bones will be washed with extinction
On shores of steaming mud.
A thousand millennia linger
Till dawns another age.
We’re smudges of ink on a finger
That helps to turn the page –
That’s all we are …

Dark Oracles echo our questions
With riddles of their own.
The answers that slice to the bone
We interpret alone.

Our planet is plagued with a species
A tumor in her head
Infesting her face with a growing
Malignant urban spread.
We poison her provident waters.
We scrape away her skin.
We synthesize sunspots in kettles
And melt her flesh to tin.
The hands of the stopwatch are frozen
A second to the bell.
One moment will show if we’ve chosen
To make the Earth a paradise or hell.

Dark Oracles’ blinding ambitions
Are fostered by our fear.
They say a catastrophe’s near,
We create what we hear,
And then we say Dark Oracles are right –
Dark Oracles calling in the night –
Dark Oracles swallowing the light.

The future offers these footsteps,
Oh, Mothers! Your sons refuse to kill.
Your daughters’ desperate oppression is over
Protected by the pill.
No promise of life without aching,
But one more day to live.
No glorious prize for the taking,
But one more chance to give.

Dark Oracles promise tomorrow
Humanity must die,
And then leave us wondering why
Without a clear reply.
It’s time for Dark Oracles to die!

Electric jungles, colorized,
While bullets go unrecognized,
With freedom blindly jeopardized,
Just like the way it was.
“Dark Oracles” – Words and Music © 1991 by Peter John Stone. Video © 2010 by Peter John Stone; Brief tune in video, from “Dark Oracles, © 1991 by Peter John Stone. Please contact author for permissions on any use, but the atuhor offers reasonable terms.

Tequila, Sheila

Tequila, Sheila
by Peter John

Pour me a shot of tequila, Sheila,
Draw me a draft of beer.
It’s getting late,
But the music’s great,
And I like drinking here.
I don’t care if it’s after ten
And I get up at four.
One more shot’ll drag me home.
I can pass out on the floor.

Pour me another gin and tonic.
Pop me a couple of Buds.
I’d like to wade
In the mist I’ve made
And swim in the golden suds.
Lost on a foggy sunset road
I seek a thirsting soul
Drinking misery I don’t know,
Swallowing sorrow whole.

Another shot,
Another bottle,
A filtered quart of my blood —
Another cocktail,
I’ll trade a meal
For a swallow of Tennessee Mud!

Pour me another neon headache,
Congas announcing the dawn.
My pocket’s bled,
And my pounding head
Is taking the morning on.
Bloodshot images steaming thick,
The mirror hears me pray.
Wake me up with one more shot
So I can stagger away.
Hey! Pour me a shot of tequila, Sheila,
Another shot and I’ll stay.

(c) 1991 by Peter John Stone All Rights Reserved. No use is authorized without permission from author, but the author offers reasonable terms, and entertains any proposals.


by Peter John

The first time that my brother came to visit
My uniform had almost left me mad,
Till on a foreign shore
He found my barracks door,
And I forgot why things had seemed so bad.

A voice I know, a face that looks familiar —
A face that carries features of my own —
He offers me his heart
When mine is torn apart.
He opens up a harbor far from home.

A questing heart, a mind that masters meaning —
A body strong, a soul that earns no shame —
Though I came first in birth
He helps me feel my worth,
And makes me proud to share his family name.

Another time my brother came to visit
When I was free but still had dues to pay.
He stepped into my cell,
Dispelled my private hell
And heaven didn’t seem too far away.

It bothers me to think how much I hurt him
When we were children learning how to grow.
But when I try to say,
He laughs it all away,
And I’m the one afraid to let it go.

So when the Stars and Stripes have brought him homeward,
And set him free to wander once again,
He’s sure to come to me.
I know I’ll never be
As good a man as he’s already been.

The next time that my brother comes to visit
I’ll open up that special jug of wine.
But he can’t help me drink.
So, when he’s gone, I think
I’ll drink it by myself, and I’ll feel fine.

(c) 1990, by Peter John Stone, All Rights Reserved. No use is authorized without permission from author, but the author offers reasonable terms, and entertains any proposals.

A Song Coming On

A Song Coming On
by Peter John

I feel a song coming on.
When the night air is silent
A symphony tugs on my ear.
I feel a beckoning song
And I wish I could share it,
So all who would listen could hear.
I ran from the rhythm of rocks by the sea
For stillness in solitude under a tree,
But whispering moon dust keeps chanting at me.
I feel a song coming on.

I feel the dawn coming on.
In a scepter of brightness
Assaulting the night’s stubborn shell.
I feel the beckoning dawn,
With a voyage commencing,
And strangers all wishing me well.
Now plunging through spindrift that begs me to stay
I struggle for breath, kicking blankets away
Toward menacing hands that await me today.
I feel the dawn coming on.

I feel the pain coming on.
From the piercing extrusions
That gouge at the death in my skin.
I feel the beckoning pain,
Tugging arms groping outward
From eyeballs compelled to gaze in.
A cold iron virgin is waiting to feed,
And wrapping my world for the howling I bleed
When razor fine feathers advance and recede.
I feel the pain coming on.

I feel a friend coming on.
The beginning of healing,
Auroras that melt where I’m bruised.
I feel a beckoning friend,
While caution responds.
I’m a puppy who’s always abused.
But loyalty answers if honesty’s there,
And each of us offers our efforts to share
The burdens to pressing for one back to bear.
I feel a friend coming on.

I feel a love coming on.
In a garden of daisies
An orchid unfolds into bloom.
I feel a beckoning love,
Though I pause to embrace it,
Determined to give it some room.
The space in a heart that a love needs to grow
Is worth all the blossoms that finally show
When roots sink so deep they will never let go.
I feel a love coming on.

I feel a dream coming on.
Though my eyes are wide open,
My senses soar out into space.
I feel a beckoning dream,
And a rainbow keeps scattering
Kisses all over my face —
And jasmine is dancing through tickling haze,
To echo in highlands where unicorns graze —
A fragrance I fancied I’d find from a phrase.
I feel a dream coming on.

I feel the night coming on,
The comfort it offers while
Gently it’s settling in.
I feel the beckoning night.
It’s a shroud of deception,
So firm, so incredibly thin!
With nothing to fear but my skin in a gown,
When flickering flames force a choice from my frown –
To snuff out the candle, or let it burn down.
I feel the night coming on.

And I feel a song coming on …

(c)1983, 1992 by Peter John Stone. All rights reserved. No use is authorized without permission from author, but the author offers reasonable terms, and entertains any proposals.

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