Pete's Poetry

It dreams of light and life,
of vibrant color and vast urban spaces.
It dreams of incorporating culture with economy,
and evolving into a living environment
full of energy with elegance.
The city's dream is green, full of life.
Seoul is the core of Korea,
the center of action,
the heart of innovation,
the shared soul of design.

• Seoul

On Beginnings

Eleventh grade exposed me to an altogether different breed of educator; a man named Jon Rondesvedt, who bursting with enthusiasm for history, philosophy and the classics, issued us a challenge: turn in a typical paper or compose a poem. A daring dyslexic, I accepted…He beamed at my first foray, while his endless wonderawakened in me thatinescapable enthusiasm for the written word, thatlove of travel,and thatpassion forteaching.

Wanderlust came early in my imaginings, but a singular poem by Langston Hughes stirred my spirit to action. It was Dream Variation and much as Hughes had done in 1923, I struck out that summer, discovered languages and unexpected inspiration in unfamiliar cultures and odd little towns of Europe, found work in Freiberg, made my way to Matala…and found words in the languid stretch of sand, the leap from caved cliffs and that single demitasse of fine, unfiltered Greek coffee that was my respite each day. Since then, poetry has been my urge and my ache, my aspiration, my identity.

On Exile and Experience

Having earned my street cred in university as a preschool teacher, waiter, massage therapist, dishwasher & dance instructor, I determined that teaching was my ticket to the world, finished a TEFL certificate and moved abroad. 20 years as an expat has taught me much about language and about life.I found in Seoul a source of inspiration, linguistic and otherwise, and completed an MA in Korean Studies, exploringitshistory and poetry, while acting, teaching, copywriting and publishing through Exile Press.

As a traveler, I bring a catalog of stories to share; as a translator and sometime linguist, an outsiders understanding of the beauty and complexities of the English language;as a teacher, understanding of the classroom dynamic and an ability to inspire students;and as a publisher and constant creator, some real-world experience in the business of books. It is my hope that theseexperiences willallow me to contribute to the program and to my peers. Returningfrom self-imposed exile for a new journey of discovery-to poetry, to home, I’m excited by the prospect of penningnew projects.

On Poetry

Is poetry in the mind or in the heart? A journey of verse should take us somewhere unknown and yet somehow familiar, on a walk through the dark heart of words to the edge of truth, to the verge of vexation then back again, toa place newfound and fresh. Subscribingto the idea that,as Thoreau put it, “How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live,” I went out and experience the world. Now, combining thoseexperiences and a willingness totear down and rebuild my composition skills, makes this the time to begin. 

Though my workis largely lyrical, as an essentially self-taught poet, I tend to ramble and overreach inalliteration. I hopeto simplify and to uncover truths that will resonatewith readers from more experienced poets and fresh-minded peers,and to strengthen my narrative sense. 

Eager to immerse myself in a community of like-minded creators, I hope to help foster more interaction between writers, designers and even animators, by interweaving poetry with art and multimedia to reach those who otherwise might shrink away from the idea of poems on a page. Bringing poetry to the masses is something that I believe is far more achievable than most reckon.

Feel free to contact me to collaborate peter@exilepress()com

• Peter Liptak
• author
• origins

Sweat and soot
bead brow to brow
as the fire writhes
in deadly determination
matched only by your own
single-minded, stiff-necked, staying power
your unbending brawn
face to face with this fire.

Whether driven by
instinct or enthusiasm
commitment or some innate sense
of courage touched with
the push and pull,
the ebb and flow
of terror and tenacity
the thrust is on.

An opponent…
a partner
enraged, ablaze,
triggered to madness
fueled by fire and force
urge and appetite,
unquenched and unabated as
your ill-advised adversary’s interactions.

You douse flames
with the shower of wet
douse, drench, soak and souse.
Unsated
your drive ignited
by something…
some flame of hope,
some fire within.
Set alight, perhaps with a shred of lunacy
sparked by some twisted balance
of fear and urge
caught fire,
spurred on to deeds
propelled by hate and desire.

Ignited,
our hero
dares the deadly dance
with those hot glowing bodies
swaying through the seethe and surge,
through the fear and urge
of brilliant orange-red
billowing with the bite and choke
of the smoke, the odor,
the pitch black
of the place of their encounter
where, for a moment enraged, engorged
then extinguished.
Fed by force, yet
out in a flame
absent of fame
left with a fleeting feeling of frailty
in the aftermath of climax
through the surging smoke
heave and roll
now tempered only by the totality of destruction
like the lives left in ruin of the families lost.

What living beings lay in waste, what spirits saved?
Only sifting through the rubble will tell.

In the end, only havoc remains
leaving you an unwilling accessory
to the blaze
a fickle and faithless witness to the
catalyst and calamity.

• sex

transcendental
ly speaking,
my tired mind
is tweaking

• insomnia
• sleepless nights
• tired
• sleep

IloveyouhorriblyIloveyousorely
IloveyouintentlyIloveyourelentlessly
IloveyouweaklyIloveyoumeekly
Iloveyoudailyhourlyweekly

Sitting in the sap of spring
by the weeping willow, wondering
…whiling away and wondering
if the flow of time can be tied -
have you tried?

Binding it by a stretch
of willow at the trunk to catch
the flow of time and tide
By and by, near the Nodeul ferry riverside

------

Twig and twine tying time to the tree
Trust not its boughs and branches, not me,
To stop the page of life’s mystery
the blue ever flowing by
mindless of the willow’s strength, and my sigh

As I sat beside the willow
With the ferry’s come and go
Across the river, it’s course wide,
By and by near the Nodeul ferry riverside

• Han river
• Seoul
• korea

How does one tame a feral kitten,
With lots of love and a thick-ass mitten!
Hiss and spit, Hiss and spit...
That's the gist of it.

• kitten
• pet
• rescue
• ferral

A lot of people don't realize what's happening to us… What's happening to the middle class, to the working class, to the blue-collar class, to me, to you, to the union man. A lot of people forget because they want only to forget:

Hey bag lady
You old bag
You hag
You're a drag
Bag lady

Hey bag lady
Sitting on the bus
Trying to discuss
All you do is cuss
Stay away from us
Bag lady

Hey bag lady
When you nag
Nag
Nag
For a fag
Or a drag
Our noses sag
From your breath
Your airborne death
Bag lady

Hey bag lady
Is it true
When we rag on you
Does your heart sag
Into your bag
Like a blood drenched rag
Do your eyes sag
From tears
Bag lady

Hey bag lady
Did you die
Does your soul fly
Should we sigh
When you walk by
Bag lady
Did you die…
Or did I?

Visa hot in hand... 'merica here we come!
But when will we land? And what will become
of the friends who made this place home, those expat alum...
How do you say goodbye to 20-year associates,
to the long friends, the Seoul mates that made this place almost home?

And where will their fates take them? Beyond borders to what will be from what has been...
I will keep you in heart and head, remember all I heard and and all unsaid,
the things we did, the beer we had, the late nights kalbi fed.
To the runners and the drinkers and the thinkers, to the sometime (by-my-side) sinners,
to the incessant selfie girls' subway sessions and it's kimchi soju stench,
to every ajjuma in all her color, the sticky-rice culture, to the traffic - yes, somehow I'll miss you too.

So with tangled ends still untied. Making' knots and dotting dots. Still much to be clarified...
(When will the mad dash subside?), I bid you friends a fond farewell.
I'll await your knock at my door. And for those I return to, it is my pleasure to tell...
so glad to see you once more!

• korea
• goodbye

You are my Ireland.

Your eyes are moors.
Your hands are angels.
Your hair is Autumn.
Your lips are frosting.

I am a fog,
an early rain.

My heart is yours.
My eyes are drawn.
My hands are velvet.

• Ireland
• love

I've passed through your land and wish to return.
I've glanced at your face and my home I'll now spurn.
I've gazed in your eyes and your will I must learn.
I've chanced in your heart and to you I'll now turn.
I've loved and lost, but it's for you that I'll burn.

~ by Peter N. Liptak

If you fancy this poem share with a friend, (or a foe… you never know) so that others might stumble past — ’TIS ALL THE FASHION!
From feast to famine, a poets line is thin. Follow my lean lead, come walk with me in wonder, then, if you will, PUT THE CASH IN!
No Paypal account is required. Poets must eat… AT LEAST A RATION!?

Ok, coffee will do. Pay a Pal, Pay a Poet, Pay Pete

Pay a Pal, Pay a Poet, Pay Pete… at PayPal.me
And for your fill of rhyme, scroll to PetethePoet and splash in for a poem or two.

• travel
• wine

You, my sweet cherub, invade my night's rest
overpowering me with odors of seraphim blossoms
to send me on dreams of hue filled fields, towering wood
and distant lake. With daybreak,
you shake the quiet lake with dreams of past embrace:
Your kiss at last from sticky peach lips unwillingly sent.
I wake in ambrosial grass to see you soar,
winging white on blue sky brushed in morning de-light
from last breath of shaded night you dive into the clear pool
at my feet and ripple your reflection in the waters
of my quaking heart.

Late into the night your image appears
slowly, like Cassiopeia, to grow
in little specs of pure light
to challenge darkness and danger.
In full brightness you dance in my vision,
gliding graceful
billowing swan grey with filmy mist
entrancing me again with dreams of you,
only to wake trembling and faint
hot and wet from hand to brow
and I fear your shade's flight
felt like death
and flesh.
I need again that sweet embrace
to lull me in the pool of that warm lake of passion.
Encircle me
then release me to that buoyant otherworld
as that last sweet kiss
fades from my lips embrace
like the death, a swan song
in sweet silence.

• sweet

The trees are blue, blue is orange
red and white
See me here in your midst
standing right
In front of you alone holding on
to your sight
Feeding on the image
late at night
Set me free ask me out, I
make it quite
clear - I love you.

Red
why do I crave you
was Oedipus trapped
is my penis at fault
or is it just a boy's love for his mother
that projects her qualities
along side his lustful appetite
Red
you seem softer and
sweeter for the plucking
like ripened fruit
about to fall to the ground
but with a fiery spirituous
all your own
Red
you feed on my soul
you don't brown like
hot buns
but little sparks
like spitfire
prick your fair supple skin
flames burst from your head
in a fountain
showering me with little
Red
arrows

• RED

With mom’s goodbye, the tears flow.
A hug, a wave… it’s time to go
Teddy gets on the bus to start
off for camp, sad to part.

The bus lets out on a field of green.
A flock of faces, strange and new.
Teddy sees a sea of smiles
from counselors done up in happy styles.

Teddy meets his cabin companions:
Ben and Ken and Will and Damien.
Find a bunk, get settled in
with the all the bears of cabin seven.

Down to the waterfront with the crew,
Teddy takes a swim in blue.
Climb back out, then jump back in…
The dock a rockin’ from all the splashin’ .

Venturing out to explore the wood,
climbing the biggest tree he could.
Teddy views things far and near.
The top of nature, green and clear.
The surrounding world abuzz with the sighs
of bustling leaves and floating dragonflies.

The lunch bell clangs, a table full of food,
To feed body, mind and spirit’s mood.
Then for a nap on grassy hill,
Teddy lay back to dream his fill.

Out the trail for riding fun,
Teddy gets on horseback to run
around the ranch into the sun.
Making tracks, gallum gallum.

Teddy spends the afternoon sailing
with the wind at his back, ever trailing.
Then on to arts and crafts to make
tie-dye t-shirts for color’s sake.

The bears rush off to take canoes...
A race across the lake in twos.
Teddy’s team silver sleek, cut the waves paddles dipping.
Woo Hoo! They shout, in rhythms wake. Through the water the craft zipping.

“Hey ho, nobody home…”
Campfire’s call, from the darkness come.
“The day is done, gone the sun…”
The friends are made, the stories sung.

The busses come, homeward bound.
Some sad goodbyes, hugs around.
Ready to rest, home to sleep sound.
Teddy’s journey of friendship found.

Smiling a welcome like sunshine raining,
Mom has come to the bus stop waiting.
A welcome home, a bright beginning,
Teddy telling about his trip, grinning.

Excerpt From: “Teddy’s Camp” by Peter Liptak

• summer camp
• camp songs
• canoe
• cabin
• counselor

I'm wearing a hat today It's blue
"Why is it blue?"
You might ask... As I do.

My blue hat
My blue cap
My cool cap

"Why isn't it purple,
Brown or Black?"
You wonder
As I blunder.

I suppose it's blue
Because it's made of denim
Most denim is blue...
You know. I do.

My blue denim cap
My blue denim baseball cap
My cool cap

Which naturally leads you
To the inquiry
As with me
Basically...
"Why is denim blue? Is it sad?
Is it cold too?"

It could be blue
Like a cool billowing breeze
but it keeps my head warm
from the cold winter's freeze.

Or blue... too
Like a sweet sad song
But it's bright and happy
And the bill is quite long.

I guess blue
Can be happy
And cool too

So here I sit
Wearing my blue jeans
My blue denim shirt
And sporting, before my afternoon nap,

My cool blue denim baseball cap
My cool beautiful billowing breezy blue denim baseball cap
My cool cap

And wonder if I'm blue
Too . . . Are you?

• baseball cap
• billowing
• cool
• cool blue denim baseball cap
• My cool cap
• blue denim
• cool blue
• i'm blue
• blue jeans

Soaring in the space above words,
it lowers its view to woods and lake,
circles and sees
and circles and perceives
fish and foul words for food.
Then wing, tail and feather
bend as a warped word descending
in a dive from a great height
to capture the food of innocent words
to crush and twist
with crooked talons,
to return to the place beyond words
and imagination.

• Lie
• beyond words
• woods and lake
• wing
• tail
• feather
• warped word

On a warm twist of winter
At 5:30 in the morning of Korean calm
An early bus slips past the chot noon [first snow]
Sailing down in windless clusters
Like whispers
Wetting windshields,
Highlighting the beaming headlamps
And washing by the well lit emptiness within…

It greets the faces of early commuters
With little welcome-to-the-day kisses
And brightens the pre-dawn
Sleepy-eyed alleys and avenues…

It alights on coated shoulders
As the late-nighters
Stop and stoop
To scrape the pavement
And pelt pals
Scooping and assailing
On their slippery descent
Down “the Hill”
Exalting in their intoxication
In this extra joy
At the break of Christmas…

Itaewon in the last moments of the millennium
Blanketed in white as if
To wash away the sorrows
Of war and the memory
Of the centuries past…

• snow
• Christmas
• millennium
• war
• centuries
• kisses
• intoxication

Oh the stars
how could i forget the stars
the spectacle of the Greek night
the great chasm of black
that connects to
the lingering blue of the Mediterranean
the mountains are camouflaged tan
to hide beneath the crickets
and the lizards
and the silent trees
as the specters slip
from caves deep in darkened tan

The black night is invaded
only by the moon's piercing glow
but Orion protects my sleep
and Cassiopeia fills my night
with dreams of heroes
after the Seven sisters
have sung me into a deep
dreamy sleep

• Peter Liptak
• Greece
• 1991
• poetry
• Poems
• stars
• Greek night
• Seven sisters
• Cassiopeia
• spectacle
• Mediterranean
• specters

(A work in progress)

You are my inner fire
my silver sharp
love's harp
burning desire.

You are my runner girl
of fated sneaker.
My heart weak, knees weaker
my frozen air
breath curls
in a dance it whirls,
and I chase you like a dream
in poet steam.

You are my every line
my conscious grammar
my pen
my hammer.

• love
• conscious grammar
• pen
• hammer
• dance
• inner fire
• heart weak

Cityscape
As evening approaches,
And night extends the sky’s expanse,
A neon canopy is cast over the vast extent
Of Seoul’s story unfolding
Framed by bustling traffic and avenues aflood with people.
A tale reflected in the quiet river,
Soulful and scenic,where its Han runs deep,
Its water forever infused with history’s narrative
And composed by nature’s recurring chronicle.

I arrived before the dawn of humanity and watched the mountains rise above
Bearing the surges and torrents of time, then the lingering calm of peace in awe of
The generations of men who grow and wither, live and love.

I have weathered winters and watched the birth of spring,
Rolled through the swelter of summer and carried the leaves of fall,
Mirroring the lives of those who built their huts at water's edge, great and small,
Their reflection shimmering in the day’s haze to the sound of cicadas
And beaded with light in the scented night to elate us

I have heard the din of great deeds and inspired the poets to passion
And for those who come to reflect, I ripple and listen

I am the color ancient – the rivers flow,
The scent of Seoul, its coursing heart below

I am the Han

(Of Han and History)

Many kingdoms came to claim me, and I sat silent at their feet for a spell,
By-and-by they came to dust, yet my veins still stream with life’s swell.

My icy banks served the last Joseon king and lord
To preserve and send him in a procession that would strike a chord.
I was there when thousands fled south as the thunder roared
And held back the tide of fury as many attempted the ford.

Some 600 years, I’ve watched the city grow and people dwell,
As I rolled from the slopes of Daedeok in a swell
Joined by the gush of Geumgang gathered from the north,
With the humors of one Korea to join hands in Han and issue forth

Coursing into the Yellow Sea,
I cut across the landscape, rolling through Seoul’s history
I flow with han and happiness, miracle and mystery
Equally north and south, I know no borders
And when I rise, I flood by my orders

I am the Han and I am history

(Power and Privilege)

I am power, patient yet unstoppable, the eternal flow,
Shapeless, I run as raindrops, amassing might as I grow
Splitting stones and smashing boulders in my rush to lower land
My course may bend, but I bow to no man
… and none can contain my spirit

I am peace, nature’s enduring refuge, a place to grow
I am the welcome wind over cool water, the bearer of dewdrops and the channel of rain flow,
The scent of the storm, the river reborn

I am the yin and yang of ecology amended,
The river renewed its progress appended.

I am Han and I am hope

(From Rise to Renaissance)

I have watched the flood of humanity rise at my banks,
Seen the rolling hills turn to cement pillars in ranks,
Its carts to cars and serenity to speed, rabid with urbanization and blank

I’ve seen bridges built to span my breadth, and watched the wheels of time roll by
Soon to see the neon lights splashed about, blaring through the once still sky

I became the symbol of Seoul’s manufacturing miracle,
Felt footprints fall, weathered the tire tracks of industry and endured the metal plates of progress
I have known the wicked by the toxic runoff, and seen heroes made and lost
I have seen the guiltless die and the victorious weep at the cost

I balked and became a symbol of Seoul’s renaissance,
Transforming in tranquility, rebuilt and restful, calm and comfortable in response
I have fed kings and peasants, families and foes, secret lovers and lost souls
And welcomed them to share in meditation or wash away mountains of woes

You unsettled souls, come and renew
I am the Han River tested and true

I am the Han
And I am home

(An Aside)

I too have sat by the Han and listened to the quiet and the din
heard tell of those who had come before, and those who will again.
I have seen mountains of trash turned to family parks
And murky waters transform to await the song of larks
I’ve seen the footprints of progress slowly swept away
As its founding spirit return to mark a new day
I too am the Han and here is my home

• korea
• Recollections of Han
• bustling traffic
• avenues aflood
• cicadas
• I am the Han
• Joseon
• Daedeok
• Geumgang
• Seoul
• history

Through dreams portents and visions
I found the Fertile Crescent’s
Mesopotamian world
Of Darius and Xerxes
From Cyrus’ long descent.
Ships flew fast from end to end
Close guarded by Persian ports
At Carthage, Tyre and Issus,
To gather up the world and
Place upon the feet of men
Whose hubris plays undaunted.

Then rose a polis to fling
Insult at Xerxes’ demands.
Greeks tore at the tattered fringe of
Darius’ weakened rule
For free men fight unchained
With wild arms eschewing pain
To protect that life they hold
So dear to city and state.
But soon greatness grew to greed
As Midas’ touch tainted
They fell to fight in factions.

Macedonian phalanx
Bound by land, bound to conquer,
Regained the great Greek world,
Turned attention to Persia
And doled greatest injury
At hand of Phillip's issue.
But Alexander alone
Could bond his conquered world and
Power fell to power new,
As Rome did rise to grasp at
Reigns of Neptune’s stone white steeds.

Then northern Latins rumbled
Down and splashed and stomped around,
Trod heavy on land and sea,
Reached full round Europe’s extant
Mediterranean sound.
But pillars of pride tumble
Down like men in acts of war.
Then, battle-axe to beaker
Mingled in Europe’s Celtic
Plain but left the world unmarred
By city, greed or guilt of sin.

• portents
• Mesopotamia
• Xerxes
• Darius
• Persian ports
• Carthage
• Tyre and Issus
• hubris
• Greeks
• Midas
• great Greek world
• Alexander
• Neptune
• Celtic

[on seeing the documentary, Brother’s Keeper]

In the age before St. Patrick,
Echu Ollathir to us bespeaks through sadness of his love:
"The death spirit of the boar enters the body. It is the messenger of light. The animal is within us. The animal is the land. The land is the life within us -nourishing and whole."
So bespeaks the Dagdae of his love and also his sadness.

There she stood in the thick straw,
legs still unsteady from the twenty-
five staggering miles between farms,
staring out at the sun, warm and bright,
where Moses stepped into the trailer.

The Messiah looked down upon her,
judging her animal nature -- reckoning.
He looked up, as if to see
the Lord near the sun, singing.
He listened… and paused.
The sign clear, Moses smiled
as he began to load the shotgun.

She stepped closer to the trailer's edge
and greeted the Messiah's outstretched arms
not perceiving the power of his hand.
Dark steel gray poised, touched her temple.
She shivered and turned her head
from the cold whisper of its breath.

---------------------------------------------

INSTANTLY blind from the noise.
In shock, though far from dead,
for God had not guided its viral spray home.
Pain and blindness reigned,
and she squealed… and squealed
and raced around in red fright,
slamming into the thin metal side of the trailer.

The Messiah wrestled with her, grasping.
His soiled fingers on her soft pink skin bruised her innocence.
And Moses spoke:
"Get the Fuck over… God Damn You!"
and he threw her to her back.

Her adrenaline subsided slowly.
She lumbered near the wall,
feeling faint, the cold metal and the hay
biting into her naked back.
Pink skin, untanned now spattered
with speckles of red spitfire.

Moses gripped his buck-knife in his right hand
pulled it from the sheath at his side
and jabbed the jugular, twisting,
released his grasp on her shoulder
and stepped back quick to observe.
Then Moses turned and walked away triumphant.
The Israelites remained to watch and wait.

She staggered to her feet,
stumbled out of the trailer,
stood and watched the life flow full
from the faucet at her throat.
She who was raised without God,
without religion, with no prayers to say,
no fight left in her vacant veins,
void of will,
smelled the hay beneath the thick scent of gunpowder,
tasted the liquid left in her mouth,
felt the cold earth hard from a night frost
and fell as the sun set its last golden ray
silent and sweet.

And the Israelites gave grace.

"The universe and the soul are indestructible,
but fire and water will sometime prevail over them."
So said Strabo

• poetry
• Poems
• death
• Moses
• rape
• Echu Ollathir
• the boar
• Dagdae
• thick straw
• farm
• Messiah
• shotgun
• Pain and blindness
• squealed
• soft pink skin
• innocence
• adrenaline
• naked
• red spitfire
• jabbed the jugular
• faucet at her throat
• raised without God
• no prayers
• vacant veins
• cold earth
• Strabo
• fire and water
• trailer's edge
• Dark steel
• viral spray
• red fright
• thin metal side
• speckles of red spitfire
• Israelites
• without God

“Try the train station,” an ally alleged.

“Where will it take me,” I wondered back,
“heart in hand,
past the epicenter of Insanity Station
to the outer edge of Lonely Heart’s land?
Will it derail and send me, worry free,
into some unkempt forest, free of feeling?
Or will I just drop off my baggage and ride
till I forget, her memory fleeting?”

• love
• lost
• train

Morning let me die with you
for your breath is more promising
than death
I have seen the last breath
of night by morning light
and sucked life from it

• Peter Liptak
• poetry
• Poems
• last breath
• death
• die
• Last Breath of Night
• Morning
• sucked life

Spinning
Eight legs
Smiling she waits
Silently
As I dance
I tremble with love
And twist about
She spins
Encircling me
With her power
I am lost

• Peter Liptak
• poetry
• Poems
• Webbed
• Spinning
• Eight legs
• lost

bare moon
death storm
summer delicate
sweet tongue
chanting
lazy
moment

• chocolate

There remains an antique land of polished green dreams beneath a mist,
thick and clean, where great blue flutes in waves of wind sweep a waltz of Irish rain across a rocky plain, to plunder dreams in greens:

It seems-
There came a lull from seven days of Irish rain
and though my boots still wet from journey’s gain,
this antique land yet plundered my dreams and on and on
I rambled down and round to where few had gone.
Around the quiet depths, a lake in mid July,
there did I meet a sight that drew me nigh
to it: a stone whose granite face quietly crept
from shadowed greens, then wan and white it wept.

I touched the worn words as I read their soft depths:
“He has out soared the shadow of all our night.”
I stood by its naked face as the shadows stretched out
to embrace the swift setting sun and I sat in the slim light
while the past wept in silent remembrance and forever etched doubt
upon my mind. Left only were the character and coldness of his fate
And in white stone the date: 1888.
The darkened waters spread out and the shadows crept all around.
The shadows crept all around crowned in sound.

• Ireland
• Epitaph
• Peter Liptak
• mist
• Irish rain
• Kilarney
• lake
• poetry
• Poems
• 1888