Pete's Poetry

Colored ink drawing of a fire hose leading to a firefighter confronting a blaze
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Calamity

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Death and Chocolate, Love's Loss, Passion Poets

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.

Red and blue continuous-line profiles connected by a knot and thorns, with LOVE:HATE lettering
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The rift… the drift

Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Love's Loss

IloveyouhorriblyIloveyousorely
IloveyouintentlyIloveyourelentlessly
IloveyouweaklyIloveyoumeekly
Iloveyoudailyhourlyweekly

 

 

    without even a call…
    was it love at all

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    Forsaken

    Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Love's Loss

    is it so easy to leave love
    to rush off without a word
    to run away spurred by anger
    for what occurred

    is it not absurd
    to let go
    of something so sought after
    as affection

    to leave me lost
    my eyes glossed over
    exhausted from lack of rest
    once blessed with affection
    enchantment and emotion
    the delight of devotion
    of passion and piety
    discarded for anxiety

    rejection~
    i protest!
    without even a call…
    was it love at all

      She seemed so serious
      as if it took concentration. 

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      IN LOVING MEMORY OF

      Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Love's Loss

      "I am home in heaven, dear ones;
      Oh, so happy and so bright!"

      Born: February 9, 1924

      Dear Mother,
      You never asked me for advice
      to show me how human
      or frail you are.

      Your life and experiences
      so freely shared with others
      are absent from my world.

      And what about your childhood?
      It could not be so unremarkable
      to grow up with such
      a large family.

      I suppose I waited to long
      before I started to ask
      those questions of Rosemary…

      At Rest: May 21, 1995

      Was I lucky
      to have not spent those last
      few hours with her?
      Or was it unlucky after all?
      At least it was easier that
      I was not the one
      trying to hold on,
      to capture the essence
      of her
      before she slipped beneath
      the glaze.
      I'm sure I will experience that
      too much
      in my lifetime.

      A Long Drive To The Wake

      Death is less real
      in the daytime…
      The funeral home intentionally
      dark and drab, like death,
      to retreat from light
      and retire the mind.
      I always dream that death
      will wait patiently till night
      and penetrate with stealth
      the mind and body
      and soul
      from nearby shadows.

      As a child I played
      with my shadow, a shepherd
      a friend,
      never overshadowing.
      The dance of our
      chase affable and enticing.
      Then someone told me by day
      that my once sociable shadow
      was dark and lifeless.
      That night, the dismal symbolism appeared
      and became thick
      like the darkest syrup.

      "When through one woman
      a little more love
      and goodness,
      a little more light
      and truth
      come into the world-
      then that woman's life
      has had meaning."

      Kolssak Funeral Home

      That day I spent with her
      in Chicago
      taught me that memory
      is of little consequence
      when it is locked
      in an open casket.

      She seemed so serious
      as if
      it took concentration.

      I have searched
      for her reason,
      her cause, but found
      only consequence.

      What did I learn from her
      death?
      Nothing… Death
      is not a lesson but a reality
      of which the only gift is grief,
      but even this I missed
      because she was not so close
      in my memory
      and her stories lost
      to the cold transference.

      Interment

      Death
      becomes an absurd story,
      the reality of the living,
      and life their illusion.

      I was a pallbearer
      at my grandmother's funeral
      and her casket was heavy
      with stillness.
      She did not turn
      or shift
      as we descended the steps.
      My eyes laden
      with memory.

      Aftermath

      Rosemary
      was, in a moment,
      unburdened with memory
      With so many memories
      in the world,
      her passage,
      cleared the way
      for some of my own.

      What she left behind were
      the common things;
      the basic accouterments of
      a person who's lived their share:
      some furniture,
      scattered pictures of little
      significance without
      much explanation, and then
      still insignificant;
      and letters that told more about
      the writer than the receiver.

      I had gone to Rosemary’s memorial
      expecting a revelation…
      having never witnessed death in person,
      but there was no awakening
      waiting, no new awareness.
      She could teach me nothing
      of death or even
      of life.
      It seems a cruel joke to take a person
      and leave but a shell.
      Is it really you?
      Her lips silent, too stubborn to answer.

      Eventually, I passed by
      to walk again among the shadowy
      disfigurements of the room.

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      Where is the lost and found for a love lost?

      Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Love's Loss

      “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?”

      Valediction

      Posted by Peter Liptak in Poems, Love's Loss

      is it so easy to leave love
      to rush off without a word
      to run away spurred by anger
      for what occurred

      is it not absurd
      to let go of
      something so sought after
      as affection

      to leave me lost
      my eyes glossed over
      exhausted from lack of rest
      once blessed with affection
      enchantment and emotion
      the delight of devotion
      of passion and piety
      discarded for anxiety

      rejection~
      i protest!
      without even a call…
      was it love at all

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