The Poetic Side Of Life…

“This page will simply be a page of collections of poetry I write for the simple enjoyment of writing, words, prose, and allowing myself to be swallowed up into the mystical world of language. May this always be a place of comfort, solitude, rest, and memories.

Enjoy!” (Feel free to post any poetry yourself as a comment.)- Peter J. Fast


What is it about the birth of a child that piques the curiosity of the curious?

It is a genesis that every human who has ever existed has had to make.

It is nature and natural combined, yet a miracle.

A seed planted, a blossoming egg…

…and then, life.

The mirth which flutters at the sound of galloping horses charging through a speaker.

The spinning room of parenthood.

The clinging excitement, pent up with explosive joy.

This life which has been placed into the palm of my hand like a single droplet of rain.

I have been entrusted from above.

A guardian and defender of this helpless spark.

A radiance of the Father’s love.

An image reflecting the face of God.

Wonder and childish innocence, beckoning me with a smile,

a coo,

a cry,

a supressed grunt as wind breaks from the tiny bean.

It is he who has captured my heart.

He, with his diamond eyes, soft hands, intricate toes, and satin hair.

He has not uttered a single word, yet my life is his.

He is my son.

I am entrusted with great responsibility.

Will he grow up to be a painter, a writer, or a musician?

He will always paint with his eyes, write with his mind, and sing with his love.

He will be noticed in a crowd and will change the world.

If I had to pick the most important two things I could ever pass on to this boy, it would be…

to love him unconditionally…

…and reveal to my son the amazing love and plan God has for his life

…the rest of life is just commentary if he but believe and take to heart these two things.

Then everything else will fall into place.

He is my son after all.

Peter J. Fast


Facets of gentle complexity give birth to rays of vibrancy.

They radiate and reflect an unexplainable intricacy.

Each petal is too delicate to understand,

Yet curved and edged with velvet, invisible fingers.

Where infused colours touch the face of heaven and look back.

They bud together, every one,

Each enclosed with its own sealed cavern of surreptitious hues and wasps.

Then, always shocking, they blossom as they reach upward, drinking in life.

They will stun, magnify, and stir passion through gazing eyes of beauty.

They will transform and arouse its body, taking the simplicity of its character

To a level of wonderment and elegance,

With their garlands of jewels from the black, moist soil.

Finally, the unseen circle will form,

The beauty will dim and its face of God will fade.

Every one will dry and flake as nature’s cycle is victorious

As it snatches the depth of its character.

However, this exotic, exquisite self will be only temporarily suppressed.

For a short while it must wait, as a hunter watches for the innocent prey.

It waits patiently, counting days into weeks,

Like in a slumber, yearning for the cycle to return unto itself,

So that magic, in all its glory can return,

Bringing man closer to the face of his Creator.

Peter J. Fast

Mental Anguish

Into the darkness one descends,

Passing crags of black rock and foreboding crevices.

The night churns like a whirl pool wrought with pitch.

It consumes the souls, and echoes with screams.

It is alive, yet dead, forcing many down its long staircase of ash.

It is the journey many must take.

Some believe its black swirling nature to be destiny.

Others yearn for light, hope, release, freedom, swearing its dark nature is not bound to them.

It always provokes senseless barbarity, yet is forever pulling people down.

With long fingers of bone and flesh, nails like talons.

They grip clothing, tear flesh, pull and drag.

The blackness has come to life, seeking to devour.

It delights in mayhem, grins at fear, howls at desperation.

It sees yet has no eyes, hears yet is deaf.

Its face is maimed, yet never seen.

It survives in the dark recesses and corners of the subconscious,

Yet is ever prevalent and real.

It laughs and cackles when people scramble away,

And calls out to their helpless victims who collapse and crawl.

It is their surreal reality.

It is absolute and dominating.

It is a labyrinth and a snare.

It is molded to personality and always devious.

It is numbing and bitter.

Yet, its thirst is never slaked and the sight is always the same.

It is pathetic victim thrashing around, sucked down into the black whirl pool wrought with pitch,

And always looking for the freshness of relief.

Peter J. Fast

A Torrent Of Emotion

Filled with ill trepidation.

Waves of sorrow

And joyful glimpses of majesty.

Tears of salt streaming from eyes of light

Echoes in the darkness next to loneliness.

Striving under fear to be courageous.

Sensing the hour of test approaching, a faint smile grips lips of age.

Wrinkles line the depths of the soul,

Mirroring life and the journey forever forward.

Glee and brightness filling youth,

A toothless grin, a mirage of infancy suspended in a wilderness,

Vast and inconceivable.

The approaching mysterious knock on the door of the soul.

The stare and beckoning when time has drained like gritty sand.

That drooping face of history, unseen and haunting, always watching and calling.

Forever will they remember smiles, hugs, tears, kisses, frowns, words, gazes.

They come and go, in a dazzle of colour and temperature.

Always straight, no turns, bends, unforeseen dips or hills.

This is the torrent of emotion, this is life.

Created and molded for a purpose.

Lifting eyes upward, vision piercing the clouds,

As the breath of God overshadows everything like dew from heaven.

Peter Fast

2 responses to “The Poetic Side Of Life…

  1. Very good Peter. How are you doing? Saw you on the video taken on Thursday Holocaust Remembrance Day. I said to your mother. Only Peter would get caught on video. It would never happen to me.
    Here is a poem I recently wrote which I would like to share … I trust it is not too deep …
    ” Roses are red …” (Just a small .. and poor sense of humor).

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