Poems, Prose and Meditations

By Lawrence Peterson

Poems, prose and meditations written from the heart with alliterations for your comfort and enjoyment.
Contributions focus on love, adoration and loneliness, with emphasis on nature and human transformation. Written by psychologist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Peterson
• Release date: Jan 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005390532

Lawrence Peterson

Lawrence Frederick Peterson Ph.D. is a cognitive psychologist, writer and musician. His books range from self help to color books. Please consider his books for reading and adoption. His latest book is How to Become an Alpha Being, involving personality theory for enhanced self esteem. Enjoy.

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Poems, Prose and Meditations

L. F. Peterson

© 2021

Table of Contents

Distance

Rainy Day

Winter Rain

Velvet Declarations

New Year

Morning Light

Changing Seasons

The Changeling

Spirit Bird

The Old Falcon

Ode to My Mother

Gretchen

Where Dwells Love

Lonely Woodpecker

Enduring Transformation

Be True to Your Heart

Separation

For Love of Love

Two Red Tailed Hawks

Returning

Consuming Love

I see Thee From Afar

Long Days Alone

Work

Thou Has Touched Me From Afar

Hide and Seek

Missing You

Gentle Rose

Recognition

Burning Desire

The Reason

The Heart Searches for the Soul

Upon Passing

Christmas Eve

Dreams of Desire

Mon Cherie

Passion Fruit

Covid

Ode to a Poo

Fence

About the Author

Other Books by Lawrence F. Peterson

Distance

Distance, the resistance of an eternal fire of desire causing hearts to recite prose with harmony of parts, this rose by any other name whose aim is pure, a lea to be secure in the arms and charms of another, the quoted and devoted mother of all muse without defense, designed in kind to confuse the sense, a star shining and aligning from afar, burning bright in the night, robbing sleep with notions of affection without objection, deep devotion and steadfast emotion this transaction of attraction, with single goal in mind and Soul, to address and confess in kind, undying love thereof, beckoning a reckoning the time of separation and hesitation confine no longer, now bowing and allowing embrace of the face we adore, therefore.

Rainy Day

Rain keeps falling like a gray veil on a pale, ghostly day. Cascading streams form randy rindles routed to overflowing meres with wet tears from spears of weeping willows. Billabong ponds and chastened basins are brimming. Foraging fish plash and splash in the refuge and subterfuge of emergent lilies. Boisterous birds skim across wet reflections of placid ponds with expectations of absconding treats to eat. A young filly stands stoic like a stone sculpture in a paucit paddock, finding relief from the bane of chilly rain under a metal gable for her sable coat. Cows dote beneath huge oaks to escape the soak and daunting deluge percolating from canals and channels to flood the brows of sandy sloughs. Squirrels descend from nests to fend for acorns soon swept away or buried in the clay.

A spume of mushrooms emerge and converge like bubbles of white surf from a soapy sea. All is wet with branches bending in genuflection to the pelting patter and chatter of raindrops dripping and skipping with incessant cadence. A black dog scurries along to get back home where he belongs. The soft glowing halo of neighboring lights adds a flavor of allurement and enchantment to the blight. So grateful for my fate, to be inside where I can wait with time for the sun to shine.

Winter Rain

Winter comes, rain falls, and the sky is awash in gray. Overall, a cold, dismal day painted on an old tattered canvas long abandoned and sullied from neglect. Falling leaves obscure the wet morass where once was lovely grass. Bald trees now barren of verdure confront the horizon with bald bark to endure and stand stoic and steadfast in the northern gusting blast. Absent are the lovely chirps and songs from birds at play. The only sound this discrepit morning is falling rain and the abject howl from a lonely hound not far away. A nostalgic whistle from a passing locomotive provides some relief. Its familiar cadence from its metallic wheels traversing track ties brings long sighs to mind as it recedes into the quiet of the nether nigh.

Thunder now cracks with fury through the wet slurry. How grateful am I to reside inside with shelter from the sputtering skelter of the storm. Acorns adorn the ground, but no squirrels are seen around this frigid December day. Only the nip from the sharp piecing tip of a storm as Jack Frost blows his winter horn. The local pond swells to the contempt of an angry beaver, turned aggressor to fend for its flooded den, feeling cursed as as clouds burst, continuing to fall pell mell without relent. The deluge will soon pass but forecast snow will reveal and feel the fangs and frost bite of the winter panther scratching and clawing, prepared