WE KNOW We know where all the flowers have gone, Spawned from barbarian shadows, Darkness laughs now where pure light once shone, Killing the dream from which all life grows, Petals and perfumes push hard to stay true, Wafting like phantoms on unsteady breezes, Still, lovers forget where their true love once grew While Cupid dances just as he pleases, Barren flowerbeds cry wolf then as the grey graveyard beckons, Time marching on, relentless, counting all the lost seconds. We know where sheep may safely graze, Pastured from our earliest needs, Elysium fields broke the labyrinthian maze, Planting what could be eternal seeds, Shepherds and flocks impress patterns on the hills, Standing like wardens of what once was true, Still, pilgrims will gather as the grain overspills While Bacchus distils his own brew, Black sheep bleat defiance then as they break through the fences, Crows forming the chorus, celebrating lost senses. We know for whom the bell once tolled, Tutored from our first primal scream, Towering steeples called us in from the cold, Revealing dark caves to the music’s soft beam, Pageants and sagas spill from overwritten pages, Trumpeting like leaders with no one to lead, Still, children will frolic on the last rock of ages While Morpheus concocts his new dream, Cracked bells break the rhythm then as the trees shed dead leaves, Weary ringers falling silent, regretting wisdom as it grieves. We know where faith lays its weary head, Lectured from the pulpit’s long arm, Warning sermons invaded the sanctity of our bed, Chasing into shadows love’s fatal charm, Questions and answers challenge gaps in lost souls, Warning like thunder of impending disaster, Still, believers will slowly emerge from their holes While Zeus throws his rules as a master, Empty vessels spread the lie then as ancient psalms chant sad glory, Angry preachers turning to stone, misunderstanding the real story.
Originally from the UK, and after travelling the world non-stop for over 40 years as freelance reporter/film-maker, writing non-stop all the way in various forms, Peter Dietrich feels it a good moment to pause and try to see some of his more personal writings read and published.