Nocturnal 

Transmissions

I wake homesick 

for another world,

even as 
yet another world 

let itself in

via the t.v.

to taunt me,

both Trojan horse

and 

cave of shadows,

trotting out

it’s patter-song 

of brutal banalities.

I vow 

to make a pyre.

Outside, the cold 

clamors to get in

as I lie threatening

to push the bed 

up against the door

like a junked cradle 

that bringeth

no comfort.

After last night

I've become determined 

to ignore everything
that is not me

and give the memory

of you

my full attention.

But you 

fade so fast.

 How can I keep

you with me

when even my

own name is

no more than

a makeshift mask

barely concealing 

the sins

of the world

as my own, if 

only by osmosis.

I yearn to learn

the life-saving

 art of overlooking,

but out of

what troubling

necessity? 

Un-prepared to 

take on the burden

of too much 

reconciliation,

I wrest

and dis-own my own

 mercurial evidence.

I confess I

prefer my trials

under the cover 

of night 

where I can

 be blameless,

free from the bondage 

of belongings,

blissfully

unaware 

I am

the smoking gun

of my own longing.

By living a nightlife

made of

knee-jerk reactions,

a collective psyche 

is hardly a tyranny 

I can count on 

waking from.

After giving 

this morning

the ole’ college try, 

I end up crying

while doing crunches,

an un-arranged marriage

between my
weakness and strength.

No, this is how

I build the stamina

to see you again.

Had no angel

appeared last night
let alone

replete in a tattered 

wife beater

with the words 

WAKE UP

emblazoned across it’s chest,

(in white cotton

no less!),

I might never

 have known 
we were married.

By making love

with a phantom,

I’ve come to accept

my body’s weeping.

True, my mornings are

versed in mourning,
all because of our

reversed metamorphosis

by way of a dream; and

the inevitable evaporation 

of your wings.

Peter Valentyne

2020 in the year of Corona

Love in the Time of Corona

I woke up at 4:00 AM 

determined to make something. 

I got up because I had 

to give art it’s chance to heal. 

Though nothing I do is uncreative, 

it feels as though I am 

married to the world 

solely to love and be loved. 

Yet the world lies asleep in its bed. 

Or so it seems.

How do we go about our days 

sans business as usual? 

My habits feel like shadows 

without a source of light. 

And so I vow to change my ways. 

I am looking into how 

to make a flower from scratch. 

I am my own bit of earth. 

Must everything have a wretched fate? 

The artist always says no. 

I don’t want to get up, 

I want to rise.

 Am I interesting enough to be spared? 

I want to be worth living.  

I began this odyssey 

with a bout of spring cleaning...

unearthing several forgotten treasures. 

A photo of my mother 

as a pretty young girl. 

A nude self portrait in colored pencil. 

A blank unused journal.

My cat, keeps kneading the armchair 

as though desperate for milk. 

I too wish for milk from a chair. 

I’m struck by her dance 

in this strange trance state. 

What do I do like that? 

Where am I so unconscious and why? 

Familiarity breeds contempt, 

but I barely feel it. 

I want to wake up...

but in such a scary time. 

What a fine time to come to my senses! 

But I know waking will make a difference. 

Here in my home of carefully arranged junk

in hopes of becoming content and unafraid. 

My cat is my shepherd and I shall not want.

Our lives are without rules 

though full of laws, I think

this illness must mean something. 

But so far it is like a forest in a film, 

provocative even as it smells of nothing. 

The old ways no longer suffice. 

So now, every morning, 

I go in search of Easter 

to make my days worthwhile. 

Why then do I feel 

locked inside an unnatural history museum? 

I want to make a stunning new thing 

and call it “Today”. 

But first I have to reckon, 

no grapple, with the old ways as

they no longer work in the here and now. 

The usual balms have lost their salt. 

Is this room nothing more than a body 

held together by standing so still?

I want to trade in my television for a God. 

I want to go pagan in an unfurnished room 

where a potted plant

is a much needed nod to all that is wild.

I put the picture of my mother 

in a frame so she can’t desert me. 

The kitchen sink is a Walden’s pond 

I can barely make out my reflection in. 

So I start to write...

each line requiring an open heart surgery. 

My first and last hope is to recover. 

Can one get salt water from a tap? 

I must make something out of this nothing. 

A cake from homemade flour. 

I want to die by a river, not a faucet!  

I don’t want to get up...

I want to rise. 

I want an art that will 

save me with its urgency. 

And save us all as well.

Peter Valentyne

St. Patrick’s Day 2020

"Perhaps poems allow for the descent and the ascent.
Perhaps that is their secret balm."

                                            ~Deirdre Jacobson

ORDER ON AMAZON

https://www.amazon.com/How-Live-What-You-Know/dp/1543988482

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 

---

First Review by Amy Raines for Amazon Publishing

Through times that make one question life and its very

being and thoughts of knowing love when we feel like

the unlovable, Peter Valentyne has put these moments

of emotion into in his poetry in How To Live With What 

You Know. Moments of questioning God, Earth, love,

prosperity, and joy in the face of life’s trials can hold

much more than their supposed final decree. Does life

have to remain sinister when certain events shake us

to our core? Can we find purpose and meaning in the

depths of life’s greatest questions? Can we cope with the 

unanswerable riddles without coming undone? With living

comes wisdom but sometimes that wisdom is hidden;

we have to look past simple events to find out what we

really know about living.

The poetry in How To Live With What You Know by

Peter Valentyne will make the reader ask and answer

questions that lead to more profound reasoning about

life and existence. I love the straightforward way

 writes his poems. There is no essential need for endless 

rhyme schemes or perfectly-sized stanzas when the

words evoke deep and passionate emotions from the

reader. I can honestly say Valentyne’s way of questioning

the core of reality and existence is nothing like anything

have ever read. Among all of these brilliant poems, my

absolute favorite is Everyday Life Of A Hand Mirror.

simple title betrays the deep resonating meaning of

people getting so caught up in their own conceited view

that they refuse to see what is happening in the world

them like zombies via reflection. I recommend How To 

Live With What You Know to anyone who loves poetry

that resonates away from the cliche of rhyme and verse.

I hope that Valentyne has many more collections

of brilliant poetry to share with us in the future.

Deep and insightful. Layers of thought-provoking, deep, insightful and philosophical poetry ! A must read !                                                                                                 ~Melanie
Having never been an avid reader of Poetry, I wasn't sure what to expect when this collection appeared! I usually found most to be self indulgent or pretentious, never finding any that spoke to me. Mr. Valentyne's work is something i couldn't imagine in my wildest dreams!! But he did in his and i've been moved to tears and exhilarated. After several readings, I still can't find a favorite. The writing here is exquisite, illuminating, inspirational and moving. Peter Valentyne has given us a gem to treasure. It is a must have!! I'm looking forward to much more!                                                                                                  ~Barnet
A Wonderful Poetic CollectionPeter Valentyne's poetic voice is a profound and revelatory treasure of dream and waking ruminations on life and living. His poetry stimulates the reader to examine his own being and offers continuing pleasures with each re-reading. A wonderful and rewarding collection indeed.                                                                                      ~David

NOTE: Your comments would be much appreciated. Please share them at:               Petervalentyne@yahoo.com

More poems can be accessed by pressing the OLDER POSTS tab at the bottom of the page.

The Pedestrians

When will we realize
that fears and insecurities
are imperfect signs of 
a latent goodness
that lead us
to empathy?

Because you had 
not sinned,
I thought you were good.
You were not good.
You were fearful,
unimaginative,
moral,
young. 

Those who think
themselves superior
are in fact, inferior.
Who said that,
Pythagoras?
Regardless,
I caution you.
Like judges
who only follow 
other judges rules,
they can only follow;
their’s is a borrowed
conviction.

My dreams keep 
my ear pressed
to hallowed ground,
that I should be first
to hear
the rumblings of hooves
in the event of
my own private
apocalypse.

But for now,
the rarity of last night’s
pleasant dream
has caused me 
to retrace my steps.
I hadn’t more or less to drink.
No undigested bit of meat.
I hadn’t watched a particularly
potent film before bed.
But dreams aren't
made of facts,
though the fact
that I dream
gives the world 
such invaluable weight.

Clocks stop at 12:00,
So let us consider 13:00.

I don’t know 
if you’ll receive this 
or even respond. 
Poetry is hardly earth shaking
until it is. 
But I did want 
to say not to worry.
There’s nothing 
for you here. 
Only the
existential musings 
of a 
poetic heretic. 
Nothing you would relate to 
or appreciate. 
I’ve learned over the years 
that when people close doors 
by way of inexperience 
and judgements
they seal themselves off 
from discovering
what's truly vital
in the world. 

Even so,
I hope you find your
long sought-for pleasures 
(sensual or otherwise) 
rewarding 
and your judgements 
protect you 
from the unmistakable stain
of enlightenment. 
Stay safe and above the fray! 
For Truth and Beauty 
are typically
the first and last
lovers
to be 
relinquished.


Peter Valentyne
February 10th, 2020

The Uninhabitability
of Yesterday's News

We’d be fools

to reduce

the stars to

poetic constraints,

and the moon

could do worse

than go on

highlighting 

our lives

from afar,

swooning

half hearted, 

chock-full of

unwarranted envy,

yet, yesterday

I came across

the meaning

of the Greek word

for metaphor,

simply put:

“to carry”,

and

because my mind

is a tongue

unable to leave  

a wound in

the mouth

alone,

my thoughts

probe the roof

of their cave

like a blind worm

impatient for 

flight.

Aren’t you

flummoxed by 

the self same
riddle?

 Finding

yourself

 feeling the unthinkable

as though you'd

previously

behaved a

perspective tourist

incapable of

summoning

your own

history’s

native tongue.

I’m sure of 

this:

we mustn't let go

of a single 

opportunity 

to love,

like the dog

I adored

who'd never

chosen to leave me
on his own,

practiced as he
was

in negotiating
my shadow.

I ask you:

If molecules 

cannot be destroyed,

only transformed,

how then are

any of us

different

from the 

snowmen

being

slowly undone 

by the sun?

The coal, 

the carrot,

the scarf;

mere

souvenirs of

temporary

selfhood.

Time

now appears

 a slippery slope

and I am

clinging again

to my sled,

swooshing

downhill toward

the origin

of all things,
heart beating

with imaginal wings

against 
the wood slats

of my first
and only

Fearless Flyer.

Who’d have thought 

growing old 

could have us

feeling like

children again,

tooth tethered to

a door knob,

forced to

improvise

our first act of

self preservation:

the stopping 
of time.

It would take

the rest of our lives

to master

anything  

so wistful.

Who could help
revisiting

that brazen act of

suspended imagination
even in the

here and now,

tethered to 

the past

by the thread

of a kite

cobbled out of

yesterday’s

uninhabitable 

news?

Peter Valentyne

December 12th, 2019