PETER SIMS - POEMS

Peter Sims is a poet and psychotherapist living in Kingston, Ontario. In 2016 he published "Singing her Across" (Trinity Street Press) in collaboration with the visual artist Gabrielle Kilian-Sims.

---

No Title
                                        for Danielle ​

No step can be annulled - this one,
then this one, looking before, behind,
no one to hinder or urge us on.
Everything we accept belongs.
I give you this, wait, look to see
what is there between us.
The hands of the clocks spin wildly
while we give and give –
                                    vestige to vestige.

And if it is you, my beloved daughter,
I bring you, I bring you back
among the living and give you
what I have, or if I cannot,
if my spirit is too weak, I go
among the dead and find you
and comfort you, and give you
what I have, and wait, and look
in your face, and watch to see
what might still be born there
                                     between us.

 

      The Best
 
                   “But,” she said over a glass of Pinot,
                  “you may have your own pantheon.” 

​The best sounds are bird sounds
before dawn creeping out
from under night’s apron.
The best tastes are roots
that ripened in rich soils,
or the mineral tang of well water
on the hottest day of summer.
The best sight is moonlight
phosphorescing the forest floor,
and the best smell Is the smell of
your skin, ripe with summer sun.
And as for touch, the best touch
Is the touch of sea air going in. 

​ Taking Direction

 You told me to go slowly – “legato”
                                                            touch like the long descending lines
in Schubert’s Nacht und Traume,
and my Lips quietly occupied,
                                                            my grey hair
brushing your parted thighs.
 
Slowly? Oh, it was slow, peaceful
                                            in that way the quest
to find a place in which to postpone
                                            time produces raptures -
sometimes even a poem,
shuddering in its husk of sound.

​Before the sun 

​These two pre-dawn, palm-sized
wooden mermaids drag me in
for a leisurely swim.
Frolic’s a silly word for wood women.
Tease isn’t right either.
A playful plunge in shared abundance, 
and sweet, sweet how the world spirit
grants gills, gets me in
and under, comes ‘round to see
me mermaid meant and undersea.

​Exile

​Writers
pained
proud
pin
exile
to lines
run it
down
spines
wear it  
brave
badge
corsage.
 
Readers
smile 
think
what’s the
deal
aren’t
we all
exiles
from day
to day.