In Loving Memory of . . . Janet P. Caldwell 14 February 1959 ~ 20 September 2016. William S. Peters, Sr.


weep not for me
weep not for me,
nor despair, nor lament,
on my crossing the waters,
for my life has been full,
for i had you
i go to a better place,
where i shall make a bed for you
as i longingly await your arrival,
for we are eternally betrothed
i shall have the angels sing
a song of welcome . . .
and the flowers of the field
shall dance gleefully
in the embrace of brother wind
the sun always shines here
acknowledging our mutual brightness
where the night-ness
is no more
so i ask of thee
to weep not for me
nor despair, nor lament
on my crossing the waters,
for my life has been full,
for i had you

Bill is an avid Writer / Poet who has been committed to this path since 1966. He currently has to his credit over 70 Published Books as well as a myriad of Newspaper and Magazine Articles. Bill supports the venue of Creative Expression regardless of form. He also is an activist for the progression and evolution of Humanity and its Love of each other.
Recently (September 2015) Bill was honored to be named the Poet Laureate at the Kosovo International Poetry Festival where his book The Vine Keeper was showcased. He was also awarded The Golden Grape Award.
Bill currently serves as the CEO of Inner Child Enterprises, ltd., Managing Director of Inner Child Press, Executive Producer of Inner Child Radio and Executive Editor of Inner Child Magazine. His life partner Janet P. Caldwell stands by his side in support of the Inner Child vision
For more of Bill, visit his personal web Site at :
for Inner Child . . .

Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop the Babble of the Souk

Eyes | Poem by Janet Kuypers



Janet Kuypers
started 4/4/15, finished 4/6/15

Growing up,
boys didn’t like me,
kids made fun of me.

I was raised to think
that I was a plain girl,
easily overlooked.

I’d look at my eyes,
the same eyes my dad
thought made me

always look sad,
and wanted to think
that the song

“Brown Eyed Girl”
could have been
about me.

How silly of me.

I should know better.

And maybe that is why

I’ve always loved
blue eyes.
Eyes not like mine.


The eye is a fascinating thing,
it’s beautiful to study,
especially yours…

If I were a biologist,
I’d take high-res photos
of that eye of yours,

maybe magnify it as large
as I could, so I could study it
like a slide under a microscope.

I would search for meaning
in those mesmerizing patches
and shades of that unique blue.


They say science
can explain all,
so maybe it can explain

why I’m so in love
with your eyes, or why
I’m so in love with you.


Eyes are our windows
to the outside world, but
they’re also portals inward,

giving us mere mortals
fleeting glimpses
to who you are inside.

I think our colored irises
floating on an ocean of white,
punctuated with a pupil

were designed that way
so we could follow
each other’s gazes closely.

I’m watching you.

You probably see that.

I hope you’ll watch me too.

Because scientists
have studied the crypts,
pigment dots and furrows

of the eye, and scientists
are now figuring out
that the eye really is

the window to the soul.

So, maybe I was
on the right track

by loving your eyes,
and never wanting
to lose sight of them again.

Eyes © 2016. First published at  Eyes Poem

Kellogg Idaho | Poem by Alvin Knox


Kellogg, Idaho

The banks of Lead Creek are lichen green, rocky
under the concrete Division Street bridge. The laundromat
is closed. It’s the day after the county rodeo, 1966:
the day after the football toss, the three-legged race,
the greased pig scramble (my cousin actually caught one
once, and it lived collared and staked in their front yard
until one day it disappeared, like the boys who go
to Vietnam). A train, a hundred and seven cars long,
rolls slowly through town, wheels squealing like a binding saw.
The turn of the century will never come here. JFK is here.
He sits at the soda fountain in the five-and-dime, sipping
coffee with Thomas Jefferson. Martin Luther King, Jr. is not here.
There are no black people here. The people here look more
like the cast of The Milagro Beanfield War, rough and simple
and quiet, like the smelter smoke, its metallic ting ringing in your mouth
like an alarm clock. You wake to it most mornings. But now it’s
noon and the sky is lichen green, the hills dusty with only
the white-painted tires in the shape of a big K to break the steep slope.
Osbourne, the next town up the valley, has a big O.



Share image from Silver Valley Stories

Janet Kuypers’ “How Music is Poetic” 9/3/16 song & poetry feature/show


    Below are video links from a September 3rd 2016 (9/3/16, or 20160903) music&nbp;/ poetry performance (with accompanying guitar and percussion music by John) of Janet Kuypers’ Austin poetry feature through Expressions 2016: September Song! at Austin’s the Bahá’í Center (at 2215 E M Franklin Ave, Austin, TX 78723) that incorporated poetry into music. This is why they started the set with their song&nbp;/ poem that they previously performed at the sold out theater show from Beast Women Rising 9/21/14 of her original Mom’s Favorite Vase song “What We Need in Life”, with her poem “Fantastic Car Crash&^#8221; nestled between verses two and three. To break up the guitar, Janet then performed her Periodic Table poem “Tin” (with Chicago locations changed to Austin Texas downtown locations, of course). But in this set the ended their show with her poem (set to John’s original song) “Made Any Difference”.

Before the show started she also released copies to most everyone there of a chapbook of the writings she was performing in her show (in the order they were performed), and all of the pieces from this reading were also released electronically in a “How Music is Poetic” chapbook, which you can download as a PDF file for free any time.

Read the poems and songs below:

What We Need In Life
with “Fantastic Car Crash” between verses 2 & 3
Made any Difference

        photo by Garrison Martt photo by Garrison Martt photo by Garrison Martt photo by Thom Woodruff