Peter Volkofsky | Author & Life Coach

Peter Volkofsky is an author, spoken word poet and life coach. In 2017, Peter published his thriller Mia's Magic Wand. In 2015 he published Beautiful Quest as an Ark House imprint. Peter has been married to his wife Penelope for thirty-three years and together they have reared seven children.

Catalytic (cat•a•lyt•ic)

(adj.) a process that precipitates an event

The Vision

Individuals and teams reaching their goals.

PETE'S BLOG

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Forever

 

Forever 

The going off to school is happening
And while you go I stay and feel
The day of small things
Of birds singing and sky blue and garden fresh.

And so we walk and talk and drink tea
And make things and play and pray and think
About your face going out into the ways of grace
And of terrifying place where prayers live.

For this is where it all began and where the light came
And made this all loud with colour and the scent of roses
And the feathery brush of wings
And the throaty chortle of happiness.

And so you go and we wait to see while we go and do
And remember the cheeky grin and the sound of your hard shoes on floor boards
And the bounce of that bag on your back and the tilt of your head
And that last little look of laughter crossing the road ... forever.

(Peter Volkofsky May 2014)

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So You

So You

You found me and round me wound arms that made us
And we were made
And we toasted sunshine
And day-light became baby-light
And here we came to be.

And we came to sleep and weep the deep always on this side and that
And we were there
And we shared days
And courtship became friendship
And here we came to be.

And now I know you from all the things that are so you and the coat I bought you
And what I made
Of a chair where you do my hair and care, for me
And those lovely old hours blossom like flowers
At night
When I think of how we came to be.

(Peter Volkofsky May 2014)

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Days

Days

This hot burning star we move around and hound like a first-lover
Found all bound with sunshine gushing down
From that that blow-torched perforation in the blue
That you want to drink from
A drink so strong you can't ... even.

But what a drink!
You want to tip it to your lips
It's a spiller all over you it goes
And they call it sunburn red blistering layers
Now in you and on you like a rush of teenage romance—and it's all teenage.

And I wish so wish I was there
In that skin-sun again drinking that star
On days when the heavens were so right and bright and up there on the height.

(Peter Volkofsky May 2014)

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True to Real

 

True To Real

"Wait a minute!
Feeling is what saved poor wretched reason right back there at the start!
Yes! We have a little caveat for you sleeping dogmas
While ever you lie in your rant of cant, husk of elbows and egos
We still tend the fires of mythological desires.

Dead cold hand of reason's had it's season
Fearful of the fires of mythological desires
Custodians of logic fuddled masses to oblivion
Circumcised the imagination of it's young with nothin'-buttery reductionist rhetoric
All appetite for life was lost in a mean-spirited sulk against noise-colour-tang
Middle-aged imam-bishop-teacher-scientist-guru-lama in his pyjama gobbled up my panorama.
Be that as it may, beware the lies of angry peacock-poets spin-doctored blind by a thousand years of rage."

I already knew...
You preachers of feeling aren't helping me when you talk it up.
You talk as if mind and fact were all to blame
As if the fact that I cannot feel what I know to be a fact must make it a lie!
As if to verify that snow is white, I must now feel that snow is white
As if what I have seen in the light I must now feel in the dark
But you just wanna cheat and make the fact whatever you feel.

But here's a fact: true to real is only done when you put the money with the mouth
And what faithful feeling ever voted for her suicide?
So are you mad?
If this be a quest of deadly peril—who would ever chance it on a guess?
Or let fine feelings be the judge of what lies beyond a dark decisional-door.

So leave the child at home and take a hardy gang
To search the cold, the hard, and find the gold
And trust and dive and take the action
Trust and dive and take the action.

But if, as you say, I must allow the veto to the shivering tendrils of the heart
Must make myself feel as if I believe
Must play a game of make-believe...
Then the fact must now be that the feeling is greater than the fact.

But you give me a speck of fact any day, place it on the scales and weigh it against a ton of imagination and fine feelings
Watch it sink a ship, ruin a nation, wreck a marriage
Float a ship, build a nation, save a marriage.

"This gonna be a long story or what?
Personal and hot or just another man on a screen
And me sittin' here, suckin' the glass teat of an i-Pod dream?"

Personal man: always personal
See you talk as if black or white, fact or fiction
Is what started the friction of stonins' and bombins'
Cuttins' and Karmas, Klansmen in pyjamas.

But you need to pull your head out of it's little peace full of bliss.
If this be a quest of deadly peril
Who would ever chance it on a vote
And let reality be the most popular goat!

So don't talk to me about verifiable, falsifiable, justifiable
Love that shit man/love it!
Follow the evidence all the way out
Til your mind's convinced beyond reasonable doubt.
If it ain't, relax man, have a coffee and a smoke—the jury's still out.

Me? I was taken on a melancholy tour of a blood stained killing tree/dark hilly calvary
By that grim and faithful gang of three: logic, reason and bloody honesty
And there 'my hosanna was born of a furnace of doubt.'*

And there in that garden of black
The faithful three who'd served him well in carpentry
Who'd shown him that the feeling of straight could never be a substitute
For the flat, cold voice of fact
Whose dim little shed made him learn to doubt the guess
And to trust instead a wooden, hard, straight-edged piece of sanity.

Paved the way for him to walk the hill for you and me
Not by the blind hysteria—nor the by the stoic of the heroic
But by that still small voice that says to the Father
'If it be your will let this cup pass'
To the soldier,'I thirst'
To the friend, 'Behold your mother'
To the crowd, 'Father forgive them'
To the dying thief, 'You will be with me in paradise.'

"See!
Feeling is what saved poor wretched reason right back there at the start!
Yes—we have a little caveat for you sleeping dogmas
While ever you lie in your rant of cant, husk of elbows and egos
We still tend the fires of mythological desires."

Peter Volkofsky - 2010

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My Most Recent Memory

 

murmurings not so long ago

The next hour comes in quiet
And we find ourselves stepping over pretty dolls, soft toys
And something left by a cat that played around the edges
Of our Grand Children's stay.

Not that they stayed
They played and talked and held us in their arms
While we adored and made the most of every coy-smiling private joke
In those moments when they came close to our side of a liminal stairway
Which promised sweet laughter and forever-treasures and made us all listen carefully
Ever so carefully to those murmurings
Not so long ago birthed from the very heart of god.

Was it reluctantly I wonder?
Or was it with that same gladness of sunshine
And sugar and chocolates to share with everyone
We see in these little ones not yet touched
By our protecting and storing because-we-have-to?

Infinite love, they say is the most recent memory
Of those mystified-deep-pools for eyes
Of a baby-that's born in wonder every second
And seems to know something we don't
And lives on the carefree side: trailing clouds of 'holy, careless glory'1.2

I go with that for now
But even as I write, awful news of friends schism-ed apart passes across the room
But still I write and refuse to let go of the soft toys
And those carefully listened-to murmurings of my most recent memory.

(Peter Volkofsky – Autumn 2014)

1 William Wordsworth. 1770–1850, 536. Ode Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
2
MacDonald. G. in his novel Sir Gibbie ("For the bliss of the animals lies in this, that, on their lower level, they shadow the bliss of those--few at any moment on the earth--who do not 'look before and after, and pine for what is not,' but live in the holy carelessness of the eternal now." ... "But every honest cry, even if sent into the deaf ear of an idol, passes on to the ears of the unknown God, the heart of the unknown Father."