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

0 Comments2 Minutes

Now

Things that go nowhere

 

I believe in God Almighty and in Jesus Messiah his only Son our Lord

Who so loved the world he gave us blue skies

And all those other things that go nowhere

Like a song in an empty house

A river without a boat

And a broken heart as an answer.

 

Who was born of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary

Who played and laughed, wept and slept

Worked late; drank and ate.

 

Offended preachers who pretended

Fuddled teachers who were leeches

Lawyered lawyers who lawyered

Rocked Romans and Jews on six o'clock news

 

Delighted children

Excited me

Had fun under the sun

Performed miracles in coracles.

 

Was crucified under the enlightenment of Pontius Pilate

Rose from the dead on Day Three of my shopping spree

Ascended into heaven's leaven

And sits at the right hand of the Father in that house across the road.

 

And now! … is the song in my empty house

The ripple in my river

The sweetness of the silence

In the broken-hearted faces on my street

Which come to judge and bless the living and the dead.

Peter Volkofsky (Spring 2012)

 

 

4 Comments3 Minutes

Myth


'Sweet fires, deep dreamers; sweet fires, deep dreamers

Deep in the cool of cables and memes

Boys and their dreams

Sweet fires, deep dreamers; sweet fires, deep dreamers

Out of these hearts do flow, rivers of blessedness!

Fear and respectfulness

Tears of deep thankfulness.

Sweet fires, deep dreamers.

 

All of you! Sons of the most high!

Out of your heart shall flow, rivers of golden light!

 

Well then let us ice the cake ...

And let us feel this ache, that trembles in the heart

And let us hold this thing, that wrestles in the dark

And let us sing this song, that's scribbled in the art.

 

All of you! Sons of the most high!

Out of your heart shall flow, rivers of golden light!

 

This myth is your myth, the seed in the grape

Complication

Knock at the door baby cry

Mother's scream in the night

Here you come once was toys—traffic noise

Wounded deep, crown of thorns.

Father grin, mother sing, brother laugh, sister sleep

Running jump, dance and swing

 

Loving the little thing,

Like puppy in puddles

Loving the little thing

Like puppy in puddles.

 

All of you! Sons of the most high!

Out of your heart shall flow, rivers of golden light!

 

But out of these hearts do flow

Rivers of emptiness

Fear and forgetfulness

Tears of regretfulness.

Deep in the cool of cables and memes

Boys and their dreams.

Sleep fires, weep dreamers

Sleep fires, weep dreamers.

 

All of you! Sons of the curst!
Come quench your thirst ... at Golgotha's worst

Come feel this love in Jesus' heart

Come hold this thing in Jacob's dark

Come sing this song in Magdalene's art.

 

All of you! Sons of the most high!

Out of your heart shall flow

Rivers of golden light.

 

Sweet fires, deep dreamers; sweet fires, deep dreamers

Deep in the cool of cables and memes

Boys and their dreams

Out of these hearts do flow, rivers of blessedness!

Fear and respectfulness

Tears of deep thankfulness.

All of you ... sons of the most high

Out of your heart shall flow rivers of golden light

Sweet fires, deep dreamers

Sweet fires, deep dreamers.'

(Peter Volkofsky: winter, 2012)

 

 

 

 

 

 

0 Comments1 Minute

Kvetch

Hey Kvetch!

Cut the cavil, the carp

The gripe, the trite

The whine-dine-line!

Kvetch

 

 

 

0 Comments10 Minutes

The Catch

Talking of a colourless dream

Floating in the pin-stripes, drinks

And speechified air

Is a father: his wound is closed.

The only one who knows it ... almost.

There is one other

A boy with a clock ticking

In a tight tie

Checking the walls

His wound is open.

He opens his mouth before his mind

Can bolt the gate and slam the cell

And play a colourless game

Feel a colourless feeling

And talk in a colourless language.

 

Heart out on the sleeve

Caution to the wind

He capsizes and swims

A cold flood of thoughtfulness

A drowning flood of kindness

A correcting, tidying, mopping flood of darkness.


In one searching, furtive glance

The stricken boy in the crowded room

Swings his searchlight round.

 

The clock runs down

The eyes meet

The father stumbles and almost drops the catch

Like an ungainly slips fieldsman

The boy smiles inside, happy.

 

For one, the moment’s lost in a blur of childhood dreams,

But for the other

That furtive glance

Has stamped a fearful mark in the gilded halls of spirit memory.

(Peter Volkofsky. Winter 2006)


'The boy smiles inside ' ... and outside

 

0 Comments2 Minutes

THE TYGER

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake - 1794