• Kingdom Of Light Kingdom of Dark

    Purchase your copy today on Amazon, just click on the picture

  • Garden’s of my soul now avaliable on amazon. Also avaliable, A Purse Full of Poems

    Oh how deep our passions rise, like a crushing incoming tide. From Gardens of my Soul.

  • Breccia (TO PURCHASE YOUR COPY TODAY just click on the picture)

    Irene and Ignatius have been published in many of the most respected print and on-line haiku journals. They reside in Sudbury, Ontario.

  • Become my fan on Wattpad, and read an excerpt from Keeper of the Sword

  • Melanie Marttila (A blog worth visiting)

  • The Last Sunset (A book worth reading)

  • Free Book Promotion

  • Come google with me

  • Adena

    great music

  • Click to play quiz

    Sorry, your browser does not support iframes. Click here to continue
  • Music, Music, Music

    Just click image and listen to some amazing music

  • John Rice

  • Blog promotion

  • submit your blog now

    You can add url to improve your site ranking Our is added under Mixed Genre Directory
  • Submit your blog here

    website backlinks
  • Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

    Join 430 other followers

  • Recent Posts

Sun and Wind


Sun and wind.
Wind and rain.
Summer nights,
and summer days.
The world turns.
Dreams are spun,
and spun again,
until
they all spin away.

Light and dark.
Dark and light.
Fireflies spark
in the deep of night.
In heavens bowl
stars burn bright.
Crickets chirp
upon the lawn,
until
the last moonbeam
is long gone.

Flow and ebb.
Ebb and flow.
Love may come,
and love may go,
but we all need
to have and hold,
and we all search
for our pot of gold.

Tide and time.
Time and tide.
Life is like
a carousel ride.
Pain and joy.
Joy and pain.
The world turns
from night to day.
Dreams are spun,
and spun again
until they all spin away.

Advertisements

Burning Leaves


Autumn’s sweet
pungent perfume,
winter’s promised gift,
yesterday’s dreams,
tomorrows hope,
swirl and drift upwards,
upwards,
in the spiraling
grey smoke,
from burning leaves.

Leaves of poplar, birch
of Maple, and of oak.

Fate and fortune,
ebb and flow,
flow and ebb,
until time its self
unwinds unnoticed
like tomorrow’s clock,
upon yesterday’s shelf.

Life tangles,
untangles,
laughter,
sweet moments of love,
come and go
as if they are
no more
than a spider’s web,
or a morning mist,
that vanishes
as the sun’s warmth,
begins to grow.

Red flames lick
until all that is,
is an ember’s
faint, fading glow.

For this is indeed
how tomorrow
will come,
and how
yesterday must go,
until our lives
are no more
than a wispy tendril
of grey smoke,
from burning leaves.

From my book of poems, “Serendipitous,” available on Amazon, just click the link to find it and the rest of my writing.
http://amzn.to/2dyOK97 please be kind and tell your friends. thank you

From, “Fairy Time Ball,”


Ariel dreamed. She dreamed of dancing ponies, of fairy dust being sprinkled on her. She dreamed of flying off to the island of Forever-Ever Land with Tinker Bell, and a group of her fairy friends.

An island filled with marshmallow trees, chocolate rocks, gumdrop pebbles, blue birds that sang beautiful fairy songs, and played twelve string guitars. An island surrounded by a milk and cookie sea, an island where little girls spent their summer holidays. An island where little girls let their hair down, and were just themselves.

Fairy Time Ball is a quiet time story for the young, and the young at heart, and is available on Amazon. Just click this link. http://amzn.to/2DFN0sE

Softness of the Summer


In the softness of the summer
as I lie upon white sand
I look in awe and wonder,
at the beauty of the sky.

I long to be on board
the cloud ships sailing by.
Who is their captain?
How many in the crew?
What distant lands of mystery
are they sailing to?

I let my mind go with them,
as heavens cannons roar.
Lighting flashes form their guns.
This is a mighty war.

I am brought back to reality
by warm drops of summer’s rain,
In haste, I leave the sandy beach,
knowing full well, I will return again.

We Make our Own World


The tongue of the angry sea burns
as it licks away at the barren shore.

Flotsam and jetsam,
refuse of six billion people,
human waste of six billion,
poison the deep with filth.

Rotting fish turn white, sparkling sands
into a black, putrid garbage dump.
Sea birds in their thousands
flock and eat of this toxic bounty,
then add their flesh to the spoil.

Mother Nature’s forgiving nature,
can no longer nurture
the starving, devouring multitude,
with her once overflowing bounty.

Yet hopeful fishermen
still go down to the sea
in wooden sailing ships.
Still go down to the sea
in rusting iron ships.

The sea waits patiently
and gathers power in its loins.

Waves gouge at the land,
crushing all within their path,
under its unforgiving heel.

Sharp, barbed harpoons,
pierce deep into soft, quivering flesh.
A baby killer whale weeps
as it’s mother dies in agony.

Whale pods that use to sing
in the sunlight of the morning,
now scream in mourning
on this day of genocide.

Oil rendered without need,
oil rendered because of greed,
burns in ten thousand lamps
and beckons the bloody killers home.

Flabby tummies are now tucked in,
held fast in hour glass perfection,
by whalebone, torn from living things.

Ambergris, mixed with rose oil,
hides the odour of honest sweat.
Girls covered by this death guilt
announce themselves to the world.

The unending bounty of the sea
has now forever ceased to be.
A hungry, crying throng
stands upon the decaying shore.
They shake their upraised fists
into the empty, silent sky.
This ravenous, destroying multitude,
weep, weep and wonder why
trawlers, once laden
with the bounty of the deep,
once filled to overflowing
with the treasures of the sea,
come back to them no more.

Why Me


Why must I always be
at the bottom of the barrel?
Why must my toast
always be un-buttered,
always made from moldy bread,
always burnt to crispness?

Why am I the first
to be forever un-chosen?
Why am I always picked on,
and never picked upon,
to take up a noble cause?
Why do I never know,
the knowing and seasons of others?

When the whole world smiles,
why must I weep
upon my own parade,
on my own birthday clowns,
on my own chocolate birthday cake?

Why am I always rained upon,
while the sun shines on others
dancing in the street, two feet away?
Why is my tea always cold,
so un-flavoured from week old tea bags?

While others earn their burial urns
with pennies so easily found,
I must dig for my richness
among the dead, so long in smelly ground.

I pick the pockets of the prophets,
but they have less than I do.
But why do others find the gold
that falls through the holes
of un-holy and broken shoes?

Why must I steal my words
from Wordsworth and word smiths,
To paint pictures of lost birds
who never loved or laid an egg?

Why must I lay
upon my death bed,
While those older than me
have found immortality?

Why don’t my chickens lay eggs
so my family can be fat with meat,
and not be forever rail thin and hungry?

Why must the seeds of wheat I sew
forever fall upon un-fallow ground,
forever fall upon un-hallowed ground?

I call all my questions out to the stars,
out to the moaning wind,
out to places I can never go to,
out to places where I’ve never been.
But my questions return un-answered,
and my dreams return un-dreamed,
and my love spurned, returns un-requited.

Taste the Wind Blowing out of the Canyon


Have a beer for me on Saturday night,
and another for Sunday morning.
If you never do anything else
I want you to pay heed to my warning.
The saints will sit on the back of the bus,
and tell you where you should be going.

Drag yourself out of your dark bitter mind.
Taste the wind blowing out of the canyon.
Life can become pretty tense,
and at times it will be mind blowing.

All you can do is give your dreams your best shot/
Don’t get caught up with pointless things
or you will ride the train going backwards.
It will take you to places you don’t want to go,
remind you of the change that is needed.

When the child on the corner begs you for bread,
will you pay attention to his sad pleading?
Or will you just kick him out of your way?
Is more violence all we are needing?

The poor cry out for their fair share,
and the rich cry to keep the money they’ve stolen.
There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground.
Please pay attention to the way the world turns
or you’ll never know where you’re going.
Not that it matters if you ever do,
all destinations are the same in the morning.

The sinners will walk where saints never go,
and take you to pleasure filled places.
But if you travel down that winding road,
you’ll end up right back where you started.

Have a beer for me on Saturday night
and another for Sunday morning.
If you never do anything else,
I want you to pay heed to my warning.
The saints will sit on the back of the bus,
and tell you where you should be going.
Drag yourself out of your dark bitter mind,
and taste the wind blowing out of the canyon.

Death Never Takes a Holiday


Death Never Takes a Holiday, is now available for kindle just follow the link http://amzn.to/2D0peHv

Death haunts the streets of Toronto, dogging the footsteps of two of the city’s finest homicide detectives, Ryan Telford and his partner, William Billy Jackson. As the grim reaper draws ever closer, they race against time to keep the city from falling into chaos, and to keep Ryan’s family from being destroyed.

The great city, bundled beneath a thick muggy blanket, swelters in its own rancid juices, and tries to sleep. Screams sounding more like a puppy with its tail on fire than human, tear through the sticky darkness, disturbing the city’s fitful slumber. Doors slam closed. Windows slam shut. Televisions, already loud enough to wake the dead, are turned up until cracked windows painted with years of pigeon droppings rattle…

The screams turn into gurgles. Gurgles become death rattles. Death rattles dim, drowned out by feet running through puddles.

Brilliant bolts of lightning shoot through the sky, illuminating mounds of rotting refuse teaming with rats, momentarily revealing a half nude, headless body, spread eagled in a stinking alleyway. An epicurean delight dished up warm and a la carte for the famished denizens of the dark.

Interlude


I do not speak to you
as a poet or a prophet,
but as a simple, humble man.
One who is forever searching,
one who is eager to find,
one who always asks
if there is a master plan.

I peer through the darkness,
through the storms of the night,
looking to the distant hills,
looking for a flickering candlelight
that may lead me on my way
through all my tormented years,
through the Vale of bitter tears,
through the valley of death
overflowing with my endless fears,
to the brightness of a new day.

Is there a powerful spirit being
that is loving and kind,
that offers hope, salvation,
a quiet peace in heart in mind,
someone that will be our eternal guide?

Or are we no more
than scraps of flotsam,
bits of empty nothingness,
to be tossed, turned, and scat-tered
by the rising and the ebbing
of some relentless, endless tide?

The Wind of Change is Blowing


The wind of change is blowing,
blowing all over this land.
Reach out to the stranger,
take them by the hand.

Everyone is now your neighbor,
no matter the color of their skin.
We are caught up in a great moment,
carried forward by the changing wind.

The bells of joy are ringing out
all over this blessed land.
Words of hope are shouted
from the mountains to the sea,
from Newfoundland’s rocky shores
to the distant prairie land.

From the top of mighty mountains
travel down into the promised land
carry words of love within your heart,
and dare to take a stand.

A candle of hope burns bright in the wind.
A beacon shining through the dark night.
May it be a spark of peace and dreams,
and guide us into the soft morning light.

  • Keeper of the Sword

    It is often a simple thing, the roll of the dice, the turn of a card, or a chance meeting that can change one’s life forever. For Josh Campbell, and Morgan Connelly it was a seemingly harmless chain of events, a fight after school and performing a ritual that neither one of them believed in.

  • Fairy Time Ball

    now avaliable

    “Them things in my soup ain’t no chicken or potatoes. They have eyes, and they hop out of my way every time I bring a spoon close.”

  • my visitors

    • 7,960 hits
  • follow the red link to read more from Keeper of the Sword

    Full of fear and excitement Keeper of the Sword (The Sword of Kings) Josh notched an arrow to the bow string, pulled it back to his ear, took careful aim and released the shaft of death, and before it reached its target, a second bolt sliced through the dark. (To find out more, just follow the link.)
  • Watch my Book Shelf

  • Follow me

    Follow Me on Pinterest
  • My Community

  • LOG IN

  • Blog Stats

    • 7,960 hits
%d bloggers like this: