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Coffee, Conversation, and Yesterday’s Dream


I write down these words
as the traffic roars down the street,
while winter lays heavy,
and the snow piles deep.

I write them as traffic lights
no longer blink red or green.
I write them over coffee, conversation,
and yesterday’s dream.

I watch an old soldier
begging for change.
A young girl passes by
who is obviously lame,
and for a moment,
all of these things
I wish I could rearrange
but life consumes us all,
in a bright burning flame,
until only a few pale embers remain.

So I write down my words
while traffic lights
no longer blink red or green.
I write them over coffee, conversation,
and yesterday’s dream.

The radio speaks
of children dying in war,
of people going hungry
as they have done
so many times before,
and I begin to wonder
if our old world
can take very much more.

But all I can do
is write my refrain,
while traffic lights
no longer blink red or green.
I write them over coffee, conversation,
and yesterday’s dream.

I have heard the last whale
sing its’ sad lonely song.
It made me finally realize
that we have done so much wrong.
A hungry, mangy lion
eats up the last of its pride.
How long can it be
until the rest of us die?

But all I can do
is write my refrain,
and watch this old world
writhe in its pain,
while traffic lights
no longer blink red or green,
over coffee, conversation,
and yesterday’s dream.

Waiting


Where are they now our kinsmen son?
Why is the air so still?
Will they ever again come marching,
over the far, far hill?

Yonder they went in the morning
full of life, of youth, of pride.
If I were only a little younger
I would have been at their side.

But my feet are too old for marching,
and my eyes have grown too dim,
yet though I must stay in the village
I have sent my soul with them.

Hush now and listen
what is that I hear,
wailing away in the distance,
very low yet very clear,
can it be the pipers
returning home from war,
or is it but the bitter wind
as it blows forever more?

Moments at the Dawn


So soft
the voice
of the mandolin.

Softer than
a summer wind,
that strums across
the breaking dawn.

Filling all that hear
with sudden bliss.
Gently teasing
with seductive kiss.

Playing tag
with daffodils,
and golden dandelion.

So quick it breathes,
and then it’s gone.

So sweet
the voice
of the violin.

Sweeter than
a lilac
flavored wind

It blushes roses
with a kiss,
fills all that hear
with tender bliss

Playing tag
with hollyhocks,
and violets,
sleeping deep
in morning mist.

How quick it breathes
before
the moment
is forever gone

How still
the fingers
that once
strummed the mandolin,
softer than
morning wind
that sails across
the breaking dawn.

How fast they played,
but now
the music
is forever gone.

How closed
the eyes
that once beheld
the bow,
that played
a magic violin
sweeter than
a lilac scented wind,
skipping across
a breaking dawn.

How deep
they saw,
but now
their life
is forever gone,
and one can
only wonder
where did
It go?

Brewing Storm


I am angry at you
for the way
you stripped me bare
of my soul,
of half my life,
the better half of me.

I want to smash
the photographs,
all other mementos
of our dreams.
They mean no more
to me
than dryer lint,
or dust caught
in cobweb strands.

I rip your picture
from gilded frame,
prepare to
tear it into shreds,
instead,
instead
I kiss sweet lips,
try to brush
a stray red strand
from haunting eyes.

You promised
you would be at my side
until life
faded from our eyes,
but you lied,
and now it’s I
who must face
a future
tormented by
a broken promise,
a gulf of emptiness.

I rummage through
dresser drawers,
scatter our life
upon the bedroom floor,
smash what can be smashed.

Our son’s words,
my sons words,
“Don’t worry dad,
she is in a much better place,”
cannot, will not ever erase,
the pain that eats
all hope away,
the pain that lingers
through the long, long days.
I wish I lay beside you
in your cold, cold grave.

Exhausted,
I throw myself
upon our bed,
try to remember
the last words you said.

How I miss the way
you use to keep me warm.
As tears weal in reddening eyes.
I press your pillow tight,
and surrender to the might,
surrender
to the all consuming power
of the brewing storm.

Please be kind and share this poem, because a poem not shared is a poem that becomes lost. Thank you.

Who Will


Who will spin me a skein
of bright gossamer gold?
Who will stretch out their hand
when I need something to hold?
Who will take care of my body
when I am too old?
Who will weave my shroud
to keep me from the cold?

Who will buy me the strings
for my broken violin?
When I am destitute and homeless
who will invite me to come in?
Who will give me a silver dollar
instead of a penny made of tin?
When I have done wrong
who will tell me I sin?

Who will lend me their coat
when the bitter winds blow?
Who will offer me shelter
when it begins to snow?
Who will feed my little children
as they start to grow?
There are so many things
that I want to know.
Yes, there are so many things
that I need to know.

The Great Wheel of Life


I spent my days chasing rainbows
never finding any gold.
I spent my nights chasing love
and never found a woman to hold.
Now times at its ebb
and the hour is growing old,
and the great wheel of life
has turned around once again.

I followed my dreams
down dark dusty roads.
My back is bent
by a big heavy load.
My feet are to weary
for me to carry on.
All I can do now is wonder
where my time has all gone.
and the great wheel of life
has turned around once again.

Through the fog of my mind
I see faces of yesterday,
but with each day that passes
they are harder to find.
Perhaps by the morning
they will have faded away
and the great wheel of life
has turned around once again.

Please share this poem, because a poem not shared is a poem that becomes lost. Thank you.

I Dream of Whales


I dream of whales.
Their music fills my mind.
I dive into the depths,
and swim with all my passion.

I am at last
unfettered by the land.
I float in ecstasy,
amidst the pod
that has claimed me
as their own.

I dream of whales.
In the night
their shapes and music
delight me.
In my sleeping hours,
the power of my vision
transports me to
a mystic, mysterious realm.

I dream of whales.
I dance to the
music of their song.
When day has broken,
and I am gone,
will the whale’s dream of me?

Vancouver Streets


As I stand alone
in the falling rain,
the traffic lights
blink out their warning,
on the corners
of Hastings and Main.

I wait for them
to change,
before I begin
to once more walk,
the bitter streets
of Vancouver’s east side.

I look deep, deep
into vacant,
almost lifeless eyes.
Eyes empty of hope.
Eyes empty of pride.
Eyes whose last tears
have long been dried.

I feel no surging
of some kind tide.
no rising
of any humanity,
as vacant, empty
broken windows
stare back in apathy
at me.

I watch in a
listless manner,
the well dressed,
well-fed people
as they scurry by.

Noses are held high
as they pass
the piece of refuse
that has just died.
After all
it is only
another junky,
with a monkey
on their back.

Another lost soul
that has slipped
through the cracks.
Skinny arms
pockmarked deep
with years of needle tracks
like limp noodles
stretching out
in the heat,
of the unforgiving street.

Young girls
in mini skirts
do their tricks,
trying to earn
another quick fix.
A heroin overdose
their final prize.
Oh how they giggle
as their last breath fades.
Oh how they smile
as light flickers out
of their bloodshot eyes.

It is too their
everlasting shame,
that humanity
must bare
some of the blame,
that the uncaring streets
have become home
to the homeless,
to the unwashed,
to the needy.

Perhaps if they
had only been
a little less greedy,
had of cared
Had of shared
the bounty
from their table.
If they only
had of tried,
perhaps no one
would have ever died.

As I stare into
the mirrors
of mildewed brass,
of broken dusty glass,
I know
that I am
of this human mass,
that must forever
live in defeat,
That will live
and also die
all alone,
on these bitter
Vancouver streets.

The traffic lights
still blink out their warning
on the corners
of Hastings and Main,
and I open
my broken umbrella,
and try to stay dry
from the falling rain.

Wind Blows


Wind blows,
September comes,

and summer’s
gentle breath
turns cold,
stealing green
from every leaf,
then staining them
frosty red and gold.

Stand still
and listen to
a distant robin’s trill
the sweet song
of a nearby thrush
as they blend
with haunting call
of wild geese,
momentarily taking ease
on mirrored water
painted indigo,
by broad strokes
of autumn’s brush.

Wind blows,
September goes.

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 new book of poetry, “Serendipitous,” now available on Amazon. Just click the link to own your copy today. https://is.gd/eCwYi1
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  • 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.

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    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.)
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