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Expectations


We expect our spouses
to love, honor, and obey.
We expect our children
to be happy when they play.
We expect tomorrow
to be better than today.

We expect our boss
to give us
an undeserved raise.
We expect our friends
to always admire and praise.
We expect to forever walk
the bright and sunny ways.
We expect tomorrow
to be better than today.

But if we only live
on the expectations
of what tomorrow
may or may not bring,
we will miss out
on the most important thing,
we will miss out on today.

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Moonlight Over Marrakesh


In an Ashram, halfway up a mountain side
as the purple dusk swallowed up the fading day,
a small brown man, of an unknown age
on an ancient zither began to play.
His one deep set sky blue eye
brooked us with a mystic, mysterious gaze,
this is where I should have stayed
lived out all my mortal days
and his fingers moved like lightning as he played.

His music swept us from our reality
swept us from the Ashram where he played,
where a single red orchid bloomed
the only color in that grey and dusty room.
With each enchanting note,
with each delightful finger stroke,
more of our surroundings began to fade
until at last we were transported far away,
and his fingers moved like lightning as he played.

In a boat built from cinnamon trees,
powered by a sail of woven tamarind leaves
we journeyed down the great Ganges
on a soft misty morning in the spring.
We listened to the delightful songs
that the little blue birds began to sing,
as we sailed down the sacred river
that long-ago morning in the spring.
That is where I should have stayed,
for the rest of my mortal days,
and his fingers moved like lightning as he played.

We stopped along the river bank
and listened to an elephant and tiger
play the piano and the violin.
But I grew uneasy and asked to leave.
because I didn’t trust the tiger’s hungry looking grin.
Once more we journeyed on our way
as the sun began to brighten up the day,
and his fingers moved like lightning as he played.

We paused for awhile beside a jujube tree,
and refreshed ourselves with hibiscus tea.
Little blue butterflies flickered through the lemon sky.
Somewhere, high above us we heard an eagle’s cry.
A troupe of golden monkeys gathered in the trees,
Their gentle voices came to us on the summer breeze.
Soon they began to dance and play,
and their antics added joy and wonder to our day.
This is where I should have stayed,
where I could have lived out my mortal days,
and his fingers move like lightning as he played.

I asked a young girl sitting close to me,
what haunting, enchanting tune is this?
She touched a soft finger to my lips,
then whispered, Moonlight over Marrakesh,
a meditating melody to soothe one’s trouble mind,
and then added, did you know the zither man is blind.
This is where I should have stayed,
where I could have lived in peace all my mortal days,
and his gnarled fingers moved like lightning as he played.

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 the lights on the corners
blink red and 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
blink red and 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
blink red and green.
I write them over coffee, conversation,
and yesterday’s dream.

I 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 all of its pride.
How long can it be
until the rest of us die?

But all I can do
is write my refrain,
over coffee, conversation,
and yesterday’s dream,
and watch this old world
writhe in its pain,
while traffic lights
blink red and green.

The Trumpet Player, Plays his Trumpet


The trumpet player plays his trumpet,
it wails, weeps, in the deep, deep of the night
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings,
they know with in themselves
that nothing will ever be alright.

And the children take their poison
looking for a different kind of dream.
The take their love and misery with them
as they travel to whatever pain lives beyond.
leaving parents and, teachers, and the wise
to drink their whisky, and wonder what went wrong.
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings.

The bugles echo out so clearly
over the guns, and cries of war,
and the white knight and the dove of peace
in their tarnished, bloody armor,
ask the preachers, the prophets, and the philosophers,
in empty, hollow voices, what am I dying for.
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings.

The violin strings are broken,
and the violinist forgot his bow,
and the children take their poison,
because they have no where else to go.
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings.

The trumpet player plays his trumpet
it wails, weeps, in the deep, deep of the night,
and the prayers of the saints,
and the hopes of the sinners,
sail on a cloud of silver wings,
because they know deep within themselves
that nothing will ever be alright.

Lost in a Poem


I am lost within the depths of a poem,
tossed about on a dark stormy sea
Words are my sail, words are my boat,
and one-day words will let me be free.

Words color my world like a rainbow,
paint the sky a bright cornflower blue.
Words of love lie deep in my heart,
and one day I will speak them to you.

So, come and sing to me gently,
Come, sing soft, so soft in the night.
Sing songs that will change who we are.
Sing songs that will enchant and delight.

Words are my life, words are my dream,
and words built my castle so tall.
Words are the moment, words are the morning,
and words are the leaves when they fall.

Sing to me when the rainbows grow empty.
Sing soft, so soft in the night.
Dance in my dream, dance in my memory,
dance until darkness turns light.

Come my love, be lost deep in my poem,
and I will keep you from the dark stormy sea.
Words will be our boat, words will be our sail,
and one-day words will let us be free.

Tears of a Violin


I hear the tears of a violin in every song,
and as I watch snowflakes falling-down
my tomorrows fade away into the shades of yesterday,
stealing the colors from all the rainbows,
and painting sad faces on every clown.

I listen to my lover softly crying
somewhere in the garden of my mind,
but the wheel of life spins forever forward,
leaving my fading memories far behind.

Willows weeping every morning
where the rippling river waters flow
add their haunting voices to the wind
telling me that it is time to go.

The ocean of life overwhelms me,
and as I look for somewhere I can belong
I stumble through tomorrows troubles
listening to the tears of a violin in every song.

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.

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.

  • 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.”

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  • 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.)
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