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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.


Play the Pipes Softly

The mist is gathering
in the high hills,
rolling in,
rolling in from the sea.

It spreads deep,
like a bedspread
of velvet,
over loch,
over burn.
over heather,
over you,
and over me.

So, play the pipes softly,
soft as the mist
that is deepening
in from the sea.
Play them
at the going down,
going down of the sun.
play them
until the gloaming
fades fast away,
play them,
until the day is done.

Play them for the lost
and the lonely.
Play them for the soldiers
who die in every war.

Play them until
the sky starts to weep.
Play, as you’ve
never played them before.

Play them until
the sky starts to weep.
Play, as you’ve
never played them before.

From my book of short stories: Forever More

Ojibwa Woman

The persistent agonizing throb of my phantom right leg pulls me out of a fitful sleep, into the raw reality of a newborn morning. I struggle to pry stuck eyelids open, my eyes dulled by an unbearable ache drink in the sunlight pouring between blue lace curtains.
Heavy eyelids snap closed, shuttering out burning brightness. A nearby robin’s trill blends with the mewling of wheeling hungry gulls, with horns honking impatiently, gunned engines growling, distant laughter, and loud angry voices. This cornucopia of city songs separates me further from sleepiness, overwriting the fear of a familiar nightmare.

Eyes squint open, slowly adjust to the light. I turn my head, and stare at the clock on our bedside table. It stares back at me, and its black minute hand ticks, ticks, ticks its relentless way around the round white face.

Seven-thirty registers through the December molasses of my mind, and I sigh with relief because I don’t have to go to work until tonight. I revel in the fullness of the day stretching out before me, the way a ribbon of asphalt stretches out over wide prairie land without seeming to have an end, and I want nothing more from it than to lie in my cocoon, wrapped between that soft glow of being half asleep, half awake, but the pain sharpens, nags at me like a toothache.

My left-hand fumbles around the top of the bedside table, but I fail to find my pills. The hurt from missing flesh pulls groans from my belly, drags me further into the day. I ease out from under the sleeping girl, trying my best not to wake her.
She mumbles soft, too low for me to hear, and rolls over on her back. My eyes rest on the high cheekbones, partially hidden by long messy hair, darker, shinier than a raven’s wing, softer than a summer mist. My breath catches in my throat, holds at the sight of rising copper colored breasts.

My mind remembers last night’s magic, and my body responds to the memory. For a moment, the need to return to her, the need for me to take and own the wonder of her, is greater than the pain, but only for a moment.
I struggle to a sitting position, begin yanking drawers out one at a time, rummage through them. When I fail to find what I need, what I hunger for, the panic deepens.

Frantic shaking hands shove blankets aside, and a bare foot lands on a soft deep white carpet. Hands fumble, slide the plastic sheath of my metal leg over the padding protecting the stub, fasten it into place, and pull myself upright.

The agony spikes, drawing animal like cries from me. I whimper, “Sweet Jesus, have mercy on me,” through clenched teeth with every stumbling step I take across the bedroom floor, through the living room to the kitchen cupboards. It grips me tight as I fling doors open, pull drawers out, and empty them onto the blue tiles, but there is no help in sight, no bottle with little white pills; no hope of relief from the agony burning through me.

For a moment, it strikes me as funny how much something that doesn’t exist; something that hasn’t existed for two years now can still make me cry, well maybe not funny, ha, ha, but certainly funny in an ironic way.

I pull out the final drawer, ready to dump it onto the mess when I remember that I didn’t fill my last prescription because of my fear of becoming addicted, of losing myself to oblivion, and becoming one of those blank eyed, pitiful wretches willing to do anything for a fix.

Forever More is now available on Amazon. Just click on any of my book covers and you will visit my author page where you can purchase any of my books to enjoy.


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 scattered
by the rising and the ebbing
of some relentless, endless tide?

From Keeper of the Sword: book two

From Chapter Ten: Perilous Passage
Adelard shouted over the roaring water, “Keep to the right of the Island. Breandan warned me that great harm may come if we if take the left side.” Their six-day journey had been a wild ride but nothing like this. A wave, ten ells high, proudly wearing a white bonnet caught their raft, picked it and slammed it down, rattling pots hanging in the cabin.
Another wave larger than the first clutched the raft tight to its frothy, boiling bosom, whirling it around half a dozen times before casting it free.
Five-hundred ells, four-hundred, three-hundred, to the fork, and the river growled, rolled and boiled beneath them, promising destruction with every ell covered.
Alstrom fought to hold onto the twisting handle of the sweep, fought to keep the wide white blade immersed in the waves, fought to guide their little craft over to the right.
The other rangers rowed like an army of a hundred Glegs were closing in.
A wave surged over the back of the raft, knocking Alstrom to his knees, ripping the steering oar from his hands, and washing it over the side. He crawled over to the spares, drew his dagger, cut through the lashings, crawled back to the stern, and placed it in the Y shaped oarlock.
Josh left his place at the oars, crawled to Alstrom, placed his hands behind the ranger, lending his strength to the task.
Adelard shouted, “Pull, pull harder now, pull again,” and the nose of their craft turned towards the right hand shore.
A sudden movement on the island tip caught the corner of Josh’s eyes. He straightened up, held tight to the sweep handle, and scanned the approaching land, now less than two-hundred ells away and closing fast. A figure stood on the fingertip of the island, waving a bit of red cloth in the air.
Josh blinked, wiped the spray form his eyes and looked again. The moment he knew his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, he screamed, “Adelard, there’s some on the island.”

From Keeper of the Sword: book two

Chapter Twelve: The Last Battle
Adelard turned to the walls of the citadel, and watched a beam of light lance out towards him.
He whirled to face the Gleg, when he heard a sword sliding out of its leather scabbard. As he whirled, he jumped backwards, and reached for his weapon.
Adelard didn’t wince or cry out as a blade sliced into his left arm above the elbow. Ignoring the pain, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm, he drew his weapon, and swung it in time to parry the next blow.

If you would like to know more, then just click on the book cover.

From Keeper of the Sword: book one

From Chapter Four: I’m going to Run Away

Josh went to where the fire was and kicked sand onto it.

“Don’t do that Josh, not until we do the ritual that your gramps sent us. At least you’ll be here to tease him about it.”

“Oh alright,” Josh hesitated for a moment before he stopped kicking sand on to the blaze. He remembered the warning gramps had sent him.

Morgan joined Josh at the small fire. They marched around it twice to the left, changed directions and circled it three times to the right. Neither of them was surprised when a ship didn’t appear. Josh started to kick sand on the fire again.

Morgan begged, “Please Josh, put some more wood on the fire, I’d like to sit here for a while and think about all the good times we’ve had.”

Josh put a few dry branches on the smoldering embers. The fingers of the flame grew larger

and reached up towards the full moon that floated above them. He dragged a big log close to the warmth. The two of them sat close together and put their arms around each other. Morgan rested her head against Josh’s shoulder and they sat in silence, overwhelmed by sadness.

The moon sank lower in the dark sky and Morgan broke the silence at last, “We should go Josh,”

Josh stood up and kicked sand onto the dying embers, making certain to extinguish the last tiny glow.

Morgan stood up, turned around, and screamed.

Josh whirled around, his mouth dropped open. Right behind them, and less than twenty feet away stood four oddly dressed men. Two of them were reaching for long black shafts in quivers hanging over their shoulders, and a third held a long gleaming sword. Josh screamed, his knees buckled and he fell to the beach.


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.


That Which Binds (inspired by 1 Corinthians 13:4-7)

Love is the cement
which forever binds.

Love is mercy.
Love is forgiveness.
Love is kind.

Love does not boast
about things
we have done.

Love shall last
far past
the ending of our sun.

Love is more
candlelight dinners,
and wedding rings,
for love endures
all things.

Love is the balm
that heals
the wounded heart,
and replaces pride.
always walks
at loves side.

Love gives
all there
is to give,
and with love
one will
gladly die
another one
might live.

Long Ride to Abilene: Chapter One

He downed his whiskey in one quick gulp, wheeled around to face me, and dropped his hand to the butt of the colt forty-five slung low on his hip. Looking into dark eyes, eyes that were once filled with, laughter, deviltry, and a sense of fun that spilled over into anyone around him, now filled with bitterness and hate sent a coldness like I had never felt before, starting at my toes, surging upwards that set my hands to shaking.
I knew that death stared me in my face, and if I made a wrong move, or even so much as blinked, this might be my last day on this green earth. At that moment, my mind circled back to the day that set me on this course, and I caught myself thinking, “If only I hadn’t decided to go into Plentiful so early in the day. If only old Jim Wills had of been quicker at his figuring out what we owed, or what he intended to give me for the things I’d brought in, but he wasn’t, and thinking on what could have been, or might have been wouldn’t keep me breathing, not much longer anyway.”
The only thing that might spare me, is I had taken the bosses advice and left my gun in camp before coming into town.
He snarled, “You’ve been ridin me for a long time. Goin on about how you is better than me. How much more work you do than me. How you’re better at settin a horse, or ropin cow critters. We’ll I’ve had it. I ain’t goin to take it no more. You ain’t goin to be tellin me what to do. And I say to hell with you and your brother. And I say to hell with our trip to Oregon. I’m for settlin our differences right here and right now.”
“The kind don’t have no gun,” came from behind me.
I didn’t have to turn to know who was speaking. I was wishing I could see Trav once more.
It were dark enough in the saloon to see the flame shooting out the end of his colt. The thunder of it rolled around me, dimming my hearing, giving me the kind of chilling coldness I had never known before.

I remember the day well when the whole thing that was to make such changes in my life started. I had come to town early to settle some of our accounts, not with cash money you understand, because in those days it was in short supply, but with things we made or grew on our place.
I had two honey glazed hams from our smoke house, three dozen fresh eggs, a tub of new churned butter, four slabs of bacon, two dozen cured cow hides, thirty-two tallow candles, and a sack of wintered over spuds.
Depending on the mood of old Jim Wills, there should be enough to cover what we owed, and some left over for some needful things, like flour, molasses, and dried beans.
While waiting for Jim to do the figuring, I taken a bite of time to ogle all the things piled up every which way, in corners, on old tables, hanging from the wall, and shelves spilling over with canned goods that was covered with interesting labels.
I’d done reading the labels of pork and beans, peaches, condensed milk, from some company named Borden, and was knee deep gawking at the guns and knives, when two men came busting in through the door, bringing a gust of wind, and swirling dust that set everyone into coughing.
I tugged my gaze off a new Henry rifle, and the navy colt I was a hungering after, but knew I’d likely never have the cash money to even buy bullets for them, and took in the new intruders. Old Bill Brady, sitting near the cherry red stove, stopped mid-move of his checker game. A woman I didn’t know, clutching tight to the hand of a little girl, stopped fingering the red cloth stretched out on a long table propped up at one end with timber and flat rocks, and gave them a dirty look.
An old tame Injin, weighed down by a large bundle of wolf pelts scurried out of their way as they strode down the narrow aisle.
I recognized the taller one right off, being I’d seen him more than one time here in town. Mostly I’d seen him on top of a big black stallion, or coming out of the Lucky Diamond saloon with a couple of men.
He wasn’t new to Texas, but he was to these parts, and every-body that had any knowing of the man spoke highly of him. The story they told is that he had the beginnings of a fine ranch down near the Rio Grande, with a wife and a couple of youngster’s. One day when he was out clearing a water hole and pulling some dumb critters out of the mud a raiding party of about a dozen Kiawe came helling through his place. They kilt his family and burnt his house down to the bare earth.
Some folks say he went mad over what was done, and not one person I knowed blamed him for what he done next. He took right after that raiding party and follered it down in to the heart of Mexico, right into their ranchero, and dealt with every-one of them. There were a heap of stories floating around about what he had done. Stories that would set your teeth to chattering, make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, and change the blood in your veins to ice water. It were said by many a one that he had himself a sack full of scalps that he’d take out of a night and count, just a wishing and a pining that there weren’t more of them.
But like I said no one I knew held it against him, and when he came to our part of the country to start over again, most folks, including mine held him up as some kind of a hero.
When it happened that Ma was with me, he always taken off his hat, said, “How do mam. The best of the day be with you and yours,” in a genteel rumbling kind of voice.
Like every time before, he wore clean dark grey trousers, with their tops hanging half way down over black boots polished brighter than a mirror. A Mexican style jacket, embroidered with fancy do-dads in red and blue thread, mixed with a bit of gold stretched over wide shoulders and big chest. The whole of this was topped off by a grey sombrero, covering long dark brown hair that many a Comanche hankered after.
The only thing missing from his normal outfit were a navy colt, cartridge belt, and holster. I wrestled with my memory for a mite of time, trying to dredge up a name, afore it popped full grown into my head.
Remembering my manners, the ones Ma had drummed into my bottom with a hickory stick, when- ever I was to forget them, I doffed my hat and said, “How do, Mr. Captain Roberts. How’s the state of your constitution this fine day?”
Well the burly man brushed right past me, without so much as a hello, or a friendly how do. Captain Roberts stopped right there in front of me, touched the brim of his hat. A big cheerful grin brightened his wind and sun weathered face. “How do to you to. As to the state of my constitution, it’s fine mighty fine. If I have it right, you’re Emmett Coressin’s boy…”
Forgetting my manners for a moment, I blurted out, “That’s right Captain. Davey…Davey Coressin…” Just then, my manners hit me. “Pardon me, Captain, for speaking so bold and out of turn.”
“Not at all. I do admire a man that speaks up for himself.”
A voice, gruff and raw, like it came from a throat that was scratched from dust, or had a fight with a tumbleweed, coming from behind me, roared, “Hurry up, Darius, I ain’t got all day.”
A chuckle came pouring out of the captain’s mouth, and a right eye, blue as a mid-summer Texas sky closed in a quick wink, “You go right on about your business Mayhew, I’ve got some talking to do with this young man here.”
I whirled around to take a look at the man with the whisky rough voice.
A snort, loud as a horse’s whiny came from out of thick lips perched between a black bushy beard, that could have supplied a home to a hive of bees without them getting crowded out, and a handlebar moustache that looked like it had been cut off a horse’s tail. “You ain’t goin to try and rope this here kid into your mad scheme, air you Darius?”
Eyes that seemed to spark with the fires of hell it’s-self, bored into mine, “If you’re wantin to live kid, don’t pay the captain no mind, no mind at all.”
Whenever I were to think on it afterword, whether night herding, or eating dust riding drag, I supposed it were him calling me a kid that made me make up my mind to listen close to every word that came out of the captain’s mouth and do whatever he asked me to, or die trying.
Afore the captain could get in another word, the doors busted open again, bringing with it more wind and more dust.
When the coughing fit ended and the last grain of dust settled onto the broad-board floor, every eye in the place looked at the pair of intruders, taking them in from their dust covered boots to wide brimmed hats perched on their heads.
The one, a couple of steps ahead of the other, with a swagger that made you think he knew he owned the place, or thought he did and everyone else in the world were less than he was, appeared to be the focus of most people, but it was the one a couple steps behind that caught and held my attention.

this is the first chapter of my novel and I am looking for, and hoping to get feedback

  • 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

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    “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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    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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