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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.

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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 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

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.

  • 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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  • 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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