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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.

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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.

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.

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.

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

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
than
candlelight dinners,
and wedding rings,
for love endures
all things.

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

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

Tolerance


Always speak words of kindness,
and sing out songs of love.
Build a nest in your back yard
for a snow white dove.

Quench the flames of hatred.
Stomp out bigotry beneath your feet.
Give a budding olive branch
to everyone you meet.

Love all peoples as your neighbor.
Treat everyone as your friend.
Carry high the torch of peace
until intolerance comes to an end.

Lift up high the burning candle
so that everyone may see
that hope still lives in this world,
and that one day we’ll all be free.

Color Blind


Red and yellow,
black and white,
we appear
all the same
in the deep
watches of the night.

The only differences then
that we can truly find,
are within the cupboards
and the closets
of our twisted, distorted mind.

Would not the world
be a far better place,
if we had all been born
color blind?

Tomorrow’s Dream


Stone cold and gray the newborn day,
and children have no place to play.
No parks no fields of green.
No bubbling brook, no fish filled stream.

All that is left is brick and glass,
and dreary, dark, smoke filled sky.
No wonder children just stand and cry.
In their minds, do they wonder why?

This is our legacy of greed,
our all, consuming need,
to rape and pillage our mother earth,
to take from her anything of worth.

There are no growing trees.
No place for children to swing up high.
No singing birds fill the morning sky.
No wonder, children just stand and cry.
In their minds do they wonder why?

We do not see this, as we sleep,
in our graves, so cold and deep.
We do not see the smoke filled sky.
We do not hear our children cry.

But this matters not, for they too shall die,
and all that will be left is brick and glass,
and dreary, dark, smoke filled sky.
No wonder the children, just stand and cry.
In their minds, do they wonder why?

  • 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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  • 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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