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Sarah of the Sunlit Sea

I called her my Sarah of the sunlit sea.
She was a woman of seductive mystery,
an enchanting child of the morning light,
a poem in living color, a midnight dream,
that always danced me through the night.

My world turned on her finger,
and a ring of gold bound us together,
and her name was written in the wind
with purple smoke and a burnished flame,
and I knew if she ever left me
my life would never be the same.

We danced to the end of time and back again
to the music of a violin played by a drummer
whose drumsticks were made from willow,
and whose mind was filled with madness,
and his songs were made from words
that no one could ever understand.

His fingers were gnarled and broken
so the music was just a token
of what it could have, should have been
just like things we would never have
or know, in our tomorrows dream.

She didn’t mind that things weren’t perfect,
because we lived beneath a rainbow,
where the snow was white, and sparkling
like the diamonds on her fingers,
like emeralds in the morning light,
like a dew drop on a red, red rose
and the smoke from our fireplace
always smelled like lilacs,
and the embers on the hearth always glowed,
and her smile always touched my very soul.

When she caressed me with her fingers
she sent shivers flooding through me,
and our hearts beat out our love story,
as we danced through the moments of our life.

The purple smoke has vanished in the mist
and time has dulled the burnished flame,
but her name still lingers in the midnights
and her face is still vision of my memory,
and until the end of time, her picture will hang
upon the hallways and corridors of my mind.


A Midnight Troubadour

I’m a lonely troubadour,
and I play my songs at midnight,
beneath the blinking lights,
when the streets are empty,
and the wind blows cold,
when there is no one to hold,
or listen to my songs,
or to sing along,
or tell me right from wrong.

My songs are for
the political prisoners,
bound up in jail,
bound by iron chains,
without any hope
of getting bail.

They are for the children
that are lost in the rain,
and going hungry,
and for all those
that are now
crying out for freedom.

I am a lost troubadour
singing in a box car
in a rail yard
waiting for a train,
to be going nowhere,
and my songs are
for the hungry,
the naked,
the homeless
for the hobos
that are singing with me.

Mr. engineer,
hiding behind
your priestly clothes
and a saintly smile,
please hook up
the boxcar to a train,
give us an umbrella
to keep us from the rain,
and some wood
to keep us from the cold.

If you do,
I’ll play a song for you,
until my guitar
strings are broken,
and my fingers
start bleeding,
a few kind words
are all that I am needing.

I am a lost troubadour
born out of war,
and other bitter places.
From lying
I will refrain
if it will help me
catch a train
to the southland,
or where oranges grow,
or keep me from
the acid rain,
or help me in my dreaming.

I’ll play my songs for you,
if you promise
not to be blue,
so please be true,
to yourself,
even if you
must lie to others.

I’ll play my songs
in the rain,
or on the train,
or on the tracks,
that lead to the shacks
by the river,
or on the way
to my tombstone.
I’m a lonely troubadour,
and I play my songs at midnight,
beneath the blinking lights,
when the streets are empty,
and the wind blows cold,
when there is no one to hold,
or listen to my songs,
or to sing along,
or tell me right from wrong.

That Which is

Silence echoes
so deep, so deep
into full darkness
of the sterile room.

A faint thump,
thump, thump stills.

Pale white gleams,
light fades, fades,
love fades, fades
from translucent green,
that once mirrored,
that once beheld
all things that passed,
all things that came
into their view.

Cold, cold, cold,
a hand so still,
the remembrance of breath
lingers in the gloom.

Silence, empty
of tomorrow’s dreams,
so deep, so deep,
trembles in full darkness
of the empty room.

From, “Serendipitous,” my new book of poetry.


Let them find rest
from the bombs
falling by night.

Let them find rest
from the bullets
flying by day.

Let them find rest
from cold death
that walks with them.

Let them find rest,
for they are
the innocent,
they are
the children.

They are too young
to be pawns
in any war.

Freedom means nothing
to minds shocked
by death.

Democracy means nothing
to bellies
that are empty.

Politics mean nothing
to lives
forever shattered.

Orphaned and homeless,
battered and bloody,
they have no part
in the great Arab spring.

They cower in buildings,
amidst the windows
among their possessions
by bombs
forever falling.

They lie in their filth,
with no one to clean them.
They cry for their mothers,
grenades are their answer.

Soldiers march by
glance in the window,
see the movement of life,
and raise up their rifles.

From my new book of poems, “Serendipitous,” Just click this link to get your copy today http://amzn.to/2dbCxrH

Silver Stones Across the Water

Silver stones skip across the water.
Golden bells chime in your mind.
Moonbeams and starlight
are now so hard to find.
And there is no use
chasing after rainbows,
because there is no pot of gold
for you to find, or ever to hold,
and no matter how much you want
things to be better than they are,
there is only the misty morning,
a burnt out falling star,
and raindrops, and tears for you.

And you will never be
more than a wind across the water,
more than a ripple
on the river,
more than a new born child,
more than a dream that has
never been dreamed.
You are like a flower growing wild
that withers in the sunlight,
that shrivels in the wind.

You are a shadow shivering
in the mellow moonlight,
a stranger in a land
filled with dark
and lonely places
and you know
that peace, and love
will never set you free.

So there is no use in trying
to untie the ropes
that hold you,
or bind up your wounds
that are bleeding,
because someone else
will find you,
and take your hopes,
and freedom from you,
once again.

You watch for silver stones
to skip across the water,
but they never will again.
And the golden bells
that once chimed
the words of peace
in your mind,
have grown silent
and the tears
that you cry
aren’t for the dying children
but for the love,
and hope, and dreams
that you could never find.

Silver stones skip across the water.
Golden bells chime in your mind.
Moonbeams and starlight
are now so hard to find.

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.


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
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,
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.

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,
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.

  • 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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