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Eye of the tiger.
Eye of the lion.
Eye of the dreamer.
Which one beholds?
Which on holds?
Which one sees
a child’s tears?

Ear of the mouse.
Ear of the elephant.
Ear of the warrior.
Which one listens
as the wind
creeps across the veldt?

Wings of the eagle.
Wings of the dove.
Wings of the chicken.
Which wings fly the highest?
Does it really matter?

Kiss of the lover.
Kiss of the rapist.
Kiss of the child.
Which one is the sweetest?


Foggy Night, Raindrops on the Window

Foggy night, raindrops on the window
candlelight, fire burning low,
here’s to our love of yesterday,
and to our dreams of tomorrow.

Baby I just don’t want to go
into the foggy night,
raindrops on the window.

Thank you for the glass of wine
and thank you for talking
about the good old times,
But baby
I just don’t want to go
out into that foggy night,
raindrops on the window.

You look so good, in the candle glow.
I just wanted to see
if you were still doing fine.
I’m sorry I took up
so much of your time,
But baby, I just don’t want to go
into that foggy night,
raindrops on the window.

Foggy night, raindrops on the window,
candlelight, fire burning low,
here’s to our love of yesterday
and to our dreams of tomorrow.

Baby I just don’t want to go
into the foggy night,
raindrops on the window.

In the Deep of Night

In the deep of night
I had a dream,
and in my dream
a rushing wind
did strip me
from my bed,
and took me
beyond time and space,
and I hovered
over an unknown place,
over a village green
where children danced,
and laughter rang,
filling the air
with great delight,
and the old
unbent by years,
played the oboe,
and violin.

Below me,
to my surprise
lions frolicked
amidst flocks of sheep,
and great serpents
rocked babies
in their bed,
until they fell asleep.

There were no
fields of bitter stone
to mark places
of the dead.

I heard no
echo of roaring guns,
no blast
of falling bombs,
and I felt
that war must
be unknown
in this quiet
peaceful land.

A cry of death
came to my dream,
stirring me
from my repose.
Filled with fear
I quick arose,
and from my window
I looked out
upon the fields
of war.

Melancholy Blue

Oh how I remember
sharing sweet kisses
with you in the dark,
our moonlight rides in Stanly Park,
a glittering ball room New Year’s Eve,
the feeling of your soft body
as it gently swayed,
pressing tight
as the enchanting music played.
But now I must learn
to live in a world without you,
melancholy blue.

Laughing, holding hands
we left our footstep
deep in the shining sands
of English Bay
as we tried to
keep ourselves dry
from the rushing inward
of the tide.
But I let you slip away
because of my
foolish, foolish pride.
Now I must learn
to live in a world without you,
melancholy blue.

we were far too young,
to make,
such fantastic schemes,
Perhaps we
should never have listened
or believed
in the words
of the love songs
that were sung,
At least
that’s the way it seems
now that
we have come
to the very end
of our dreams,
melancholy blue.

We grew bitter,
grew old
before our time.
You went your way,
and I went mine,
rushing after
impossible dreams,
and using up our time,
chasing rainbows,
but never finding
that pot of gold,
only finding
a world that
had grown cold.
Now I must
learn to live
in a world without you,
melancholy blue.

Storm Rising

A rushing rumble
like rapids,
like a river in full flood,
stampedes into my dreams,
and steals me
from my sleep.

I rise like a lightning bolt
race to windows dark,
pull back purple drapes,
and look out
into a midnight storm,
rising to the fullness
of its deep.

The wind trumpets
in the glory of its pride,
roars like a lion
at its kill.

My breath catches,
my heart thunders
within my breast,
as if it no longer
belongs to me,
but as if it is
some strange part
of a wild, savage beast.

I tremble, and like a thief
brought before the law
I surrender
to the storms all-consuming thrill.

Caught by this mighty muse,
deafened by her keening wind,
I begin understand her need
for destruction,
and in that moment
I hunger in my soul,
to go where she goes
until the beauty of this wild ride
comes to the fullness of its end.

Down to a Sunless Sea

Upon the day the world began,
God did decree in his master plan
that there must be peace for every man,
and that all peoples should be free.

But now we are bound with chains
of fear, of death, of loss and pain,
and we believe there is nothing left to gain,
and our songs are filled with a sad refrain,
and we struggle, we strain, we cry out in shame
as we try to reclaim our holy perfect name.

Mankind has gone so far astray
that we can no longer find our way.
Is it because of the darkness in our day?

We now stand trembling upon a precipice
staring down into a dark, bottomless abyss.
Is mankind intended to really end like this?

We have tumbled down from Olympian heights
into the stony crevasse of an endless night.
We have strayed far from the golden halls
and are now lost between empty canyon walls.

A canyon where no moonlight falls.
Where a perilous narrow path winds
between cracked, haunting obsidian walls,
down to the shores of a sunless sea

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

  • 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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