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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.


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.

From, “Fairy Time Ball,”

Ariel dreamed. She dreamed of dancing ponies, of fairy dust being sprinkled on her. She dreamed of flying off to the island of Forever-Ever Land with Tinker Bell, and a group of her fairy friends.

An island filled with marshmallow trees, chocolate rocks, gumdrop pebbles, blue birds that sang beautiful fairy songs, and played twelve string guitars. An island surrounded by a milk and cookie sea, an island where little girls spent their summer holidays. An island where little girls let their hair down, and were just themselves.

Fairy Time Ball is a quiet time story for the young, and the young at heart, and is available on Amazon. Just click this link. http://amzn.to/2DFN0sE


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?

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.

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.

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.


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?

  • 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

    now avaliable

    “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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