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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.

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

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.

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.

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?

From Keeper of the Sword: book two


From Chapter Ten: Perilous Passage
Adelard shouted over the roaring water, “Keep to the right of the Island. Breandan warned me that great harm may come if we if take the left side.” Their six-day journey had been a wild ride but nothing like this. A wave, ten ells high, proudly wearing a white bonnet caught their raft, picked it and slammed it down, rattling pots hanging in the cabin.
Another wave larger than the first clutched the raft tight to its frothy, boiling bosom, whirling it around half a dozen times before casting it free.
Five-hundred ells, four-hundred, three-hundred, to the fork, and the river growled, rolled and boiled beneath them, promising destruction with every ell covered.
Alstrom fought to hold onto the twisting handle of the sweep, fought to keep the wide white blade immersed in the waves, fought to guide their little craft over to the right.
The other rangers rowed like an army of a hundred Glegs were closing in.
A wave surged over the back of the raft, knocking Alstrom to his knees, ripping the steering oar from his hands, and washing it over the side. He crawled over to the spares, drew his dagger, cut through the lashings, crawled back to the stern, and placed it in the Y shaped oarlock.
Josh left his place at the oars, crawled to Alstrom, placed his hands behind the ranger, lending his strength to the task.
Adelard shouted, “Pull, pull harder now, pull again,” and the nose of their craft turned towards the right hand shore.
A sudden movement on the island tip caught the corner of Josh’s eyes. He straightened up, held tight to the sweep handle, and scanned the approaching land, now less than two-hundred ells away and closing fast. A figure stood on the fingertip of the island, waving a bit of red cloth in the air.
Josh blinked, wiped the spray form his eyes and looked again. The moment he knew his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, he screamed, “Adelard, there’s some on the island.”

  • 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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    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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