Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Birds of War, Birds of Prey

Contrails of war birds
Criss-cross angrily
Polluting the summer sky
With their whiteness
Eggs full of death
Drop from their pregnant bellies
Blood, bone, flesh and sinew
Are mashed together
Women with babes in arms
Men carrying young children
Scream in fear
Scream in pain
Scream as the fire consumes them
Dark greasy spots
Are the remains
Of dog of cat
Of man of woman
Of baby of child
And above
The birds of prey circle
Looking for movement
Their bellies still half full
Still swollen with eggs of death

An Angel with Broken Wings

The cat is in the kitchen
Licking up spilled cream
Old dog sleeping in the corner
Is having a bad dream
The house is full of anger
Both upstairs and down
A sweet young girl is weeping
She wants to go to town
She does not know how to deal
With the pain that fills her soul
She believes that no one loves her
That she can never be quite whole
No one that is this young
Should be filled with such despair
Every time she wants a hug
No one is ever there
Her mind is overflowing
Filled with dark and bitter things
So she lies with her broken heart
And her broken angel wings
The cat is in the kitchen
Licking up spilled cream
Old dog still lies sleeping
Still having his bad dream

Saturday, June 27, 2009

The Poet Drank Black and Bitter Coffee

The poet drank his black bitter coffee
From a cracked blue saucer
And pondered the dark sky coming down
Coming down with all its bitterness
And the darkness of it filled his soul

It was not fully of his making
Yet he had a hand in the shaping of his world
He remembered the girl that told him
The girl that use to hold him
When his pain set fire to their world

Her words were bright forever
In the corners and the corridors
Of his smoked and broken mind

To many drugs, too much whisky
Had soaked up most of his memories
But traces of his Hilda lingered on the fringes
And her words came through the shadows
That grew forever darker with each sip
Of cold and bitter coffee that he enjoyed

Her song was of tomorrow
And it was filled with sorrow
An aching and a sadness
For their love that once consumed them
Was fading faster than a rainbow from the sky

He wished now that he had heeded
Her soft and plaintive pleadings
But the hour was now too late upon his mind

The guns outside still thundered
As the poet drank he wondered
How long before the mad ones
The hunters, the loners, the sad ones
Look inside this dirty window
And saw him sitting in the moonlight
Waiting for his last day to end

He cherished each word that he had written
To cause the masses to rise up against a tyrant
That wanted to be a ruler of the world
Now the tyrant’s brave new world order
Had came crashing down around him
Fuelled by the poet’s words of freedom
And now it lay in ashes heaped upon his soul
And the poet knew he would not escape
The tyrant’s wrath and anger
It would only be a moment until
His day and night would be shattered
And sweet Hilda would laugh and tell him
That this was all of his own doing
No bitter tears would she cry for him

Outside the guns still thundered
The crowd, looted, raped and plundered
Setting fire to those in their way

So the poet sipped cold and bitter coffee
From the cracked blue saucer in his hand
He listened for his heartbeat
But it was nowhere to be found
He listened for the footsteps
As his head rested on the damp ground
The coffee turned to blood
And Hilda still spoke inside his dying mind

The cracked blue saucer was now broken
A sad and lonely token of a better time
The poet’s words of freedom
Died and faded with him
Never to be spoken of again

The poet drank his black bitter coffee
From a cracked blue saucer
And pondered the dark sky coming down
Coming down with all its bitterness
And the darkness of it filled his soul

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Neda

One more sweet voice of freedom silenced
By those who would crush democracy
Neda’s death has ignited
A bright spark of determination

The streets are overflowing
The young, the old
And those in between
Cry out loud for freedom

From darkened, lidless windows
Flickering candles glow
For a young life that’s ended
And in the streets of blood and pain
Strong winds of freedom blow

Neda, full of innocence
Neda, full of joyful laughter
Neda’s whos soft eyes once sparkled
Now lies dying for no reason

Bright flowers now scattered
Where a young woman has fallen
White flowers now scattered
Where a young life has ended

Tears flow from the eyes of strangers
Sweet Neda, dear Neda
You will never be forgotten

When the Muezzin cries out
Calling the faithful to evening prayers
Who’s soul will the Ayatollah pray for
Will it be for the murderer
Or will it be for the murdered
That he crushed with his corrupt power
Or will it be for himself
For his soul he condemned
For being the devils hand this dark day

One more sweet voice of freedom silenced
By those who would crush democracy
Neda’s death has ignited
A bright spark of determination

A precious life is now fading
A precious life has been taken
Neda, a young vibrant woman
Now lies dead and broken
Now lies dead and bleeding

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

HURTING

I have written a poem that I believe all woman and girls who are or were in an abusive relationship should read. As well as any one that knows a woman like this. Please pass this poem along to as many people as you can. Perhaps your local paper will print these poems or your local radio station will read them over the air. All I ask is that my blog is mentioned.

Hurting

There is pain and sadness
There are tears of fear and sorrow
In eyes of wondrous beauty
Dark bruises lie heavy upon her
From hammering fists
From kicking, booted feet
From words of bitter anger
And all she ever wanted
Was to give her love
And to have his love in return
She never asked for dresses
She only asked for kisses
All she ever wanted
Was a little kindness
All she ever needed
Was a little tenderness
But he is her lord and master
And he knows he owns her
She is his punching bag
A thing to slake his lust in
Whatever her needing is
Whatever her desire
Whatever her wanting
Is of no importance
All that ever matters
Is the quenching of his anger
The fulfilling of his cravings
Soft beautiful skin is battered
Soft beautiful skin is trampled on
A tender heart is broken
A tender soul is shattered
There is no escaping
A pain she faces daily
Will it be death that takes her
From this world of torture
There is pain and sadness
There are tears of fear and sorrow
In eyes of wondrous beauty
Bruises lie heavy upon her
From hammering fists
From kicking, booted feet
From words of bitter anger
To you with the wounded soul
To you of the wounded heart
To you of the broken bones
Write these words
Within your mind
Say them to yourself
A hundred thousand times
It is not my fault
I am not to blame
I have no need to feel shame
I am a woman and must be free
Of this battering and of this pain
I must have my own dreams now
I deserve a far better destiny
Now look within yourself
Look beyond your darkened window
Look for the faint candle glow
The flickering flame of freedom
Walk away from hurting
Look within yourself
And you will find the courage
You will no longer heed his pleading
You will never more give in
To his cruel and savage needing

My blog http://canadianpoet2.blogspot.com/ My twitter ID canadianpoet2
Share the poem. Help to end the hurting, help to end the shame

Monday, June 22, 2009

Blood on the Streets of Teheran

There is blood on the streets of Teheran
The air is filled with the screams of the dying
The air is filled with the cry of freedom
The Ayatollah has sent in his storm troopers

There is blood on the streets of Teheran
Woman and children are dying
Dying in the name of freedom

An election was stolen
From the hands of the people
Democracy was crushed
Under the feet of a despot
Who hungers to hold on to power

The supreme leader laughs
As the people are trampled
Bullets are flying, young people are dying
But the bell of freedom will ring

Honesty and decency will prevail
On the bones of martyrs piled high
In the bloody streets of Teheran

There is blood on the streets of Teheran
The air is filled with the screams of the dying
The air is filled with the cry of freedom
The Ayatollah has sent in his storm troopers

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Holocaust

Holocaust
Six million of God’s children
Crushed under black booted feet
Crushed under jack booted feet
Maimed, beaten, tortured
Then forced into a fatal shower
The tyrant gloated in his power

Men, women, little children
Babies torn from mother’s breasts
Bones of all smashed to dust
Soft flesh, body fat rendered
Into a bitter soap
Gold capped, gleaming teeth
Torn from screaming mouths

Six million of God’s children
Cry out from forgotten graves
Cry out to be remembered
Cry to makes us feel ashamed
Cry to make us promise
That this evil thing
This curse of upon humanity
Will never take place again

Six million of God’s children
Crammed in to box cars
Crammed in by the thousands
Six million of God’s children
Jammed against each other
Jammed so tight they could not breathe

The great cities of Europe
Emptied of Judea’s children
They were taken to the camps of fear
Taken to be broken
Taken to be tortured
Taken to the chamber of death

We who now live must remember
What bigotry and oppression do
Because the next time we let a tyrant
Crush the weak beneath his heels
It might be us instead of the Jew
Who are hauled away in heavy chains
And put to a bitter, painful death

Six million of God’s children
Crushed under black booted feet
Crushed under jack booted feet
Maimed, beaten, tortured
Then forced into a fatal shower
The tyrant gloated in his power

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Midnight Train

Train whistle echoes in the darkness
Carried on the west wind
Blowing from the mountains
Blowing across wide prairie lands

Midnight train calls out to me
Calls with a voice of freedom
Calls me to break my chains
Calls me to a different purpose
Calls me to a different living

Train whistle echoes in the darkness
And fills my heart with longing
Train whistle echoes in the darkness
And fills my soul with needing
Train whistle echoes in the darkness
A wild, mournful pleading

Midnight train calls out to me
And promises me my freedom
Midnight train calls out to me
Reminding me that I am captive
Captive to the sameness
Captive to my life of boredom
Captive to my wasteful wanting

Train whistle echoes in the darkness
Whispers a seductive promise
Train whistle beckons to me
From somewhere in the distance
It asks me to leave behind
My wife, my job, my children
It asks me to give up my possessions
And to follow blindly

Midnight train goes ever onwards
And I lie in silence waiting
Waiting for the morning light
Waiting for tomorrow’s burdens
Waiting for tomorrow’s love
Waiting for tomorrow’s laughter

Train whistle echoes in the darkness
Carried on the west wind
Blowing from the mountains
Blowing across wide prairie lands

Midnight train calls out to me
Calls with a voice of freedom
Calls me to break my chains
Calls me to a different purpose
Calls me to a different living
Calls to me of adventure

Friday, June 19, 2009

On the Other Side of Nowhere

On the other side of nowhere
Between yesterday and the dawn
When darkness fills a person’s soul
And their demons drag them down
A bottomless pit awaits false step
With no way forward no way back
But one must still go on
For nowhere is no place to be
Because the postal code is wrong
If false courage is the only kind
Well it will have to do
Drink deep another glass of wine
If it will help you through

There is no moon and no stars
No light of coming dawn
There is just you and you alone
So you must save yourself
Step back from the black abyss
Find some other place to be
Because the other side of nowhere
Is no place for you or me

On the other side of nowhere
When the love you had is lost
And there is only dark despair
When all friends have deserted you
And you no longer care.
Do not let your anger eat you up
Or tarnish your shining soul
For the sun still shines, the soft rain falls
Come back from where you are
Leave your demons there to dance alone
On the other side of nowhere

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Dressed in Black Denim

She was dressed in black denim
Boots were nearly knee high
And her legs
Going up to where
I shouldn’t say

But I like my woman
As soft as a kitten
And as gentle
As a butterfly’s wings
I like my woman
As soft as a kitten
Just doing those feminine things

She said, stranger let’s dance
But first you can by me a beer
Well I looked around me
To see who was behind me
But no one else was there

I just like my woman
As soft as a kitten
And as gentle
As a butterfly’s wings
I like my woman
As soft as a kitten
Just doing those feminine things

We have three little children
Molly’s the oldest
Jimmy is in the middle
And our baby
We call little Sue

And I still like my woman
As soft as a kitten
And as gentle
As a butterfly’s wings
I like my woman
As soft as a kitten
Just doing those feminine things

She still rides her Harley
She still wears black denim
With boots nearly up to here knee
But I know within me
That this is the right woman for me

And I still like my woman
As soft as a kitten
And as gentle
As a butterfly’s wings
I like my woman
As soft as a kitten
Just doing those feminine things

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

My Book of Dreams

The sweet strumming of a mandolin
Is joined by a soft voiced violin
And the last tip of the sun
Starts to fade away
Bringing an end to another day

And my mind is filled
With dreams of loving you
And my heart is filled
With an ache from missing you

I brush a few sad tears away
And watch the colours fade
And the sky becomes
A dark midnight blue
And my mind is filled
With dreams of loving you

You will forever be
In my book of dreams
I keep a lock of your red hair
And a happy picture is there
Memories of a sweeter day
And the last bit of sun
Slowly starts to fade away

You are in my book of dreams
A forever part of who I am
Forever a part of what I now do

The sweet strumming of a mandolin
Is joined by a soft voiced violin
And the last tip of the sun
Starts to fade away
Bringing an end to another day

You are in my book of dreams
A forever part of who I am
Forever a part of what I now do

I was a fool to walk away from you
Seeking for a better day
Looking for another rainbow
So many tears have fallen
So many years have passed away
And now all I have left
Of our loving ways
And now all I have left
Of those sweet happy days
Is my old book of dreams

The sweet strumming of a mandolin
Is joined by a soft voiced violin
And the last tip of the sun
Starts to fade away
Bringing an end to another day

And my mind is filled
With dreams of loving you
And my heart is filled
With an ache from missing you

And now all I have left
Of our loving ways
And now all I have left
Of those sweet happy days
Is my old book of dreams

Monday, June 15, 2009

I Have a Black Man as my Friend

I have a black man as my friend
I have a black woman as my lover
My dreams are multi-coloured
As are all my children

My peers look down on me
And wonder what I was thinking
To pollute my white, superior blood
And let it mingle with someone beneath me

So little do they know of love
So little do they know of reality
So little do they know of truth
As they go seeking power
For all blood flows crimson
All hearts beat within
The covering that is our skin
And in some distant final hour
Perhaps they will understand
The futility of their desire

For their hate will be their downfall
A black cancer in their soul
They shall be consumed by bitterness
And never achieve their goal

For such power as they seek
Is like a snowflake in their hand
It will always elude them
It will always fade away
Its place will be filled
With the hour of their accounting
With their moment of their reckoning

The darkness of their evil
Shall consume them
With its deadly flame
And their names will be forgotten
As the wheel of time
Turns past them

I have a black man as my friend
I have a black woman as my lover
My dreams are multi-coloured
As are all my children

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Cold Heart Warm Heart

Cold heart
Dark thoughts dart
Unbridled unchecked
Down the path ways
Of the mind
Anger, rage
Follow in their footsteps
And hatred walks close behind
The soul darkens
Bright eyes grow dim
The mind in turmoil
Boils over
Harsh word then spoken
Pain and tears
In loved ones eyes
The only hope for peace
Is forgiveness of the hurting
Warm hearts
Thoughts of love
Of peace
Walk down the minds
Flowered path ways
Joy and happiness
Ever at their side
Eyes bright
The soul shines
From with in
The warm smile
Brings more smiles
Words of love and kindness
Are shared
Cold heart
Warm heart
The battle rages deep with in
But when the battle ends
It is your choice
Which heartAnd thoughts shall win

Friday, June 12, 2009

Lainie Went Dancing with the Fairy Folk

Lainie went dancing with the fairy folk
On a mid-summer moon bright night
She didn’t ask her mother
Because she thought it would be alright

A big bull frog played a bugle
A cricket played a tambourine
Mr. Toad from down the road
Played on a big drum
Made from a washing machine

Lainie danced with a fairy prince
And even wore his crown
He told her to stop for a visit
When she came to fairy town

But like all things good
The night faded fast away
The fairy folk went to bed
Before the coming of the day

Lainie felt so very sad
Because they were no longer there
But when she woke in the morning
Fairy dust sparkled in her hair

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

New Orleans Dream

In my dreams things are the same
There was no angry wind
There was no bitter rain
There was no savage hurricane
That had Katrina for a name

No bones of houses silhouetted
Stark and rotting
Against a darkening sky
No terrifying cries for help
And no babies had to die

My dream was of a better time
Of wild parties, of flowing wine
Of a hot tenor sax
Played by a real cool cat
That wailed so sweetly
In the softness of the night

A woman sings of her lost love
Of a hurting that haunts her soul
Here smoky sexy voice
Fills the room with pain
Her man went and done her wrong
But now his sorry ass is gone
And she’s found another love
Who’s promised always to be true
But she knows he’ll do the same thing to

Fragrant aromas fill the night
Old Joe’s cooking up
A Creole and Cajun delight
Cat fish browning in a greasy pan
Jambalaya and gumbo boiling on a stove
Fills the nose of every hungry man
That plays a horn on Bourbon Street

The scent of sweet jasmine
Is carried by the summer wind
Girls in sexy frilly clothes
Flirt from behind Japan fans
And dance as the trumpets play
They blush as they surrender to
Kisses from their handsome beau
And whirl until the light of day
But like all other sweet night dreams
Mine to fades fast away
And leaves behind in its wake
The harsh reality of the day
A lonely, tinny clarinet
Plays in sadness and in regret
For the beauty that has passed away

But like a phoenix
That has been consumed
By a bright, burning flame
New Orleans will rise again
The Big Easy shall be made a new
And a hot tenor sax
Played loudly by a real cool cat
Will once more wail
In the softness of a summer’s night

A dream will be reborn
By the sound of that golden horn
Girlish laughter will fill the air
And flirt from behind Japan fans
As they surrender without a care
To bold advances from their beau

The Big Easy calls me to come home
A call I can’t ignore
And I know on some sweet day
I’ll walk down Bourbon Street once more

In my dreams things are the same
There was no angry wind
There was no bitter rain
There was no savage hurricane
That had Katrina for a name

No bones of houses silhouetted
Stark and rotting
Against a darkening sky
No terrifying cries for help
And no babies had to die

Monday, June 8, 2009

Ashlyn ate a Rainbow

Ashlyn ate a rainbow
One dark and dreary day
She felt quite sad
Because her friends
Could not come and play
It tasted full of colours
And was so very yummy
It tickled just a little
As it slithered into her tummy
She burped when she was finished
But she wasn’t yet quite full
She looked around for a caterpillar
So she could eat its wool

Lainie was so upset
Because she was hungry too
All she had for lunch
Was a bowl of frog leg stew
But there was no rainbow left
Only the leprechaun and his gold
Lainie knew that if she ate them
Mummy would get mad and scold

Lainie found a baby worm
Crawling up a maple tree
She grabbed it quick
Before Ashlyn could
And said it’s all for me

Ashlyn ate a rainbow
One dark and dreary day
She felt quite sad
Because her friends
Could not come and play
It tasted full of colours
And was so very yummy
It tickled just a little
As it slithered into her tummy
She burped when she was finished
But she wasn’t yet quite full
She looked around for a caterpillar
So she could eat its wool

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Freedom now has a Different Meaning

The revolutionaries are now old and wizened
And they dream of causes never won
As the comb bits of left over chocolate cake
From their un-kept scraggy beards
And try to remember their songs of freedom
But the words are buried deep
Inside their foggy, fading minds
And the tunes they try to hum
Were carried far away, in a time so long ago
By the breath, of the westward blowing wind

They still remember painting pictures
As the gathered around meagre fires
Talking of the victories won this day
Fingers that pulled so often on greasy triggers
Are dipped in their screaming victims wounds
They always painted roses
Even the leaves were red and glowing
As the moon tried to hide her face in shame

The revolutionaries blame their losses
On the ones they tried to free
Instead of on the death that
They brokered with their guns
They could never quite understand
Why the men and the women
Grew tired of their little babies dying

The hate that they spouted
Still wanders in hearts and minds
But the revolutionaries are too weak
To even speak of the revulsion
That in their waning hours
Still consumes every thought
That wanders through
Each hard, cold and evil mind

They still cling to a faint hope
That the children of their loins
Will take up the bloody sword
And burn the olive branches
That they now so proudly carry
But it is a different world
And freedom now has a different meaning

The revolutionaries are now old and wizened
And they dream of causes never won
As the comb bits of left over chocolate cake
From their un-kept scraggy beards
And try to remember their songs of freedom
But the words are buried deep
Inside their foggy, fading minds
And the tunes they try to hum
Were carried far away, in a time so long ago
By the breath of the westward blowing wind

Saturday, June 6, 2009

From: My Name is Isaiah/ A Detective Ryan Telford Novel

My name is Isaiah
And my name is death
All of you will shake
When you see my shadow
You cannot escape me
There is no safe place to go
I will choose my prey
From among you
You cannot stop my taking
You will fear to sleep
You will tremble
Upon your waking
My name is Isaiah
And you will tremble
At my passing
I bring fear, pain and death
And when I am gone
There will be no one laughing

Chapter Fifteen: The Street Glistens from the Falling Rain

The storm that had begun to brew in the late afternoon, over Lake Ontario started inching its way landward as the evening closed in. Thunder boomed in the distance and angry looking, dark clouds were ripped by bolt after bolt of lightning. As the night grew deeper upon its self, the storm gathered more strength.

Large raindrops carried by the strong south wind chased the multitudes away from Young street. The first to go were mothers pushing baby carriages or with toddlers in tow. Loud calls of “Hurry up Susie,” and, “Stop dawdling Johnnie,” were carried away by the gusting wind the minute they were brought into existence.

Few excuse me’s or pardons were offered, as they rushed down subway steps, almost running over business men folding up umbrellas.
Other young matrons scurried towards closing street car doors, shouting “Wait up,” and “Hold the door open,” as they half dragged a screaming little Susie and a howling little Johnny by scrawny arms.

The next to rush away were the shoppers, hoping for one more bargain from the street vendors. Vendors that were trying to fold up tables and secure their wares before the angry south wind scattered them from Front Street to Avenue Road.

Waiters and waitresses, attending the numerous sidewalk cafes, shooed away still hungry diners and shoved tips that belonged in a collective pot into pockets. Gusts of wind rattled dishes and a few were blown onto the ground, shattering into hundreds of pieces.

They young were the last to leave. Lovers clutched hands and raced for shelter. The ones who were unlucky in love looked on in envy before they too left the streets to the flotsam and jetsam that called the blocks from the waterfront to Bloor Street home.

The last of the evening throng disappeared faster than ice cream on a hot July day. This made way for the homeless and the down on their luck to find shelter from the storm. A few awnings that hadn’t been taken down cracked like whips as the wind gathered force.

Ladies of the evening, bums, pimps and coke heads huddled under these meagre shelters. A few lucky ones that had managed to beg or cajole enough money from the day crowd pushed their way into crowded bars. Each one of them hoped in their heart’s that the storm would be over before the money was gone.

Detective Ryan Telford pressed himself as close to the steel barred door of the clothing store, as he could manage. Most of his body was inside the little recessed entrance way. There just wasn’t enough room to pull in the feet attached to his long, gangly legs. Telford shrugged his shoulders and resigned himself to getting the bottom part of his legs soaked.

He turned for a minute and looked at the image reflected back at him from the glass door. Light from a nearby street light gleamed on his new shaven head. Ryan grinned at his image as a thought flitted through his mind. “Hell, my own mother wouldn’t know me now.”

The detective took a deep breath and gasped as the odour of his old cloths, of his underarms and unwashed body filled his nose. The cheap perfume that a shop keeper had doused him with only accented rather than hid the foul smell. He sighed, tried to worm his body closer to the refuge and closed his eyes. He let his mind wander backwards, backwards to a happier time.

“Say pardner.”

Telford popped his tired eyes open as a soft, warm female voice penetrated the thick haze building up in his mind. He did a rude but unintended double take as the speaker became clear. For a moment Ryan thought he was dreaming about being in the middle of a Snow White movie. He turned his head away before the little woman standing at his right would notice the smirk.

Tea in the Afternoon While it rains

Teapot fragrantly steaming,
Butter melting on oven warm bread,
Doughnuts counted, neatly placed,
Laughter echoes as you both try to be mother,
Grabbing the teapot at the same time,
Brown fragrant liquid spills,
Staining the white damask tablecloth,
Out side the thunder echoes,
Rolling and bouncing between the hills,
Rain drops dance and hammer on tin roof,
A few escape the wildness of the storm,
Drop silently beside you, eager to share the tea,
A fire burns brightly, in the fireplace,
Taking a bite from the damp, chill air
Hands touch, for a moment linger,
Hungry for the warmth, the closeness,
A delicate cheek blushes rosy red from shyness,
Bold eyes follow the red as it travels,
Down snowy neck then disappears,
Bold eyes linger for a moment on heaving breasts,
Then return; gaze deep in to summer sky blue eyes,
Forgotten now the tea, doughnuts, butter melting,
The rain still dances and hammers on a tin roof,
Thunder still echoes, rolling between the hills.

From my short story: Every Night is a Holiday for Death

Doors slam closed. Television volumes are turned to their highest settings. Windows slam shut as screams break the cloying darkness into a thousand pieces. The shattered slivers bounce
and careen down a littered alleyway. A few shards stick to the glue like dirt, dirt that has built up over the years and turned old, weather worn bricks into nondescript ugliness. Jane street residents huddle close together and shiver in the oppressive, fear filled night.

The screams end as suddenly as they began. A death rattle is followed by the splashing of two pairs of feet racing through the garbage filled puddles. This too fades away into the endless heat. A brilliant bolt of lightning rips the darkness to shreds, tipping over a large cauldron near to overflowing with heaven’s tears.

The rain that had paused for an hour, to take a breather, starts up heavier than ever. The only sounds are the occasional cracking of distant thunder and the rain sizzling into puddles and knocking on darkened windows.

Thunder rolls, booms and bounces up Young Street. The weary, bedraggled street sleepers huddling in doorways pull soggy cardboard closer around them-selves and try to get comfortable.

No one living in this ghetto of ramshackle tenements is interested in sticking their respective noses into anyone else’s business. Screams and death rattles are nothing new to the dwellers of this drug filled war zone. Death stalks the streets day and night and it’s better to ignore it or it might be you and yours spilling guts onto mounds of rotting refuse.

Sirens wail, howl their way between rain soaked canyon walls, walls of brick, walls of stone and glass. Their haunting song of sorrow echoes long after the ambulance, long after black and white cop cars have raced past them. Rain drops hissing into fetid pools does nothing to relieve the oppressive heat of a mid August, Toronto night.
****
Detective Ryan Telford slammed the door of his non-descript grey Chevy and splashed through puddles filled with the flotsam and jetsam of life. The dank alleyway smelled rancid from three weeks worth of uncollected garbage. Telford edged his way around mounds of rotting, rat filled refuse and entered the alley.

Light from two large flashlights shimmered through raindrops and guided the detective to a half naked, headless, spread eagle body of a young woman. There was something hauntingly familiar about the broken, almost nude bit of cold human clay. “But there always is,” Ryan reminded himself.

“Hell of a night boys, just what do we have here? And for God sakes cover her up, no woman decent or not should be exposed like a sideshow.” Detective Telford bent over for a closer look. It was difficult to make out the color of her drenched, expensive, looking dress.

Ryan wasn’t an expert on women’s fashion but he had spent long hours gazing into store windows with his wife Miranda and knew quality clothes when he saw them. “That was a life time ago,” he reminded himself. The young patrolman gagged in answer. Telford shouted, “Damn it man, if you’re going to regurgitate your supper, get out of the alley to do it.”

Heavy boots splash through deep puddles. Little waves washing against grime crusted bricks do nothing to soften the years of filth.

The other patrolman looked a little green around the gills but it was hard to tell in this light. “Won’t it disturb the evidence?”

“Hell man, any evidence has been washed away.” Ryan felt like shouting so he could drown out the retching sounds coming from the corner. He sighed, “I guess you’re right. The forensic boys will give us hell if any foreign fibres are added to the body. He bent over, turned his head and pulled the dress down as far as he could.

The hammering rain gave up its useless attempt to cool the sun heated bricks and faded to a trickle and then stopped altogether. Storm clouds parted and a half crescent moon peered down onto the gruesome sight.

Windows squeak open. Sounds of life, love and anger, trapped inside tiny sweat boxes escape from behind pigeon dropping crusted window panes. Somewhere in the distance a tenor sax begins a plaintive wail, piercing the darkness. A soft voiced violin joins in, adding its two cents worth to the impromptu jam session. The haunting duet’s tune sounds familiar to Ryan. Memories long buried in little cupboards and cubby holes at the bottom of his mind surface for a stretched moment.

A vision of a star filled, moon bright night flashes across his memories eyes. Warm, jasmine scented air and the odour of a female in heat wash over him. Miranda’s sexy, throaty laughter echoes in the corridors of his mind.

Sweating, eager bodies, couple in fiery passion in a life boat on the cruise ship Sea Sprite as strains of saxophone and violin escape the ball room’s half open door.

“Detective?”

The soft feminine voice drags Telford back from his honeymoon, back from better days, back to the reality of death and a stinking alleyway.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Taste the Wind Blowing out of the Canyon

Have a beer for me on Saturday night
And another for Sunday morning
If you never do anything else
I want you to pay heed to my warning
The saints will sit on the back of the bus
And tell you where you should be going
Drag yourself out of your dark bitter mind
Taste the wind blowing out of the canyon
Life can become pretty tense
And at times it will be mind blowing
All you can do is give your dreams your best shot
Don’t get caught up with pointless things
Or you will ride the train going backwards
It will take you to places you don’t want to go
Remind you of the change that is needed
When the child on the corner begs you for bread
Will you pay attention to his sad pleading
Or will you just kick him out of your way
Is more violence all we are needing
The poor cry out for their fair share
And the rich cry to keep the money they’ve earned
There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground
Please pay attention to the way the world turns
Or you’ll never know where you’re going
Not that it matters if you ever do
All destinations are the same in the morning
The sinners will walk where saints never go
And take you to pleasure filled places
But if you travel down that winding road
You’ll end up right back where you started
Have a beer for me on Saturday night
And another for Sunday morning
If you never do anything else
I want you to pay heed to my warning
The saints will sit on the back of the bus
And tell you where you should be going
Drag yourself out of your dark bitter mind
Taste the wind blowing out of the canyon

Thursday, June 4, 2009

A wild day

It is a wild day
Not a kite flying day
The savage brutal wind
Banishes the leaves
Leaving the naked trees
To huddle close and shiver
Their coloured coats
Are scattered,
Windblown and tattered
Becoming quickly covered
Underneath the flakes
Of the falling snow
I walk between leafy furrows
Where small mice can burrow
Feel icy winter fingers
Brush none too gently
Against my bearded face
Hearth and home are waiting
Its warmth I am contemplating
A hot toddy must be
The order of the day
It will wash away the coldness
Take the sting
From winters boldness
Calm my wild racing heart
I am enchanted and delighted
My thoughts are enlightened
By the wonder and the might
Of this brewing winter storm
I do not wish to leave it
Give in to my need for being warm
It is a wild day
Not a kite flying day
But I wish my kite were with me
I would love to see it sailing high
As the darkness begins to settle
I sill stay to test my metal
Against all that Mother Nature
Can ever throw my way
As I turn to hearth and home
I am glad I took time to roam
And take deep within the flavour
Of this wild winter day

Birds of War Birds of Prey

Contrails of war birds
Criss-cross angrily
Polluting the summer sky
With their whiteness
Eggs full of death
Drop from their pregnant bellies
Blood, bone, flesh and sinew
Are mashed together
Women with babes in arms
Men carrying young children
Scream in fear
Scream in pain
Scream as the fire consumes them
Dark greasy spots
Are the remains
Of dog of cat
Of man of woman
Of baby of child
And above
The birds of prey circle
Looking for movement
Their bellies still half full
Still swollen with eggs of death

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Elusive does Creativity Flow

Rembrandt screams at me
In a cornucopia
Of shapes and colours
Dead eyes watch
Follow my every move
I return their stare

Let them laugh
Deride my poor attempts
At putting pigment
On pure white canvas

I do not care
For I live, love and cry
I see their death
Reflected in each
Cracked, age worn eye

Beethoven’s pure, sweet notes
Paint pictures in my mind
And stir within me
A great creative muse

My fingers bleed
Soon worn to the bone

No matter the long hours
That I pound on yellowed ivory
The black and white keys
Follow their own selfish dream

Robbie Burn’s words
Still give me hope
That I still may achieve
Some sweet measure of greatness
Fame and fickle fortune
May at last
Knock loudly on my door

Paper, in pristine whiteness
Stares boldly back at me
Mocking, making fun
Just as Rembrandt’s people did

I laugh back in return
Because I am still alive

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Cold Heart Warm Heart

Cold heart
Dark thoughts dart
Unbridled unchecked
Down the path ways
Of the mind
Anger, rage
Follow in their footsteps
And hatred walks close behind
The soul darkens
Bright eyes grow dim
The mind in turmoil
Boils over
Harsh word then spoken
Pain and tears
In loved ones eyes
The only hope for peace
Is forgiveness of the hurting
Warm hearts
Thoughts of love
Of peace
Walk down the minds
Flowered path ways
Joy and happiness
Ever at their side
Eyes bright
The soul shines
From with in
The warm smile
Brings more smiles
Words of love and kindness
Are shared
Cold heart
Warm heart
The battle rages deep with in
But when the battle ends
It is your choice
Which heart
And thoughts shall win

When we Meet

As I look at the picture
Of your beautiful angel face
I think of our first meeting
Of your first sweet kiss
You’re first tender, warm embrace
There are so many firsts now waiting
The first time we know desire
The first time i see you naked
Our first candlelight bath
The first time we quench loves fire
I want to taste your intimate places
Suck and kiss your soft, warm breasts
Know the thoughts of your very soul
Kiss away your tears if you should cry
Another first i am waiting for
Is the first time I see, the love light
Shining in your angel eyes

Monday, June 1, 2009

From Keeper of the Sword

Chapter seven: A Moment of Courage
The voices above Josh and Morgan became no more than a murmur, as they stumbled along the narrow corridor, lit by the dim candle lantrn, held high in the hand of the man behind them. Josh stuffed his shaking hands into the pockets of his jeans and slowed down. His young mind was in overdrive with plans for escape.

He fumbled around in his pockets looking for anything to use as a weapon. The fingers of his right hand came in contact with the old lighter and he caressed it for a moment. He wondered, “Will this do,” and started to ease it out of his pocket.

It wasn’t very heavy but perhaps if he could swing it hard enough it might stun their captor. Then all it would take was a mad dash back down the corridor, up the stairs, across the deck and then over the side. It would be a long cold swim to shore but both he and Morgan had swum longer distances before.

A deep, cold voice from behind them, intruded into his plans, “Stop right here.”

Foggy Night, Rraindrops 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

No happy endings

There are no happy endings
Such things do not exist
Love, life, hope and dreams
Crash and burn in bitter death
We have but this one moment
It must be savored, treasured deep
Held fast in heart and mind
Too soon comes our eternal sleep
Our now must be filled with joy
With the bitter and the sweet
A child’s laughter, a woman’s kiss
Tender moments of ecstasy and bliss
Too quickly do such wonders fade,
Become nothing more than memories dust
There are no happy endings
Such things do not exist
Love, life, hope and dreams
Crash and burn in bitter death

From: Keeper of the Sword

Song of the Uniaedean

In the moonlight gleaming,
The Uniaedean rested, dreaming.
Sails furled, captain sleeping
No one is watch guard keeping.
Anchor set, gentle wind blowing,
The great black ship dreams of going,
To a mysterious, distant land,
Guided true by captain’s hand.
“Awake good ship,” loud voice calling
War drums beat, flaming arrows falling
She shudders at wounds taken.
In fear Uniaedean does awaken.
Looked long at moon light gleaming
And then returned to her dreaming