Glamorous Gordon

Gordon was, let's say,
a glamorous kind of guy.
He worked nine to five,
and made sure his shoes matched his tie.

Once he was questioned
by a drunk on the train,
If deep down he felt
that his life was mundane.

The beer scented breath,
so foul to his soul
seeped deep down within,
and exposed a deep hole.

For he'd buried away anguish,
fear and pain
that he'd carelessly figured,
would not surface again.

But surface they did,
these feelings he'd hid
And buried them deeper,
he'd wished that he did.

"I know your type!"
slurred the stumbling old fellow,
"Your life is pretentious,
reckless and shallow."

Those words wounded deeply,
they hacked at his pride.
And then Glamorous Gordon
broke down and cried.

"Why have you done this?
I've had a bad day."
Was all that young Gordon
was able to say.

"No time like the present,"
burped out the old drunk.
With these words Gordon realized,
twas' himself that stunk.

Sight

I remember when I was old,
when leaves turned from red to green,
when thunder clapped before lightning flashed.
I remember tomorrow, but have forgotten today.

When the hungry ate and the full went without.
And, in the brightness of night
I see -
that I am blind.

Is our time over dear friend?
For our ships have traveled far.
Into new currents and worlds
our ears filled with the sounds of strangers.
Am I a ghost to you now?
Do I haunt your thoughts?
Or, is all forgotten?
Good bye, or just bye?
Is it ever really over?

Lions

I barely remember your name,
let alone your face.
Though, the taste of the moments we shared lingers on.

Somewhere, now, you are.
Alone, like me, but surrounded by faces and names.

With destinies blown like dust,
by the winds of time
to new places and horizons of life.

May we land strong.
Like lions.
And dance through the pages of the story that unfolds.

I remember now, the sound of your voice.
It teaches me, as I borrow the words to say,
how to be and move and see.
Would I know you now? Would you me?
Maybe I am no longer who you thought I would be.

Somewhere, now, I am.
Alone, like you, but surrounded by faces and names.

May we stand proud,
Like lions.
Until battle-scarred, weary and fading,
We stand face-to-face once again.

Shalom

Up, up, up

to the top of a hill,

Nature surrounds me,

silent and still.

I shout out a sound

deep from within,

And wait for the echo

to shortly begin.

And then my mind wanders

as it quite often will,

To follow the journey

of my song on the hill.

As my cry wakes up magpies

and crows in their trees,

I wonder, ‘What if my call carried

far out over seas’?

Would it be heard

in a far distant land,

By someone quite like me

on a hill made of sand?

Or by one who lies waiting

for this very word to come,

Someone who needed

this song to be sung.

My word to the stranger

who to me is unknown,

Is a word of great beauty

a word called Shalom.

Night Shadows

I search through the shadows of the night,
looking for the words that right my mind, to write.
Dreams that cloud and confuse thoughts,
to reach in and pull out all the broken pieces.
Put them all back together - to perfect them.

I reach into the shadows of the night
to find the pieces, to set them right.


A crow doesn't swoop, it hops and jumps downwards
and pulls everything apart again.
An ugly sight; darkness that swallows.

I put the pieces in a bag and carry it on a shoulder.
Step into the light and onto the path aright.
Pressing on through the shadows,
fighting through the shadows of the night.

“Write every day, line by line, page by page, hour by hour. Do this despite fear. For above all else, beyond imagination and skill, what the world asks of you is courage, courage to risk rejection, ridicule and failure. As you follow the quest for stories told with meaning and beauty, study thoughtfully but write boldly. Then, like the hero of the fable, your dance will dazzle the world.”