The glory of God’s Kingdom

I’ve seen the glory of God’s Kingdom,

walked golden streets in my dream,

listened to angels sweetly singing,

sheltered safe beside a quiet stream.

 

I saw lions and lambs frolic in green pastures,

watched mankind’s children, and cobras at their play.

When I heard our Him so gently speaking,

awed and  humbled, I fell upon my knees to pray.

 

Peace and love overflow the Holy city.

There is shelter for all beneath His mighty wings.

All who know of God’s goodness love and praise Him,

and to His everlasting glory sing.

 

I’ve seen the glory of God’s Kingdom.

Oh how I wish that I could stay.

Perhaps if I love and obey Him,

He will ask me to come back some day.

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Filed under A poem for the people, Literary, Literature

Keeper of the Sword

Please be advised that my new book, “Keeper of the Sword,” is now avaliable. Just click on the cover picture to purchase your copy today. After reading it please leave your comments here. Thank you

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The Simple Truth

Today’s youth cry out

what is truth,

and truth replies

just as loud to youth.

 

you must seek me

if you wish to know my name,

and when you find me,

you must play my game.

 

I’m as elusive

as a dandelion seed

upon the wind.

and I’ll slip like quicksilver

from you’re hand.

 

but if you find me

and hold on,

I’ll prove to be,

your best friend.

 

I’m fragile,

so easily broken,

but I’m  a sacred bond

in any land.

 

If you use me  in earnest,

treat me with respect,

you can settle any dispute,

with a simple shake of your hand.

 

I’ll slip like quicksilver

from your hand.

I’m as elusive

as a dandelion seed

upon the wind,

but when you find me

and hold on,

I’ll prove to be,

your very best friend.

 

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Filed under A poem for the people, Literary, Literature

I am Brother of the Wolf

I am brother of the wolf,

cousin of black bear,

father of otter,

son of wolverine.

 

I abide with beaver in his lodges,

make wet lands grow

from rippling streams.

 

I am everybody.

I am nobody.

 

I hunt with grey owl.

Feathered wings,

slice silent through midnight air,

beneath shimmering silver moon,

leaving fearsome shadows in our wake.

 

I am great snow goose,

honking my flock northward northward,

ever northward,

through star sprinkled night

to nesting grounds beside great salt bay.

 

I am red robin’s trill,

that stirs you from your slumber.

 

I am everyone.

I am no one.

 

I am jeweled lakes,

scintillating in summer sunrise,

mirroring morning sky softt

upon my purple deep.

 

I am flooding river,

raging, roaring,

gouging gorges

from bones of earth.

 

I am first forest,

towering forever green,

sheltering myriad life.

 

I am everywhere.

I am nowhere.

 

I am south wind.

whispering trees awake,

when last snowflake fades,

calling trillium,

calling violet,

calling lady slipper,

to cover hidden,

distant dells, with

radiant glory.

 

I am north wind.

rocking trees to their sleep,

when Manitou opens His treasure house,

fills iron grey sky,

feather white,

lanketing the earth with his rest.

 

I am everything. I am nothing.

 

I am brother of the wolf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Keeper of the Sword

The following is an excerpt from my novel, “Keeper of the Sword,” which is in rewrite mode at the present. I hope to have it uploaded to smashwords with in a couple of weeks. I wil keep you posted.

“Josh, Josh dear, it’s time for supper.”

Josh struggled awake, sat up, looked around for his book, and found it lying half-open on the floor. He picked it up and placed it on the bed, “I’m not very hungry mom.”

“You need to eat something,” green eyes misted over. “I made a chocolate pudding for desert. Do you want me to fix you a tray and bring it to your room?”

“No thanks,” he flashed a grin. “As soon as I wash, I’ll come down and have supper with you. Having company while I eat will be nice.”

She smiled the worried smile that only a mother can, hugged him, kissed his forehead, “See you downstairs.”

After helping to wash and dry the supper dishes, Josh watched TV with his mom until nine, returned to his room and booted up his computer. Gramps still wasn’t online. No email from him either.

He took a shower, went to bed, fell asleep as soon as his head settled on a pillowcase, smelling faintly of lilacs, and drifted into a strange dream. A boy about ten years old lay under a tall tree, crying.   High above him, four big birds, black wings folded, cyan heads flashing iridescent blues, purples and greens in the moonlight pouring through rents in the heavy clouds, kept sharp eyes on the child.

The largest of the birds spoke in a hushed husky voice, “Poor young princeling, first his mother was poisoned, and now his father the King has been brutally murdered.”

Another one grumbled, “We can’t take proper care of him. He needs to be with his own kind.”

“Besides,” growled a third, it was as close to a growl as a bird can come, “We have our own younglings to tend to.”

The fourth one asked, “What are we then to do?” If no one tends to him he’ll die, and we can’t let that happen because he’s King now.”

The large bird answered, “He’s far too young for us to take him back to the castle because his enemies will kill him.”

“I know, I know, I know what to do,” shouted the fourth one.   The other three spoke at once, “Well, tell us.”   “We can take him deep into the forest where the old man and old woman live. They don’t have younglings of their own. They’ll tend to him and give him their love.”

“That’s a good plan,” the others said, “We’ll guide him on his journey when the sun wakes, but we can’t tell them who he is.”

Josh’s dream changed, and now he looked down into an old hut. Four men, two with short grey beards, looking old enough to be his great-grandfather, a third, dressed in mottled grey and green, and a forth, sporting a shamrock-green hat, adorned with a long blue feather, sat around a table looking like the slightest sneeze  would make it collapse.

The man with the hat asked, “How am I to find my way?”

One of the old ones reached under the table and lifted up a leather bag. He took out a black stone with a bright blue light lancing out of one side. “This is the seeing stone of Kings. Sometimes it is called the finding stone, and it will guide you to where the two who are spoken of in the prophecy wait.”

Away in the distance, carried by the breath of the wind came the skirling of a single bagpipe, wailing a mournful dirge, reminding Josh of his great-grandfather, Donald McDonald. For a moment, he saw the old man standing on hillside, silhouetted against the ruins of a castle, a kilt, bearing the tartan of the clan McDonald flapping around skinny legs, his dark eyes, eyes that always flashed when the Stuart’s were mentioned, fixed on the setting sun.

Over the tune, so familiar yet so strange came a voice, sweet, poignant, brushed with an Irish lilt, whispering at first, growing louder, filling him with an aching, a longing to go on board the great black ship she sang about. He held his breath in the depths of his dream, trying to burn each word, each haunting trill of the voice into his memory.

“In the moonlight gleaming/the Uniaedean rests, 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 her captain’s hand. Awake, awake, loud voice calling. War drums beat/flaming arrows falling. In fear Uniaedean awakens, shudders from deep wounds taken/looks long at moonlight gleaming/then returns to her dreaming.”

The men faded, the hut, and the words the men spoke faded , all the words of the song, except Uniaeden faded, but the aching caused by the voice lingered on, filling his dream with sadness, and he wept for the loss of the sweetness of the moment.

He stirred in his sleep, tossed, turned, and before he woke, a ship sailed into view. How proud and bold she looked, with her black prow cleaving through tall white topped waves like a scimitar slicing through soft lard. Her black sails filled with wind, struggling to free themselves from the ropes binding them, and a fiery-eyed black stallion figurehead, pawing the air with silver shod hooves, glinting in the moonlight, seeming to urge the ship forward, ever forward.

Closer, closer came the horse and ship, closer until he made out the name Uniaedean on the ship’s side. The raised silver and turquoise letters glowing in the moonlight seemed to be surrounded by an unearthly blue and silver flame.   For a moment, he stood on the prow, looking over rippling muscled flanks, over the broad back, out between the black stallion’s pointed ears, and heard a man call, in a gruff voice, “Trim the sails, hard to starboard,” over the cracking of sails, the rushing of the wind.

Salt spray splashing onto his face, soaking his clothes, stinging his eyes, cooled his fevered brow. His heart thudded like he’d just finished a ten-mile run, his throat tightened, he held his breath. Ahead of him, mist gathering up from the sea, spread out over the distant shore, swirling through strange looking trees, sweeping up towards far off snow covered mountains, not hiding the land, but adding a mystical fairy like quality to it.

He blinked sea water from his eyes, and stood on the shore, filled with longing, filled with a need to be onboard her, and as the last bit of dark sail slipped over the horizon, the voice, the sweet voice whispered to him once more.

He woke, sweat soaked, shivering, sat up, wiped tears from his eyes and tried to remember the voice, the words to the song, but the only thing remaining of his dream was the great black ship, and the fear and excitement of seeing her flying before the wind.

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Thank you

Thank you to my new followers, and to the ones who liked my last post. I do appreciate your kindness.

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I will always remember

Saturday, the twenty-sixth of May, I had the privilege of attending the fifty-fifth anniversary celebration of the Lockerby Legion. As I sat there enjoying good fellowship among new friends, and old, an excellent meal, a few cold beers, and great entertainment, I took a little time to reflect on the ones who made, not only the amazing evening possible, but my freedom, and the freedom of every Canadian as well.

I owe our brave and gallant soldiers everything I have, for without their great sacrifice, I would not have the freedom to enjoy anything. I can do nothing for those whom have gone beyond the mysterious dark veil, but remember them, but I can speak out for the maimed, the wounded, the blind, and the lame.

I can try to shame our politicians, who sent them off to war, and then discarded them like trash, when they come back, missing arms, legs, and suffering from PTSD. I can hope and pray that they will give our soldiers everything they need, everything they deserve in order to put their shattered lives back as best they can. All of the shame, all of the blame doesn’t rest on the back of the government; we too carry our share, because we don’t speak out on their behalf.

I urge, no I beg everyone who reads this to write, or email your MP, and tell them unless they do something to help our wounded, our broken vets, and do it soon, that they better not come knocking on your door, asking for your vote when the next election rolls around, because you won’t give it to them.

To new Canadians, I bid you welcome to your new home, your new life, your new freedom, from whatever oppressive regime you came from. I ask you to pray,  at the rising and the going down of the sun for our soldiers who’ve been wounded, and who’ve died to provide you and your family with a fresh start. Without their gallant bravery, without their selfless sacrifice, you would still be suffering at the hands of some despot.

I urge you to embrace all that Canada has to offer, and not try to change our customs, or our faith. It is because of our inherent decency, because of our Christianity that we welcome you. I understand that you come from lands with different customs than we have, but before you start demanding that your wife and children have to follow the old rules, stop; reflect and ask yourself why you came to Canada in the first place. If your answer is, you came to have a better life for them, then let them embrace that better life. Let them enjoy every freedom that we have to offer.

If however you wish to cling to the old oppressive ways of your former country, perhaps you should consider returning to it, because it will be far easier to control your children and wife or wives there, than it is here. It will be easier to tell them how to dress, how to act, who to have for friends, and who your children are to marry as well.

If you stay here, you can expect that your girls will to want to be popular, want to wear makeup, want to dress the way Canadian girls do, and want to have boyfriends, because it is in their nature to do so.

Once again I bid you welcome, because you are, but only if you truly want to be a Canadian.

One last thought before I end this open letter. I make a promise now to the fallen, the forgotten, that as long as I draw breath, I will remember you. I will remember your great sacrifice, and be thankful. I also promise not to forget the soldiers coming home from another far off war, and do whatever is in my power to help them, even if it is no more than my poor attempt at writing poetry in their honour.

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