Seven Moons of Shaldimoor

She stands overlooking the valley
Where the river winds along the floor
Below the great Fountain of Rainbows
That have been the pride of Shaldimoor

Far up the Pinnacle of Heaven
Rise the high Towers of Tomorrow
Looking down upon the lush valley
At the great river known as Sorrow

A breeze is blowing lightly southward
As the fountain flows toward the valley floor
She stands there, her eyes filled with wonder
Beneath the seven moons of Shaldimoor

.
.
FAREWELL TO JUNE, FAREWELL IN MARCH

The Colonel’s gone:
There’s an old lady all alone
And so forlorn;
Suddenly, with him not there
She’s past her prime:
Out of tune and out of breath
And out of time…

And her days drag on and on…
And her nights are, oh, so long...
She remembers days in 'Doon:
Stairwells and starch,
Farewells in March,
Farewell to June!

As I begin my usual walk, a teenage boy is standing there
I try not to catch his glance and I know I must not stare.
He has an evil look in his eyes, or maybe it’s just fear
or is his young head the victim of, too much under age beer.
I quickly walk past him, feeling too old to risk a fight
I don’t suppose he will bother me, but maybe he just might.

I'd like to capture a rainbow and
stick it in a big box so that, anytime
you wanted to you could reach in and
pull out a piece of sunshine.

I'd like to build you a mountain that
you could call your very own. A place
to find serenity in those times when you
feel the need to be closer to yourself.

I would like to be the one who is there with
you when you're lonely or troubled or
you just need someone to hold on too.
I would like to do all this and more to make
your life happy.

I don't want to feel anymore
I can't take the pain 
I don't want to care

I don't want to feel anymore
It sears and it burns
Creating hell.

I don't want to feel anymore
I can't cope, anymore
I can't take the strain

I want to Switch off
I can't mask my inner turmoil anymore
Switch off the insanity

 I dont want to feel anymore

I hear Him, when He whispers
and, the air around me suddenly turns warm,

not like an epiphany
more like the air has thoughts, and it takes a different "form",

I'm allowed to know all, the reasons, "why?".

My soul awakens,
allowing the pureness of His energy to take hold,

as if I had a choice to resist,
then, I'd miss the message my spirit's told;

and I feel love, enough, to cry.

I hear His whispers,
they have a way to "clutch" my throat, if when I talk

The land of pyramids
and ancient civilization
a contrasting country
....of floods and desert
....stability and strife
....tolerance and dogma

The place of Pharoahs
and strong leaders

Blows now the winds of change

Where a wise Sadat made peace
and was murdered for it
where Mubarak brought stability
thus allowing democracy's growth
amid neighboring dictators
....kings
....theocracies
....and anarchy

through silent corridors and open doors
I hear dripping taps constant as a
ticking clock, repetitive splotch on the
quite side of a nocturnal dawn.

'tis way past midnight shall
soon sleep on dreamed up illusions,
it's a happy day that light wakes me
from such confusions.

I liaise my static pose
poignant thoughts cling
beneath this veil, untold
tales that fail to fade.

the night she knows
my ailing and woes
requite my retraction
as I nestle in repose.

A hearse stands patiently,
no hurry, no worry...
Low dark clouds reflect a mood
of imprisonment in solitude.
The soft rain washes away muted tears,
attempting to soften hidden fears.
Circling over a freshly dug hole,
an eagle, with wings stretched wide, awaits the soul.
A lonely group of mourners
stand close, in repose,
oblivious to the wet dreary day
and quivering in the grey.
No hurry, just worry...
Damp lawns extent to the edge of the trees,
where willows are weeping ill at ease.

this is an angry little word, in your ear…

I sit here quiet and still, but deep anger burns.
Watching the life of my fellow man,
lorded over by a festering lot,
so undeserving their saintly heir.

You turn away! when I’ve just started, and have no intentions of stopping.
That book I hear about, that’s so bloody great,
put it up for our attention.
I throw down the gauntlet bring out the book,
I say it is no more than a story, of what the poor can dream.
Certainly not a honest read.