Night Is A Game That Death Likes To Play


“Night is a game that death likes to play,

And dreams are the mind withdrawing from day,”

Breathless, a whisper, these words that she said,

Before I departed for war, and the dead.


We kissed and she blushed, an innocent still,

As we lay on the top of the welcoming hill,

Where birds sang in trees of nature’s delight,

While we talked of love, of wrong and of right,


We lay on the grass to melt with the sky,

The rosey-sun setting, the moon asking why,

We were one destiny, one body, one mind,

Yet with sunrise I left, to follow the blind.



Sounds of Night

Sounds of night betray the day,

Shadows warm a dying sun,

As flowers curl round saddened light,

Whose tears sad stars become,

In soft cafes, a hand, a match,

A flame, a wistful smile,

For dreams of things that dreams remained,

For dreams long realised,

While on darkened streets,

The curtains close,

Against the hopes and lies,

And from within each lonely room,

Comes the groan of maddened doom.

Can You Hear The Silence?


Can you hear the silence in a dark and empty room,

Or see the stars sharing smiles behind a shining moon,

When wonder lays cold, lays slain, within a cynic’s tomb.

And innocence, corrupted, foul, sings a drunken tune?


Do you see the emptiness on crowded city streets,

Or hear the beggar’s rattling cup while politicians speak,

While hope is touted like a drug by elected lying cheats,

And everywhere the bully boys kick around the weak.


Can you feel your freedom when the slogan’s “cops are tops,”

Or speak your mind in a land of lies ruled by a bragging fool,

As your heavy chain of wants and needs grows and never stops,

‘Til in your grave alone you lay, your shroud, the Golden Rule.




Speak Now, My Friends


Speak now, my friends, yes speak, but speak true,

Of the darkness descended and what we must do,

When days reek of madness, and nights smell of shame,

And the air smells of gore of the infinite slain.


Let’s dream, once again, of democracy’s glade,

The peace and the calm, for which many have paid,

Where the poor are the richest, and the rich are long gone,

And in the bright sunlight the darkness is done.


And when we remember all that’s been said,

Of justice for all and where it has led;

While the cruel and the selfish veil their true face,

We’ll sing of the heroes who’ve argued our case.


So proudly we’ll speak of the brave ones who die,

There’ll be vows to revenge them, tell truth to the lie,

But yet, as we speak, will come shouts, “who leads me?

So we’ll raise a bright mirror for the doubters to see.


But why fades your voice, your eyes look away?

While you suffer alone long night and dark day,

So stay, and reflect, as we join our rough hands,

What our union could do in our, unchained, lands.


The Rain Pours Blood And Ashes

The rain pours blood and ashes

Steady, down upon the snow,

Lying gently in the fields,

A soft sigh upon the world,

And bleeds away its beauty,

In myriad flowing tears,

Rose petals on a river,

Foul with waste of war.


Church bells ring and choirs sing,

For countless angry dead,

Who have no friends, no love for them,

No one waiting by the door,

Forgotten when they hit the ground,

All torn by lead and lies,

Yet still the bells are ringing,

Calling others to their end.


Some, we’ve heard, dare question,

The who’s, the how’s, the why’s,

Some others turn to listen,

The rest chained are to glowing screens,

Who see not the men arrive,

Nor hear the knocks at,

To take away the daring,

As they pretend to sleep.


The rain still falls upon us,

The sun and moon have lost their light,

Enlightenment stands with Reason,

Hard pressed against a wall,

Reaction strangles Progress,

Justice dangles from a tree,

While vultures perch on branches,

Where other corpses hang,












Speed Home The Passing Stranger



Speed home the passing stranger,

Who comes gently to your door,

Whether fleeing hunger,

Or cruel, incessant war,

For bound are we by one true law,

That above the rest does reign,

Humanity is one shared self and so must share the pain.


Speed home the passing stranger,

Whose heart sings of journeys past,

Through loss and toil and danger,

And each day feared the last,

For the future is a die yet cast,

And none can know their fate,

But it’s easy to extend a hand before it’s all too late.


Speed home the passing stranger,

Who travels through your land,

Seeking refuge from the anger,

To be touched by gentle hand,

For none of us alone can stand,

Against the bitter blows of time,

Sharing be the only wealth, all else is a crime.


Speed home the passing stranger,

Who one day may be me,

A solitary wanderer,

Long blind, but now can see,

That we can have or we can be,

But in the having we must die,

For having is a taking and all the rest’s a lie.


Speed home the passing stranger,

Who’s weary this tired day,

No matter if a sinner,

Or perhaps has found the way,

For it’s what we do instead of say,

That makes us who we are,

We who live together, beneath this saddened star.
















Interalienation of their hearts,

It seemed and was not,

Though both played resentful parts,

In proud unwillingness to share,

One place, one pillow, one paltry fare,

It was perfectionism, they confess,

To know the truth and ask for nothing less.

Their fierce-eyed guardians watched from overhead;

‘These two, alone, have learned to love,’ they said,

‘But neither can forget they are not worthy of each other yet.’