Look My Way



Look my way and touch my eyes,

Which see your sadness and your love,

Look my way and see my tears,

Which feel your sorrow and your loss,

Look my way and hear my voice,

That speaks in earnest truth,

Of many things too long unsaid,

Of love astray in a cold, cold wood,

Of chances missed, of learning lost,

Of sagas left untold,

Look my way and see the flesh,

That slept too long,

On a bleeding bed of thorns,

Which bleeds yet still on roses red,

Whose petals fall to ground,

To grow anew,

A higher love,

A love of all mankind,

The antidote to hate,

A love now shared by few.

The 9th of May




Laughter lingered in the cold night air,

Like snowflakes caught in crystal glass,

Hurrahs rang out as tears were wept,

For the lost, returned, for memories kept,

Of the days we feared would never pass,

Unless we burned the monster’s lair.


Bright flames flashed from torches high,

Like sunbeams of our victory dance,

Trumpets sang, and tunes were played,

For freedom’s joy, the reckoning made,

With courageous hearts and bloodied lance,

What choice had we, to live, or die.


Banners waved like a crimson sea,

Whipped by winds of a mighty gale,

Toasts were made and glasses filled,

For the struggle won, for all those killed,

By bombs, by flames, machine gun hail,

Who died for freedom, the right to be.


Boots on stones shook Moscow walls,

Like drums of gods in victory songs,

Engines roared as planes swept past,

For one last time, this flight their last,

Their courage to us all belongs,

And sung will be in hallowed halls.


But then an old man, grey and bent,

Like a lion, old, on distant plain,

Rose slowly straight with upraised hand,

From which there poured a silent sand,

Who said, “This war is won, this fascist slain,

But cursed are we to new torment.”


Then to dreadful shapes he did transform,

As silence sapped our will to speak,

First a banker, then a fiend,

Then of merchants who on death are weened,

Their vile breath of death did reek,

Who rob the world, a locust swarm.


Through shifting shapes he led our eyes,

From ancient wrongs to future woes,

Then changed again, with grizzled hair,

To show us scenes of life right fair,

Where no one slaves and no one owes,

To remember Revolution’s prize.


“This,” said he, “is now all  yours,

But the fight goes on, you must stay strong,

Though by you slain, they shall return,

If you forget or never learn,

That endless greed breeds endless wrongs,

And those who worship bloody wars.”


Then he turned to walk away,

And left us to our darkening night,

Our joy now tinged with future fears,

As we danced to dry our burning tears,

For all those lost, who gave their lives

For what we won the 9th of May.










The Winds Howl Before The Storm




There was once a tree called Justice here

All gnarled but strong with age,

Till a tyrant one night dark, in bitter fear,

With sharpened axe of rage,

Did pile the limbs for all to see,

As he quickly cut it low,

To burn the books of Liberty,

On flames red with murders’ glow,


There was once an idea very bold,

Democracy I heard,

Though no one knows, with tales so old,

For they lie with every word,

Dark drops of opium in every phrase they say,

“Have hope, my friends, we truly feel your pain,”

While through the night and through the day,

We wait, in cold and bitter rain,


There was once a bell of Brotherhood

That rang loud so all could hear,

From town to town to edge of wood,

But lies silent now with fear.

Cracked, it rests among the tombs,

Atomic ash and dust,

While smiling men in secret rooms,

Plan wars for which they lust.


And once there was Enlightenment

And Reason’s voice sang sweet,

Of Rights of Man and truths we now lament,

Murdered with impunity, cut down on every street,

So now we must renew our song,

Our struggle take another form,

For the days run dark, the nights are long,

The winds howl before the storm.


An Ancient Dream




Up high I climbed, weary, yet not dismayed;
Tired, yet had strength within me that was steel
Against the harsh wind; sad, yet so that tears
Seemed sweet drops of joy too intense to feel.

Then at the golden Gate I knocked, with the power of my fears,
Knowing how full of woe, yet full of wonder was I.
Through all that night they helped me sleep, to dream
An ancient dream, perhaps the one before we die

Of things unknown that appeared like ghosts through swirling Time,
No harmony, nor music soft spun from magic sight,
Save a single haunting, plaintive, note that to me seemed
A scent of jasmine, carried on a desert wind, at night.

And refreshed I was, with the light of the rising sun,
And by this peaceful place, this haven from hatred’s constant voice,
Wishing the same for all who watch, alone, the crying stars,
Who live in war, unable to rejoice.

I Remember Bluebells

I remember bluebells,

Soft, strewn among the trees,

And I remember songbirds,

And running by the sea,

And I remember one long night,

You took your leave of me.


You took your leave, without a word,

‘Midst shadows of the night,

Hands outstretched to take you back,

You slipped beyond my sight,

And the only softening sound I heard

Above my falling tear,

Was the distant sound of nature’s love,

In a cricket’s song of cheer.


I remember bluebells,

Like stars among the dew,

And I remember mists of rain,

And all my words spoke true,

But aye, you wanted someone else,

And all my words were vain,

As you took from me the rose you gave,

Another’s heart to gain.


War Questions


What will a kiss profit me, or thee,

When her lips are cold as the icing sea,

What will a smile for her life now,

When her eyes are blind to the golden bough,

What will a touch, an embrace arouse,

When her heart lies still in a bloodied blouse,

What will a cry, “Oh, lord, save us,” bring,

When gods are false as the praises they sing,

What will tears wash away in the night,

When the fountain is deep and far from the light,

What will the words of holy books heal,

When the soul of man is bayonet steel,

But though I ask and ask and ask, I can no answer hear,

To make me wise, nor bring me cheer,

So dig the grave sure, I shall my dear,

And impart my only ring,

As turtle doves swirl past and sing,

And village bells in mourning ring.

Winds of Woven Dreams




The wilding winds of woven dreams,

Torment the seas of time,

And in the air that no man sees,

There is the scent of crime,


Of sorrow, truths and hidden lies,

The face we all disguise,

The ready masks and old clichés,

That hide among the wise,


Of passions chained and sleeping rage,

They cannot exist,

But watch them burn and brightly flame

Among the freedom kissed,


The night is long, and rarely lit,

By reason or its kin,

And in the cavern dark and dim,

Madness makes its din.