She kills things.

"Roses are red, the violets are dead.”
She stopped, looked at her toes as she spoke.
Moving at full speed, Her hair flowed from her head .
The door suddenly ****** open, against the vase, which She broke.

Quickly, running, fast up the steps, to find Her granddad

She knew she was is in trouble, forgetting her grandparents warning.
Where the violets had been, there was a shimmering, growing lake.
She saw the garden, in full sun, that she watered that morning.
Bored, across the yard She skipped to count, how many would it take?

Surely done, it was playtime, strawberry stained lips, and no one around.

They left Her there to tidy up, shut off the water, and pick strawberries.
They put Her to work in the flower garden full of colour, and a few bees.
Grandpa said to Grandma, “that girl has a lot of cheek."
She said,"Roses have thorns, violets are weak”

She was the garden tempest.

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-**
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe

Going out on run, in the full Sun
Helmet on my head, both hands on my... Rifle,

If you said "gun", drop and give your weapon 10 of your best pushups.
If this ain't fun, call you mom, call your dad, at mile ten they can pick you up.

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-No
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe

Sound off ...
one,...  two,...  three,...  four,..  one,two,... three,four

I'll keep running when my legs turn to jelly
I'll finish this run, crawling on my belly

How far?
All the way!

You gonna quit??
No Way! Not today!!

Sound off ...
one,...  two,...  three,...  four,..  one,two,... three,four

one mile down nine to go!
just warming up on the road.

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-**
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe

Don't let your rifle hit the ground,
When you need it most it might let you down.

Hold your rifle above your head
Yes sir, but I'd rather be dreaming in my bed

Sound off ...
one,...  two,...  three,...  four,..  one,two,... three,four

Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-**
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe

Are we there yet?
Closer than we were, you bet!

"Glory be to God for dappled things,"
from this point on,  plucked thin heart strings,
broken hearted blues, smooth as whiskey, for IT burns and the heart has no memory,

Hug the person, not the day, be the tortise shell pattern, that stops the
ocean in its' tracks.
Sit on a curb in a distant place, counting bullet casings, as no one cares about how many tear drops
have fallen,

Swirl the red wine in the bowl of glass and watch the glass bleed back into the wine,
And stretch out on the pattern of shadows as sunset catches, resets, and  releases,

and yes you and your lonely spirit, search high and low for an identity, and want to read language poetry, so you can misunderstand the meaning and have an excuse,
but be a wind instrument, the world around you plays the notes, He wrote the song, sings along, and without you, there would be no music, at all
for those who need to meet you yet.

Is this thing on...?
A blue planet walks up to a
microphone, to tell a joke
or read a spoken word poem.

But no one hears,
for IT is coughing and choking...

i am a steward,
so
stewards are, we all,
every breathing human
has this duty to, the Sphere
with at most, one atmosphere,
no replacement part, no spares
get filled with awe at the beauty
if it is the inspiration to do the duty,
save your woe, save the fear,

use your eyes to share with your soul,
the toll, that bidpedal greed heads have
charged the future wee ones, you tell them "this is
not the planet you are looking for"

but it is the Living, that this Planet is dying for.

This Earth-toned marble and this garbled poetry
is as much responsibility that this Steward can
handle responsibly, alone,

I don't want to be alone in this,
go see the sights, walk in bliss that...
the contract for cleaning the whole
Planet, is up for tender,

and we know, it will go to the lowest bidder,
and not the lowest
common denominator,
in this case one,
we have one Sun, one Moon,
it starts with One,...
my soap box broke
it is recycled stuff,
we have all heard or read this by now,
...sure this is a rant, not magical mystical poetry,
woefully thrown together, like climate change
and weather, and global warming,
what is the harm in
...that, we live in a volatile and dangerous place,
the peace we find,

always has a layer of manufactured dirt,
or made from plastic, and as for air, it needs
a 'do over', where most of you are sitting,
reading this, please care,
I am not able to do much alone.

beard-red explorers
pillaging-horror practitioners
tribal-family groups
insurgent-nomadic roots
that
trailed wave-rammers across never-ending spans,
continuously-toilfully matters not the demands
women and men side by each
beastly-feasters no table safe
stand up for yourself or be a weak-waif
in the bloodshot soul-panes, fierce
pagan-purveyors by rites
despised-womanizers
siege-setters
monk-murderers
a blood-spilling bee
treasure trove crash n’carry
Thor had his hammer
every wave-rammer had an oar for every
pair of life-stained hands, the stains
were borrowed and the very life-drained out of others
blood-smitten berserkers, heart-stoppers
and yet
discoverer’s children
wandering wet-wilderness
found a Stormy-Stop, a few
actually, and one be Newfoundland
may-haps they settled in peace.

Listen, until your eyes
glisten, until your heart
of stone cracks apart
so open, so you do more, than try to
listen.

That you have a love of music. Feelings.

Find songs from every genre,
grind out the beats and honour
the composers genius and form of math
fill the tub, light a candle, sit in a bubble bath.
(if you are a guy, bath bubbles are cool)

Watch your wine shimmer to the sonic waves
while you contemplate doing this again and again.

Towel tied, move your body to the beat that calls your name
Find as much music, acoustic from across the world, this globe
Grind away the time, watch life as your taste for notes unfolds
There is much to absorb, learn lyrics, take your time, no shame.

May you fill your home with sounds, summer, fall, winter and spring.

Turn the volume, let it vault to the sky so you hear,
the burning pain, in the artist’s vocals were clear
to share, from acoustic to symphonic beware not all might
be fair, for the sounds of ‘silence' they aggressively fight
instead of learn.

And you now, yearn to sing along while discovering
the perfect chord, the perfect key.

When our family still dined in one sitting, together,
"dollars to donuts" subject of school came up, as did weather,

and then back to the topic of school and those
homework assignments, but saying "Bob Elliot "grows

like  ****"" got mom and dad talking about clothes
and shopping south of the border woes

in Spokane, though my dad worked at Hudson Bay
and my mom toiled at Woolworth's, earned her pay,

they wanted "bang for buck" and would not allow
"good money go after bad *******" here and now

with the Canadian dollar almost at par,
and gas was cheaper for our old car,

"South of the 49th" just then,

the phone would ring and one of our friends would ask
if we could go out and play until dark, mom would take us to task

and say as we went out the door, with a slam "best be inside
"before the cows came home"" we were already three strides

from the door though (we didn't live on a farm
and only animal was our pet was a dog, Goldie,) what was the harm

as the sun was staying up later
the homework would be done once daylight was long faded,

and we would get to our beds "as snug as bug in a rug"

moon beams read all the stories to the children at night as they
went to bed, not sleepy

the Underjordiske were everywhere they could cause a fray, always
acting out and creepy

and lost people from far away have stories to tell
but eyes, echo against safe canyon walls, they are lost too,

And the Earth gives a beautiful sigh out my window, and the branches and leaves say "again, do it again, do"

I let my self drift on the Columbia River, an inner tube swollen with the air from the smelter on the steep banks of that place called home

and here the clear and cold night snaps me out of my reverie
for just a moment, I see the gloaming

the dream, I had as a child climbing mountains all,
ones that scratched the belly of the sky

from there I would see all the longboats there that ever floated
on any ocean or any bay with sails on mast high, flags to fly

and the bright lit ones would be the funeral pyres
lighting the way to the Rainbow Bridge,
"Odin, Ve, can you hear me?"

big dreams that don't fit in small houses and needles
from the street won't pick locks but pierce lives, lost souls of the sea

and my past is a lover that lets me sleep at the foot
of her bed, curled up on a cushion of Dogwood flowers,

every morning to wake up in a different alley and walk just long
enough to see that I am lost, powerless

but i fear that this is savagely wrong
and there is no music in here to sooth the beast  

standing so close to border of reality that I
hear all the illegal crossings scream, West to East

and Belugas gently drop
into the deep part of the
of the River Fraser where I wait, they leave
me her letter and take the bait
and she said "she didn't think
I would mind if she found someone
else, as the distance and time was further
than she first thought", and the tears...
filled that flow since, and through time

Empty

at my feet helmets, two, both an ancient one, a new
one, i light the letter divided in half light the paper on fire
and
my great great great grandfather says as he
turns away saying "there is no shade in the shadow of the cross"

You will get lost in the big city
you WILL, too hard, you WON'T, too much
the secret to a long life is keep breathing and a pulse pounding
you will seek riches and find pity
you will find a garden of riches yet turn it too mulch
you will marry an attentive spouse if you don't mind the hounding

the secrets of the moment are lost in the blink of both eyes,
the secret of receiving is an open palm
if you touch the swollen belly of a bull, and you find ardor
you can find beauty everywhere do not despise the disguise
a secret a flock of birds leaves behind is calm ( bird **** is a secretion not a secret)
the secret to great wealth is found offshore

you will go places reading without, leaving your seat

all day the weather men play at meteorology
it is about the science of change, a morphology,
where weather patterns are now living
things and their habits are hard at clue giving,
the rain drops that are fired from cannons aimed at Earth,
make the sound of soldiers charging for everything its worth,

Peace,

after the storm as night falls with thunder
and lightning flashes, steals and plunders
the shadows that ,soaked the trees, fell in pieces they dove from the sky
and those loudest of wet pellets that pop, and ricochet off metal stovepipe
chimneys,

and the wind lashes out and drags wet fingers on every window pane
and why, why
do I now crave the sound of popcorn hoping the melted butter will keep me sane!

Their nails, click and clack on concrete and asphalt,
around the block away we go, traffic brings the wind
at face and fur, and sprinkles dust in our eyes.

Then, we get to the quieter side streets, shadows
deep as the Sun is low, but on the rise, rabbit
shapes look like grass clumps, lumps of brown
that hop quickly away and into the long sharp blades
of grass without a scream.

Small birds, flit and flap their wings, tempting a
game of "chase me" away from the nest into the
brambles, but both dogs are on leashes, and can't
go further, than their collars will let them.

Daily, street people , begin to move if they hard bed-
ded down for the night, the hospital gets ready for the
change in shifts, coffee shops open their locks , to
pour artificial sunshine into cups, if you don't like
it black, add milk or cream.

I need a vacation right now.

The grounds echo sounds of gardeners grooming.
The blue sky canvas and a wash of clouds,
hang lightly, dressing up the place for show.

Pruned branches and piled neat cut grasses show,
uneven sweat stained shirts, on grooming
gardeners, hoped on winds below the clouds.

The vaulted layer heightens heat, no clouds
move, the breeze blows no reprieve, a no show
by day's end, the gardeners need grooming,

without clouds, a shower shows good grooming.

Feet that even in broad daylight
find obstacles besides decades
old pieces of brightly hued Lego,

So a walk across the bush on
trails that animals know from
generations of wear and tear,

In the sun and day light is all
right but, now a full and
shrouded moon makes me

dance like a

buffoon tripping in the fog,
a buffoon miming a new age
dance straining for a single
blink of approval, from the

one eye high in the sky, for the

thunder of applause would
be preceded by a flash of
lightning and I was the
tallest fool in my field,

tripping in the fog, and the full of the moon.

Nothing has changed,
not the weather, it will
be rainy for days, is the
ground crying for water
in a dry voice, I listen
and all I hear should
be silence, or earth
being rasped by
parched Earth,
but the cars and
planes are too
noisy and loud, the
weight of their wheels
on road water, sounds
like ocean waves and
the planes over head
whistle like artillery
shells, we are at war.

Treads like fingers leave
prints on wet surfaces
in snow, rain or Spring,

Footprints take striding shortcuts in Summer,
to beat the heat, across the asphalt black Earth-
top and broken white striped runner,

Sounds like layers of
whispers get trapped
in the branches of trees
until the leaves Fall,

Wings, cup to spill and milk the most out of
cluttered cacophony and coldest Winter air,
silent above it all, my constant boulevard,
my search is for wings.

It is the morning after that sticks so clearly,
Red wine patterns that make shapes on glass wearily,

art,

A different pattern every night, and by morning,
Stained glass shapes and faces, a blunt warning,

for your heart,

This is not the path of emptiness for you and a future,
A rich life is more than a taste and a glass cut suture,

for all,

Write what you will and throw your words, as swill, before swine,
Take your experiences weave them all into fabric, an honest design,

freeing,

As Truth, like a freight train, sounding a horn at every life it crosses,
Heavy on the tracks and aging trestles, creosote preserves the losses,

Oh God,

Watch the steps, let the light shine not by the slavery moon and a
bottle bent to a telescope purpose,
Guard the heart, when it is vulnerable and share after share, they
all know you care for the sober,

let nothing usurp us.

It is not the stripping
of what the day wore

It is not, that no one
thing can be done, if
one sleeps more

it is the mind
won't shut down
and startles awake

a physical earthquake which
shocks the shuttered eyes open
and a mouth gasping for air to
pay off the lungs or the heart

will beat loudly all parties close at hand as the
head explodes, once...
and again.

straight lines
rigid forms
opinions,
point and shoot,
technology

does it show,
the tree running hard
getting nowhere,
reach with naked branches,
oh give me naked
branches, grabbing handfuls
of air and tossing,
***** of air, in the face of
all the other trees,
and none leaves their rooted
ruts, shallow graves,
until a root taps,
deep and discovers...
more to dirt,
like life,
roots crawl, further,
tree, scratch and scrawl
verse, on the short history,
of the existence of
something limbed
and rooted, now
blown down,
as it grabbed
too much wind
too much life
too little
written
too few
roots
soil-less
soul-less
unfinished
story, yet
complete.

the night is quiet,
a blanket dark and heavy,
muffling all sonic sound rings,
almost a surreal peace that brings,
don't even know what a heart is
supposed to sound like, heaving
sighs, tears make no sounds as
they spill from the corner not
the center of closed eyes.

ego-centric

drop the pebble, dare ya
drop the stone, splash ya
drop the boulder, douse ya
they all find the bottom
for a sure footing
              not putting
out more than they displace,
nothing human about their ways,
they don't even know what is drowning.


concentric

a flame
hues hunger
to change, to look
more fierce as fuel
force an unleashed force
nature's Berserker, a wildfire,
the wind prophesized over
the conflagration, for-
getting itself and got
involved, until the
fire makes its' own
melded, melting
resistance in the
the way as the
sum feeds upon
itself, yet the
fire is,
sure

eccentric

all your problems in life grow up,
maybe not to overwhelm,
but to look you in the eye,
don't blink,
don't bat an eye lash,
steel yourself, because no one else can,
your inner workings
so small and so young
at one time,
the grow up and take a stand
they are your spine,
they are your heart,
they are your mind,
these are not the fleshy parts,
they are the
physical manifestations of your soul,
and it wants to roll.  About time.

hold up a mirror,
say what you said
cracks, in the furor,
when there was three
of you and one of me,
you came at me from
all sides and not one
of them was "on my" side,
world is wide
ocean is deep,
you have too much pride
you are a known creep,
you are all over the details
sink to a new low,
say hello to the great whales,
as they are sounding to
be louder than you
oh let me sink into that
deep blue, I will play
chess all the way to the
bottom, and when I land
it will be lunar, see,
it will be telling, sea,
because the bottom of
the ocean, the sea, the gulf, the lake, the puddle,
already know, my weakness, my muddle,
they are looking for yours,
I warned them you were here,
"Code Name Dysthymia, dear."

The rich sadness, that
is a silent smile shining,
white in the daylight,

half a world apart, heart to heart

when two realize, in that
they will never be pining,
for another, in the twilight,

of
their
lives.
A place called Never.

And in the end I will wander and squander my final moments selfish
I will grab from some past notion to choose motion by walking
   Thru pain and sorrow will convince me that tomorrow is enough
      Terminal diagnosis will drive me from the world spouting profane
Words down the street, into the woods, clothing optional
regrets hold on all the deeds left undone
save for knowing my roots laid bare
the maelstrom inside will rain tears
start speaking sounds of darkness,
from lips garbed white
hear the words
if I...
Aye