And she is intoxicating, she always is, was and will be,
No,
Not that way,
I
Vested myself,
Everso long ago,
Radically,
She vested herself too,
About the same time, if my memory serves me, for
Real, Romance, Repair, Rhymery, Rings, Relationship, Reason, ,
YES!

Wrestling with knots, not knowing how,
the fatalist sees it as a victory for
the anaconda, that constricts me now,
the pessimist sees it as a loss so why fight,
the boa constrictor as it closes the hold,
shallow breathing increased panic as I stare
into the face of the optimist, who smiles at me.
and says "well there is always heaven",
I know he means well
but he can go to sweltering places far below,
and I ask myself how do I do this to myself?,
why do I stall and hold my breath,
when thinking things through and no answer
not one answer volunteers, show of hands?
                              no tears fall, those wells are all run dry,
                              not that tears or laughter or the yawning void of my,...
                              my lips are turning blue, not my favorite colour,
                               but it does match my eyes...

thoughts,
water,
paper that tumbles from the sky,
movies,
music,
two dimensional conversation in three dimensions of Skype,
air,
sunlight,
refreshing through the miniblind and my open window,
ideas,
words,
that take me to places to meet people who are total strangers,
                                                      ­                                                             but that does not make them
                                                            ­                                                         stranger than me.
                                                             ­                                                       When I stream.
Tears,
down
cheeks
defrosting
frozen
visage,
salty,
talk,
cheap,
with
expensive,
words,
that
are like
cologne,
fading
fad,
all
used
up
bottle,
now
emptied,
and only
a hint
remains
streaming,
sniff the air...?


©DWE122013

eyes downcast and heart heavy,
thoughts move slowly and march
far away, east of here,                                                       Newtown, CT
the echoes ring throughout,
how far could the bells be heard?

A, mall of, all things called, America
some of my favorites things in the USA,
are found in Minnesota,
some of my favorite people too,
they have a Lutheran background like me
or not,
they are Norwegian in heritage,
or not
woe be gone,
a lake of the lack of despair,
Minnesota has lakes
hundreds thousands,
some very cool things go on there
that squelch despair,
crank the volume of human warmth,
they have Clouds too,
and choirs of kids that sing in a Mall, of America
to celebrate the life of one their own,
who fought a battle but not alone,
although he knew
yes he knew, few would pay a higher cost
once the battle was over and not at a loss
but a gain,
a gain in full measure,
that he may not be, for sure there to enjoy.
Up...Up...Up

can you count them on one hand, the good ones,
or do you have to take off your socks and shoes,
using your finger and your toes,
to count them all, but only, the good ones...?

they are like a soil where your roots can go deep
and be exposed, and still be nourished,
in the harshest of times, still flourish,
and like something vulnerable, be nurtured.

time is not a friend, and if you are like me, and I hope you are not,
I have more time than friends, soil has been replaced by rocks,
the filtration is great, for the amount of saline water that flows,
                          on every lateral root socket that grows,
                      would have drowned the roots years ago,
                          and the soil would have washed away.


today
roots still exposed,
memories of those
who were once close
greying like my hair,
fading while
the roots hang on
but  there is no one there.


©DWE122013

walked on the milky way this morning,
all the stars sparkled under my feet,
the dog walked on dogstars and I the rest,
there are more of them than you think.

great grey blue bird flew out from under the giant,
it had nested there until the shadow loomed over head
had he not moved to defend the three of us, we'd be dead,
giant did not fall but stopped moving at all, it had run out of leash
and sixty feet tall and the heron flew peacefully away

bottle of *****, spiced *** half full, left at the DQ drive thru, overnight
more proof that 40 proof alcohol does not freeze to ice,
no one around to claim ownership so I took it to the bushes and
gave it a tip slowly to watch the dark, bronze liquid, water the roots of
the now drunken shrubs.



©DWE122013

Are you real, or are you fake,
you have a name for a names sake,
you wear it like on a car,
with all the vanity you have and are,

what do you do here?

Are you reading looking for code,
you decipher the earnest viper,
behind all this ill intent, some just vent,
others write of love, but those are not
the ones you watch with your
vinyl gloves typing away at the job.

what do you see here?

You mock some, you enjoy others,
I am sorry you grew up lonely,
no sisters or no brothers, an only
child with a penchant for mystery,
when you went overseas you got dysentry,
even that word loosens your bowels.

what touches you here?

warm words, with tears streaming,
emotions that rise and fall with the sun,
retire early and run words with us,
you will have fun, pour those bottled-up
emotions and expand your self worth,
c'mon give it a try, experience re-birth!

what finds you here, today, lonely one?



©DWE122013

Coffee Shop after Club 16 Fitness**

listening people assaying the content
of the messages, against the background of noises
                                like layers,voices upon voices,

but there is one voice, holding court with herself,
staring through the floor at my feet, finding oneself,
                                                        ­                            I would hope,
among the chorus in the coffee shop,
among the chorus in her conversation,
under her white and blue striped scarf,
her wrinkles cause twinkles at the corners of her very sad eyes,
if she had stopped talking even for a second, I would have been surprised.
The erosion of her has begun her cheeks have permanent fissures where
the tears and rivulets have run for ages.

Her small frame and skirt fill the chair,
as it seems there are others there,
she is so lonely and alone, her skin
tone fits the surroundings well,
how long she will talk, time will tell.

I wasn't rude and did not eavesdrop or interrupt,
                    I am sure that would have meant an abrupt
halt to her flow, of prayer for ones like me, a by product,
of my own invention, as she resembled Mother Theresa,
with her conviction of non-stop prayer, from her chair.




©DWE122013

They are bare,
they bear branches too,
the branches are bare,
that makes them naked,
not quite naked though,
there is a skiff of white in
plain sight on the trunk,
and if each branch was an
arm there is a layer of snow
to stay the harm of a cold wind,
there is also a lining of snow,
in every crotch, don't you know?
where one or more
branches grow from the trunk, the crotch
so maybe they are not so naked
just more beauty, in the mystery
that was seen by these eyes.


©DWE122013

I have had it all wrong,
I wonder if my grandfather
thought that, when on a steamer
                    he arrived a dreamer
of moving west from Montreal
single trying to find a life, better,
opened and tasted peanut butter,
                                                and never did ever eat that again,
I have had it wrong, all of it
He kept dreaming and trying,
took the train to the northern Alberta,
saw his dreams take shape as he built
                 homes for other dreamers,
he met his wife, but that is a poem for another story,
he was a pacifist, he did not support, killing another,
but he sure had a temper,
           for a peaceful man, he decided to retire, and that
let him get old, I admired him for what he stood for and sit at
a desk he built with my dad.

I still have had it all wrong.

The desk is nothing special
other than the hands and
knowledge that built it
and something a father and a son
did together, one of the last things
of each other, that
would be remembered, they worked well with their hands.

Both men were dreamers.
My dad had his dreams, he mostly kept to himself,
but you just knew that they were to do with
things outside of the house.

Oh don't misunderstand, he loved working with wood,
he knew firearms, he recieved a Medal for Military Merit,
for dedication above and beyond what a militiaman was
to do, he wasn't a pacifist, in many ways he was different
from his dad and so many more he was exactly the same.

                                                          ­                    Shame, I have had it all wrong.

I was not an A student, but Gee, I tried hard,
my potential was palpable we just needed to resuscitate it from time to time,
I joined the CAF, married and had three who have amazed me,
with their strong beliefs, so different from one another, see?
I have worked twenty jobs and not one among them defined as a career...
oh and yes, I have spent time  in an unemployment line.

I am not a carpenter, like the other two could, my grandfather as a career
my dad took it on as a hobby, I am a pacifist, yes, but don't push to hard,
I might write you into a poem...  

I have written so many serious and sombre pieces,
There is already so much sadness in the world,
If planet Earth could cry a tear, standby with the tissue,
I deal with my stuff in words, I try not to hang onto them,
Rather free them like birds, Ravens and Crows with Hummingbirds and Eagles,
My soul is sore and
Animus would rather soar,
so I pour the toxins from my mind, my skin, from my day
you already know I am not perfect I sin, from my way of life,
so I pour the garbage I live and beauty as I see
it is around me for you all to read, shame on me
I have had it all wrong.

I don't have to get it right, I must write.



©DWE122013

Life going up flights of stairs too many missed steps,
                     too many cares,
Life going down the same repetitive staircase, when
you get to
                the top or bottom,
                                              toe tapping,
                                                        ­        what stares
                                                          ­                        you in the face?
Go ahead tell it to the mountain of concrete,
Go ahead break out the map and compass,
                                     don't get pompous,
                                                        ­            find a way through the concrete jungle,
                                                         ­        hey you might find the treasure or bungle,
your way,
the way,
              you did it, better than expected, sing a duet with Frank, while the rest
                                                            ­                                 tank the results,
of shame,
no game,
cold hands
                  of stone
                              touching the frigid corpse
                                                          ­            of a loved one,
                                                            ­                              time to say good-bye  
oh why
             do we
                       miss the
                                    ones that
                                                   fill us
                                                            wi­th regret
                                                          ­                   of more shame,

WHY can't the stairway to heaven be found
  all there is to walk on, is down and down,

wanting to climb out of the basement for a change,
wanting to climb onto a roof top and sing a refrain,
with JT,
needing to sing a Hallelujah, from the gut
                      still it never gets beyond but...

dancing is out,
singing is a bust,
leave enough ink to write with
words covered in rust,
that flakes and falls
like snow gone old,
so no story gets told.

Another day on the gravy train, the office is closed for Another Day,
                                                                ­               in a bad way, so,
"So won't you stay, a little bit longer"
she turns to walk away,
"please please say that you will"
the shape and shadow grows smaller
as the pit in my stomach grows more hollow,
                                                         ­                emptied out.

That moment, lasted only a moment,
                                                         now emptied out.


©DWE122013

We live near the boulevard,
Open a window and it is not hard
   To believe,
                    Do you believe?
Each year for the last four or five,
  Some men and women in trucks drive,
     By our house,
                           Do you believe?
They now have forty or fifty or a hundred all lit in color,
  Police escort, HONK their horns and drive my dog bonkers,
      If you wave they do too,
                                             Do you believe?
Each truck has strings of lights to delight the roadside few,
   Maybe out past curfew or stamping their frozen feet too,
     Reindeer and inflatable penguins on a skidoo,
                                                         ­                     but do you believe?
That human kindess and good cheer should only show up once the decorations are complete?
That what is generous now, will last till summer,
                                                         ­                     somehow, that thought should warm some feet?
Or like festivals, celebrations or such things seasonal are best kept to one time per year, call it    Christmas fiscal responsibility...

Maybe you don't believe in anything at all?
Do you believe in love thy neighbor as thy self?
Or do you believe in a story about an ageless elf?
                                                   Do you believe?

*
I
believe
in each, one
of you, can do
more good than harm,
it is true, if it is one mite
only, as that is all you have,
may it be multiplied by those
who see what you do and they
want to give, contribute and share too.
This is half a tree, my poem is sadly
incomplete, for that night
we all wait for and
attend,
will at
the end,
appear
almost
the end of
this December!



©DWE122013

See the snow flakes floating, flat and swirling on
the tease, that is the breeze of the air so rare, as it is
cold and clean and clear,
and each lands as soft
as a kiss that our lips
share, warm enough,
to melt the frozen snow
around my heart.



©DWE122013

What was once water, now ice,
         Fall has begun to winter-over,
          Crackles and breaks, sections slice
        Grass green-brown but no clover,
What was once warmer, now bites,
into flesh,
into light clothing,
have no fear or loathing,
never heinous or aimless
looking for the creche,
for what is not worthless,
is priceless,
not painless,
but with difficulty
admit it, found faulty,
forgiven,
rewired,
good liven,
inspired,
stay warm people as the shroud of the Arctic, glides down like the temperature falling,
don't turn a deaf ear, share of your surplus and good cheer, do you hear, the street calling,
                                                        ­                                        do you hear, in the sprawling,
of anycity, voices of those who, the cold is told to show no mercy, so be kind... as outside in winter ********************­********
                                                                ­                                                          is appalling.


©DWE122013

I read eulogies from time to time
to pass the time, I find in some rejected newspaper.
The language is foreign, for I am
alive and in two hundred or so words I am to know,
who this person was and that
they were loved or respected or validated in two
dimensions plus words and a
picture, when not so long ago they were three
dimensions that filled voids in
other peoples lives, striving to make the world
around them a better place,
battled hard in a war, and fell its only victim.

Swallow the bitter pill,
there ain't no better place,
than where you are right
now, with words written
as plain as the pain on
your face, so listen and
I will try to take you to
a better place maybe I
will transport you to
a euphoric utopia but
that will take opiates,
for my words will just
make you dizzy, Gillespie,
get off that computer and
go to bed, and then you
will dream dreams of us
meeting instead, where I
will be humble and you
will be dapper unless you
are a girl then you will
be "a beautiful rendition of the Mona Lisa"
pray what is behind that
smile and how do your
whites stay so pearly and
your hair, so light and curly,
like the clouds over head,
with a background of blue
sky that holds that daystar,
and reflects off the water in
the duck pond and blinds
my eyes and makes the tear
oft fall, salty on my sleeve,
as I hold one up to wipe
a tear, I feel your hanky
brush my eye lash and I blush with unabashed charm,
but if we were manly men
walking under the trees,
along a pathway of asphalt,
walking sticks pressed into palms
of hands, not those topical trees,
along side us grass, dotted with Canada geese,
oh do watch your step dear
boy, or you might grease your
soul, which would be a helluva
a way to let this perfect day
slip away and take us from
this better place.

It matters not who I am with, for when I am with you, whom ever you are,
I am away from here, therefore found in a better place.



©DWE122013

How can they drain a poem a day, written in ink, destilled emotion,
How can they strain to do poems that take a month to read,
                                                       that is a lot of ink to bleed.
Is it possible to write, adding colour to leaves and sheaves of
words,
hanging them on dried and dead winter branches, STAY!,
with where my imagination rests frozen,
out there in the open,
                        hoping, looking, seeking
the friction of distraction to warm me up,
so my imagination moves,
it needs to move,
or I become frozen,
where there is an ill wind,
where there is a chill wind,
which hardens my heart,
and drys up the ink,
which looks like
my
own
blood
without
Purpose or
without
Prose

P and P


©DWE122013

No challenge,
you can't manage,
No sphere,
you can't influence,
No season,
you won't want,
but one that leaves fall, on you and your discontent,
you want, but won't
enjoy flakes, whether they fall on you from the sky or accost you in the street,
you won't, but the want
of not getting malled(not mauled),
while you shop till you drop, and to be revived by mulled wine,(or is it whine)
the days are shorter,
sunlight is on back order,
nights as dark as Mordor itself,
days as short as a short story,
and takes as long as that to read,
but observe, observe
you won't miss a thing,
take it out to the world,
where the details is king,
devilish eh?,
write it down what you see,
then describe it so when we read,
you will not have been alone,
we were with you all along,
you won't,
I know,
like this
you won't.


©DWE122013

Mirrored concrete, no details,
Drops of rain, carried in trails,
Of footsteps, of therapy, in a retail
Disguise, while eyes of well dressed
Crows, glint with the glitter of the decor,
Shop for more, shop for more, evermore,
Evermore, for tomorrow it may be gone.


©DWE122013

I will not talk about my losses,
where I neither gave up nor tossed
in the towel,
and still did
not come out
a winner, the winner.

Maybe I am not built to compete, I have no grit
no edge to my way,
maybe life is fun,
and we are to just play?

Maybe when you feel sorry for your self, you lose,
your edges now, are broken bits,
that makes deep cuts into your pysche,
a vivisection of the visceral.

Maybe thoughts like this are best bottled up and
tossed in an ocean made up of the tears
that rain down and pour like a wash
filled with
every dream, every goal, every first step of last resort,
I ever had that never left
the space. the gray space above my ears, which heard
my cry and my eyes which see but have no handles to turn off
the faucets that they have become, leaking saline,
while I pretend to understand Einstein.

I write and that makes me a writer and a winner,
what pray tell, are you a winner at...?

I am listening.


©DWE112013

Tank is full,
am I thank full,
or giving thanks?


"Turkey", I heard,
thought she talked
to me, but we....



Roof
      Food
             Dog
                  God
                        Drink
         ­                       Knees
                                    ­    She
                                             Eternity
                                                        ­ You
                                                             Unicorns



Other things to be thankful for, not necessarily in the order of priority,
Thanks Given

Why do I do NanoWriMo?
I write.
I have guarded my thoughts, my words,
for so many years it is absurd.
I have sounds to string together a n d   t h e y  b e c o m e
something, some thing
I am no superstar,
I am not rich,
except LIKE all of YOU,
in experience,
I am not well connected,
except by disconnect,
relations like ships rise and fall
I accept responsibility for them all,
mishaps perhaps
but they, are all mine,
and I forgot more than I can remember,
for decades, I stagnated or worse dismember
time as a value,  (cut off the hands of time) and
live with in your ethics,
or they smell your stench of duplicity.
I have an imagination,
is it a work of machinations, per Descartes,
or my trapped
living soul on a day pass choosing to Escape?
Meet me
by the West wall of wire at dusk,
you lift the barbs and wire for me,
then I return the favour and set you free,
from the other side of 50,000 words.

When you realize it was meant for you,
Do what comes natural to do,
Dance,
Express your joy with hands above your head, open
hands, move your hips, your feet or
add a wiggle instead,
In your happy spot,
In your happy place,
let the joy shine from your face,
Let movement cast your message for every eye,
The rich emotions will not let this time pass by,
Space and spot, that you are unable to stand still
Happy, Happy, Happy, until you get your fill,
If it takes music turn it loud,
Blast 'em and Bless 'em with the joy that overfills
YOU,
Share it because I know that it is true,
It
is
better
to
give
than
to receive,
and right now there are those around you,
that have forgot what joy looks like,
so Dance,
I said DANCE
in that happy spot, in that happy place
go on you tube, but don't hear me say
you have to dance this or that way,
it is the spot so play with your dance,
take the moment, take a chance,
to be too happy!


©DWE112013

Short green-brown grass with frosted tips,
empty branches move as the wind whips,
and teases the streets with what real cold is,
as buses, cars, kick leaves and add to the breezes,
                                                some guy sneeezes,
so loud,
             and there is wonder, if it is thunder or,
was it God?

I was there,
when each of you
                      were born,
that change,
from womb to
life with room to
grow,
beyond what nurtures,
leaving behind sutures,
and now, scars at what your mom, all moms
gave away,
so you are here today,
she bore scars then,
and she will again,
and again,
when you forget a birthday card, or to call,
or don't drop by on Mother's day at all,
but she, will be the first to defend
each one of you in their turn, until the end,
so remember, if you read this, it is nothing
more than a kiss as a reminder,
come and find her, stand behind her,
not to take advantage,
of being first or last or in between,
and whisper in her ear, that you love
her, as much as there is air in the atmosphere,
and you know she has cried an ocean of tears,
inside for each time, each of you, or others have broken her heart,
but it does not mean she is angry,
but it does not mean she is frankly cranky (that's me)
what it means is she is human
who has made enough room in her
heart for all of you forever, whether or not
you bring flowers or hold her hand for a walk, when she gets older,(light years from now)
just call her and listen more than you talk,
give her the time to be creative, ART recharges her battery pack.

For she is special, like ripples in the pond,
her love can be felt like the waves that goes on and on,
                             and I observe all this, and I am in awe,
becasue I too have a mother,
who is unlike any other, except her capacity to show her love for me,
for all the time, years and miles, distance between her and me.
             And she still smiles when me she sees.


©DWE112013

elastic words that stretch the truth,
that wrap tightly around the user,
                  won't let go and ReFuse
                                                        to­ go away,
                                                           ­  the way,
      a swarm of flies is swatted to the floor,
   lies, like bad habits, are a steel core, Door, First
they are insulting and lastly uncouth, no give, impermeable,
earth shattering to some but why is the transparent window, dark glass to those with the darkest of hearts and most to lose?

In the cold of my car I shivered,
as the engine ran,
                     I sat still hoping to
dispense with the chill,
                 but my will said, 'accept it you are a wimp and an old cold one at that"
I was wearing my hat and my coat with light gloves,
                                                                ­        I loves to wear, they separate my fingers
            from the cold,
knitted grey and bold,
        they let me hold,
objects of metal like keys to hearts,  objects of stone like me very own heart,
                    objects of desire, that I keep secret until something transpires
                                                      ­               which warms better than fires,
on a dark and lonely night under the stars bright, wait was that my tire?
Oh where did I wonder off too,
                              as I was in thought, now lost,
   my wit, not sharp as the nail in my tire, the cost,
on a dark night in November, as six speeding police cars swoop past me,
on an urgent mission to stop a crime, their sirens wail as I am a
counterintuitive pantomime against the noise that assails me while
I am changing
a tire but remain the same,
metal tire rod tool in my hand, stone cold heart beating, against my ribs,
as I labor in disbelief that where I live is across from where I stand,
and with all technology you have to get on your hands and knees to
change a tire, I sneeze, I am not sure which is worse,
                                         my situation or these verse,
which decorate the night, not like stars,
as when spoken aloud every other word is profane,
while two homeless push there wares by me and laugh
                                                           ­     with disdain.
For in these transactions they have more street cred than I,
  and I would give them a bitcoin of my thoughts, but they
are two and I am one, alone and without a cell phone, and
this poem rolling around like lug nuts in a hubcap, as frost
creeps closer than the creeps who wish to reap of my misfortune.

Of which I now have some, that I can mix with theirs and then
I notice their bloodthirsty stares, so I begin to recite this poetry
and expound on the woe in me and send them packing covering their
ears with out attacking my hapless now three wheeled car.

When I was done I was nuttier than those lugs,
"good news" it was too cold for bugs,
and with good conscience you, from this, can unplug.


©DWE112013

they are birds that fly indoors, fight over popcorn tidbits,
which even cause wars within the small flock of squablers,
metal barn with ibeam trusses, power gate doors that open
and close, to give them entry points and traps them,
just the same,
the people that go to fro from booth to booth
with such smiles and seasonal joy, to buy a present or a toy,
for someone deserving,
a celebration peserving,
a season of giving,
pieces of hard earned living,
for hand made goods,
from passionate hearts,
of city folks and country folks,
anonymous strangers,
sharing
one of
lives adventures,
a fair of craftspeople,
who create and create,
to place smiles on faces,
where maybe there had been none
yet,
seen in the twinkle of a light,
or in the reflection of a silver ball,
and maybe no one hummed with the
piano playing instrumental seasonal favorites,
by players of differing stages of playing skill,
and ages.
what ambience,
what a choice,
please shop local this Christmas,
it will be money and time, well spent.


©DWE112013

two dolls walked into a craft fair, dressed the same,
it was fun, it was the best, they made a good day better,
just by being there and maybe some others stared,
at the makeup and glitter, and that they dressed with flair,
maybe the pastel shade did not go over well,
but their dresses matched shades and **** ballooning,
they took a risk,
and I found a smile,
on my face, made me glad they were in this place.
Never limit
independent self expression,
just 'cuz you can't,
or instead of being
confident and beautiful, they could rant, and rant
but these two looked rant resistant,
they had the seed pods of joy,
and stardust on their faces,
and went it, with them when they,
tiptoed into the spaces and stalls
of merchants, we did not know
we were not at a craft fair, but a Ball,
and invited by these two princesses,
lovely in their excesses of joy - I saw joy today,
she has a twin, but I did not quite catch her name.


©DWE112013

chickens do it all the time, quite successful, at a run no less,

remember when I was in charge of the platoon,
     the directing staff, the little guy, the buffoon,
           thought he was tough, acted like a goon,
told me, as I had the stripes, our replacements
                                 were gonna be late and what was I going to do,
I had troops on the line, on duty at their posts, waiting to leave,
for breakfast,
sleep and maybe a wash up with some coffee,
so I ran like those chickens with my steel head under my arm,
to say whoa, hold your place until a face shows up to you, replace,
then take your
chance to flee the scene,
we will meet by the tent
to get clean then go as a group
for some chow, not yet and not now,
pour back the tar called coffee, at least it was hot,
just before our heads rest on the pillows,
on one side or the other, on your back or your front,
                                        get some sack time, ya sprogs.


©DWE112013

Just a little ditty, not too witty,
when my youngest is now of age,
in the United States,
but has been for two years in Canada,
                                   it doesn't matta,
                  so Happy Birthday son
as of midnight you are twenty one,
in human years
not dog years
you speak of dreams
        and you stream
   ideas   of a   better world,
while I do NanoWriMo
you talk of Nano Technology
where you will go to University
                           in Ontario,
after you go to Australia,
I hope we don't fail ya'
by casting love clouds of doubt,
or just stand by and shout,
like some cheerleader,
but really listen and hear ya'
    for you have leader ship skills
and intutive creativity with a proclivity
that will help you sail for years
in the world where small is becoming huge
if you can just find the wind
if you can just find the wind

you know who I mean,
words so powerful words so lean,
                                            strung together
                                  with a keen, clean lines of spoken verse.
what is the worse that could happen, bordering on the perverse,
that I could decide, with selfish pride to
end this ride and do no more poetry, 'cuz
I can't do it like that, that I did not have a childhood
set of memories that
taught me values, that I can remember,
see?,
that
way I have an excuse instead of saying EXCUSE ME,
and then not have the dignity to say to him in all humility,
thank you for what you do, for it makes me know I can
write poetry to, to right the ships
so lives will float on the surface, as words to raise the anchors then
and only then sail with the winds of hope,
and the right amount of ballast from the sands of time.
Thank you for doing it different and
teaching me I can do it different too.

A Remembrance,
Of a Day,
Quand Je Me Souviens.

Vitality spent,
Courage displayed,
           Fear allayed,
               dismay, at the lives                                        lost.

There were scholars,
                                there were youth,
                                                          ­  there were the uncouth,
                                                        ­                                           there were aged,
but never mind all that,
                                       as a matter of fact,
                                                           ­          any one of them,
                                                           ­                                     deserves my respect,
For an eternity.
On this Eve,
I learned, my freedom, is not of my doing,
I learned, I can choose, because they did lose,
                                                           ­             their freedom, their lives, their dreams,
I learned, what sacrifice, what SACRIFICE,
                                                      ­               more than sufficed, to provide hope,
                                                           ­                                                  to cope,
with wars and rumours of wars
                  and rumours of wars, that breach my peace of mind
                                                            ­                 that I am blind
                                                           ­                                          to the peace that passes all understanding,
for I will never understand war,
but I thankfully understand
what was given away by choice,
                              not to rejoice, in what I have received,
but They are, the reasons, at least eighty six million four hundred thousand reasons,
I do not huddle
in my bed waiting for
the bombs to stop falling,
to start calling for my loved ones,
I do not clench my teeth as
I grip my rifle to call out
"All Clear"
until the next time I am gripped by
the fear it may be me or someone I
know, who will need to be
let go. Thank Them, Catch Courage, Found Freedom, Love Life, Pray Peacefully
There are more but these are the learned Lessons on this Eve.





©DWEfor11112013

into a write,
into reading a story,
imagine,
              a place,
                           a time,
oh some time would be nice,
if the place was as vacant as my stare,
imagine me there,
penning poetry,
                          rocking in a hammock with palm leaves over me and crystal blue water see,
cotton ball puff clouds,
.
.
.
sorry got to go, grand daughter is crying,
                                    my beauty is trying to paint,
and the dog is dancing back forth needing go out.

Help me, to escape...ism if you can.


©DWE112013

It is not your face we need but your heart
shaped words, it is not that you write of love,
but you write with it.

It is not that we only are satisfied with seeing
only your hand in the quietude of, and still,
for a moment, it is not
we only think you have one, but two and
the other is holding the camera, so still.

It is not that poetry is done easily, it is that scrapping of
the dross from the surface, let's us glimpse what is beneath,
it is not pure,
it may be molten,
it is not sure,
it is far from frozen.

Oh that dross isn't a loss it is the ugly, happy, sad, crazy, lazy, beautiful,
maddening, inspiring, the list is endless, no need to defend this, this dross never
goes away from the impure state, but leaves an essence in the write.

In time, it is not
for us to judge,
but with a friendly nudge,
and a hand shake,
so that that face unseen
is close enough to greet,
and that smile to be seen
how sweet,

They hide gifts,
They hold thinking,
                  stinking or otherwise,
They help sort, organize, stuff,
                      S.O.S.
for us who need boxes and either
what we own is inside a box, which'is
inside a box we live in but the letters
of the names are scrambled as
they were dropped as I rambled
past the point of no return.

Then there is thinking outside the box.

Compass points that are arrows to Mr. and Ms. Direction,
an insurrection of sorts if your internal compass,
misleads and you wrap your arms to shore up the sides
which look like ribs but act like boxwalls and constrict your
breathing, and you end up
heaving, gasping and reaching for a paper bag,
to even your breathing
           to signal your leaving, anxious for this to end?
                         so I can start grieving for
what I never had,
an imagination, without walls of cardboard.


©DWE112013

They wave, "Hello" at the slightest breeze,
they are the wild flowers
of the valley, oh the tease,
they have minor powers,
like they are able to please and bring smiles,
to an empty face whose heart has a need,
to know there is something more fragile,
willing to brighten a day
with a splash of this colour
or a spritz of that shade, something
that only a flower has...
a place where love stems from,
a place to hold budding emotions,
and a place at the center of attention,
like your needs, your wants, your heart,
and my sacrifice to be surety forever in
a greeting, in the first meeting, then falling
for you.

©DWE112013

Twas three witches,
oh but Hallowe'en is past,
Twas three leaves left on the tree,
one was should,
one was could
and the other, would.

Should said he should fall, and
could fall, first, if would and could got out of the way.

Could said he could fall first if should would
shut up (so he could hear himself think) if would
would move then he, could, fall to the ground and
get out of the way.

Would said he would fall first as he was closest to the
ground, but could, then should, be last as could was next,
only if could would not land on would, which should
leave the way clear for should.

As the leaves of this story would have it, could you believe
it is true every word, why should I lie?

Ask should, could and would, they are among they other leaves
on the ground, fallen ...


©DWE112013

the taste in the air
                is unfair
the reason is lost
       at what cost
I will write and
          write
till late into the night, even as my sight dims and my neck bones, ache to feel the soft pillow
of an easy night
no battle, no plight,
and I will lay
beside what I
delight in
and as she rests
I hear her breath
and hope that she will say, "tell me a story, please..."
then I would
tell her of a lover
and the battle of
untold cost
for the love, of a queen
I would tell her about
a knight who could tame
dragons, without raising a
sword, I would tell her about
a place far away, where we
found a treasure together
in stormy weather and the
odds were us and against us as well
and under a knell we found
what we were on this quest for
a pair of joined hearts.
To be shared and beat the  same rhythm
as years go by when one laughs the other
may cry, never to be alone or far
from home, sharing breath, speaking
silence, the eyes say it all...
...I love you.


©DWE112013

the peace of the woods would feel empty with out the caw of the crows,
even this piece of the woods would be empty of sound, if trees were to fall in rows,
for there is no one here to hear, they are in their cars, their offices, their homes,
for there is none alone here to hear, they being social on their media, darlings,
scavenging a life or schmoozing but staying distant from the crows and starlings,
they leave a lot of junk behind
for us
it is not in the searching but finding
we fuss,
we feathered ones are eating what they do;
for one day we will be as smart as them or
they will be like us,
no home but a den, a nest, a pit in the ground that they share with one another,
being social without the media, once again,
like it was before



©DWE2013

I will lose myself in time
to write
not right
to throw words on paper
when ideas like vapour
mist the eyes and simplicity
is beauty and independence
is not an open plain or a fence
but state of mind,
where there is no blindness
but awareness
awareness,
that you are part
               in heart
of something much larger
right when, and where your fingers
dance across my page and
on your keyboard,
I so much want to meet
you all
but that is my downfall,
the introvert in me
holds the extrovert at bay,
but it is no safe harbor,
from an ill wind or ill feelings
so I am left reeling
on how,
to meet my own kind.


©DWE112013

Colour is not the point,
like beams of light that
                     do anoint
the hour which I lay flat
and wait for rest, or at
which point in the dark
                                      do I wrest it from a faerie light
or must I wrestle with
a bottle, pills to cause my ills to slip away and let the
pillow absorb my day, my worries, my strain,
where the engine,
has no off switch,
this engine sits on
top of me not purring
not whirring but
running rough shod
through me, I will not
admit to being sleepless, for by the time I write this,
you will all be in the land,
that I am jealous of, see?

Oh colour?
Which pill will I take,
I have different shades
for different days, and Hades,
waits for me as well, for one
of these times I may take too
many, but I am sparse would
not want to be left without any,
so those gates stay shuttered
as I wrap up and shudder,
through another night
where the next days, and days
dawn and I fawn over
my appearance, eyes with
circles dark, pale image stark
in a mirror, to the point, the clown
smiles back at me and asks
to be happy or not to be sad?,
I need sleep so pass a whole bowlful,
of sleep that all of you have too much of,
                              and push and shove
me
with
your
bed time stories,
nursery rhymes,
and lullabies,
in poetry and I will read what I need
                         to let go and let sleep
steep me overnight, when I will wake
                 up and pour into another day,
the literary love you have shown this poets way.

Must move, running too hard,
driving among the insane traffic,
is just wrong,
So...I will walk among the almost naked trees
and those leaves,
most of which are dried and crumble, under
my clumsy feet, pick them up by the bunches,
in the hope that some sense will land on me
as I toss them into the air, and stand under
their falling, with my arms and hands wide open,
catching them at random, fragile twisted has-beens of
a three season display, the ones I catch having
meaning while the others are dead and not just
to me, for they will fertilize the new growth in Spring,
But let me look at my leaves discover what they bring,
I am struck in wonder
I am in a state of awe,
I begin to laugh and guffaw,
Maybe this is how I write poetry,
throwing words around like dead leaves,
as I wander among naked resting trees,
and the ones I miss this time will
be my fertilizer in the Spring,
and the ones that land and leave
my hands, are submitted into,
The Fray, the battle,
The Day, and rattle,
a sound to warn me
of danger, if I don't play
by                                  by
writing.             ­    loving
each                             all
day.                      His way .



©DWE112013

there will be no sounds,
the road is lonely tonight,
travelers will stay off the
asphalt ways, the blackest
                           of nights
                                       will not be pierced
                     by headlights
animal eyes will not be bright
spots appearing to float lightly
to escape, in the darkness,
no engine noises will echo in the trees,
and cause mothers to gather their young
and tell them in animal voices why
no one is allowed to go out after dark
        even for a family walk to the park,
        across the treeless way
            where they can play
       with garbage cans' contents,
       but rather stay in and be content,
       with the gathering of fur with breathing
      in the still air, restful sounds and a
       peace to be shared with care and oh,
      but there will be darkness that hearkens
      sleep with dreams of play, teeth flashing,
      rough fur rising along the spine,
                  just don't cross that line,
                                               and leave the nest alone tonight,
                                   for even the darkness has teeth that bite.


©DWE112013

after all
this year
has brought
I ought
to have
found a
nugget of
valued wisdom,
but it
is simply
this easy,
write, write,
care not
what is
your method
or verse,
or essay,
or even
if you
must rehearse
and purse
your lips
and kiss
your prose
good night!
just write,
write, write
and things
will work
out well
and life
will be
all right!
After...all

signed the
naive but
prolific one.

I need therapy.
I need more than a hug.
I need a drug that does not drug,
or disconnect the brain from the pain
where my pain stems from,
has-been thoughts,
lost in explosive expletives,
as it is easier to give up
and
give in, than fight, stand up
for what
I believe in.
Every thing God created is good.
Sometimes very good
Always.
That I am beloved of God
Every thing is loved.
Forever.

To me poetry is every thing.


©DWE102013

hockey fans everywhere,
will spill
their beer, stop and stare,
at two
hockey players who make
plays in layers,
as they find each other
(they are twin brothers)
in the toughest parts of
the ice and the game,
and
still
they
succeed
with motion,
with and
without
the puck
oh ....,
the rubber disc
is the net again
passes look
like they are
made with ease,
opposition
chases air,
it is not fair
they look and
play the same,
but differently
invent, re-invent
thank you two
for one plus four
more
years to cheer,
for the way you
play
with passion,
and beauty,
re-define what
it is to be tough
in this game,
that I grew up watching
waiting for finesse,
to win the day,
and hope the team
around will raise
not just dreams up
but Lord Stanley's Cup

Bright black
bright mind
talk like a parrot
has talent to share it
knows how to have fun
in new fallen snow
               and bright sun
roll down the ***** once
and again,
roll down the ***** steady to
standing to roll again
playfully
slowly to
roll until the bottom is
found
smart as a whip,
able to strip the dead to the bones
catch him playing once
fine
but
then
nevermore.

For a time I disliked change,
For a change I disliked time,
For a time, change disliked I,

We fear what we don't understand,
Ask those in power,
We fear they don't understand,
Abuse of power.

Goodnight, I will be up past midnight
jot a few words down, in the dim light,
hoping the ideas are light and bright,
in a story where time stands still until...

a son is found by his mother,
they are reunited with a sister and brother,
a daughter and son, and together,
they look for their father, husband and king,
while they save the known world, from disastrous
calamity...
don't believe it,
that is why, they call it fantasy...adventure

PSA   Public Service Announcement  PSA
oh remember to set your clocks back this weekend,
and that will give me an extra hour of time
for typing, while you all do what you do when
you stay up late and sleep in, too.  


Time for a change

It was black, just black
          before the attack
                                  by everything I feared
                                   my lips in the mirror
trembled and quivered
as snakes found their
                                  way into my mind,
                                   out my ears and into
my home, the spiders
climbed on the outside
                                 of my frame, no need to
                                   bite or spin a web,
I had woven my own trap,
  my floor became ladders
                                         and I was thirty three
                                         feet above anything real,
there was no one to watch
     but alone I saw all eyes
                                        were turned on me,
                                         I started to cry and drown
in my tears but then the
worst happened and I frowned
                                                   as I was comforted by a clown
                                                   who put his hand on my shoulder
             and said "don't worry, you'll be a year
older next time, there will be much more to fear."
Like Clowns...