As the tables were filled when we came in the door,
could have went home, if we wanted space for sure,
we sat at the biggest table, with the noisy crew
moved the chairs,
staked our ground, after all what else could we do.

Go home?

Go home.

Go home!

And leave here because of the crowd,
were we too addicted to be loud'n proud?

But today would be a special day,
Sue a regular, senior street type,
was yelling at the world, with hype
and attitude, no Beatitude came out
of her mouth, as I watched her shout,
I knew I had to learn from her.

A new guy passed Sue on the sidewalk,
their gestures were not related or anticipated,
one talked about trees and yelled at the sky,
while the other walked by carried a Coke,
                                                     on his thigh.

He came in the door all sweaty and twitchy,
swear words were every second word that came
from his mouth every second it was open.

His eyes did not understand what they saw,
his mind'n  mouth hated it all, jutted his jaw,
Stuck the Coke in his pants went out the door,

at a run, streaming curses, from his lips
hung in the air, scary for some with kids,
at a run to London Drugs next door,
less than two minutes he was out,
                                                        runn­ing fast past the Burger King,
while Sue yelled profanities from the Boulevard
called King George, daring traffic, to drive close,
standing with one foot in a lane, the other foot... as well
where are the traffic police, when you need'em,

But what does Sue need, she is always around?
What about sweaty, angry guy, a new face in the
crowded traffic of my favorite coffee shop,
Bring them peace Lord, and a safe place to sleep, Lord,
and someone who has what they need, Lord,
to keep them out of the traffic, off the street.

With two meanings and a poem about each

I

"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"

Random corner lot with patchy grass
Dual tired pickup owner, cantankerous,
got tired
got wired
got to thinking,
about why his
yard was stinking,
looked out the back
nothing there to attack
looked out the front window,
rising
sun pooched a crescendo,
as it rose,
he stood, cigarette and coffee,
the order of the day,
other hand on the hood,
of his red neck tribute, a Ford truck
but that odor,
that smell,
he felt unwell
spinning, more like reeling,
he had a nauseous feeling,
that some dog was crapping in his yard,
excrement was on the breeze,
silhouetted by the bright yellow ball,
was the last dog to crap in his yard,
he grabbed his shotgun with ease,
pulled the trigger, buried the dog,

No one saw, everyone heard, when the
police showed up not a word was said,
not a witness could be found, as each knew,
in that 'hood, that dog got around,
to every yard in turn, the sign is all
that remains, a warning and a refrain,
this neighbourhood,
may have ****** lawns
do not get caught doing your business at dawn.  


II

"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"

They both sit a the table to eat a meal,
from where they will look at the dog bed,
by the dog bowls, and then look away,
just as fast,
it is the past
and recent loss,
of their beloved dog Boss,
beautiful boy, who died to soon,
left them alone, together,
such a calm and gentle giant,
one that they had become reliant,
to share
their journeys,
their truck trips,
their walks in the waning sun,
life,
until that terrible day,
when she called to say,
Boss had been hit, saving a toddler
crossing the road, the boy was okay,
but not the dog, "Come Home Quick,
please,"
he did and they rushed the dog to the vet,
it was awful, everyone was a wreck,
and then the vet called them in to the back,
to give the news that Boss was going fast,
he could do nothing to make his life, ...
soon he would take a breath and breathe his last,

they nodded and said "Put him down",
they went and looked him in the eye,
through sobs they said "goodbye"

Days later, they went back, to get the
urn of his ashes, he liked their lawn,
he loved the grasses,
so they decided, then that they would
never leave or sell, but buried him there,
in that spot where the sun first landed,
every summer morn,
summer was the season of Boss,
now they were at a total loss,
as each morning began with mourning.

But Boss will always be nearby.
And the sign above that spot read,
"Here Lies, the  Last Dog  To Crap in This Yard"
For they would never own another.

Thunderous rain and,
bright jagged shafts of lighted
energy draining.

Shakes uncontrolled,
dog pants walks hears  internal
rebellion not play.


©DWE092013

we were like two out of round wheels, on a three wheeled death machine,
we wobbled through our teens years, you with a record collection,
me with my military zeal, and the cadet life appealed to me,
you went to Washington State University
I joined the Canadian Armed Forces

We would cross paths not swords, from time to time, which no longer go slowly
We would say with words, but seldom heard what the other had said, eh?

The canyons of time has a sense of humour, and a better sense of live long and get grey hair,
the distance between us after three point six decades is less than twenty minutes by car
yeah, we connect on the usual social media, and we laugh, we cry, we like each others status
the wharf our boats bob at is like an aged lattice work and no cost for the mooring rights, it is gratis

glad you are doing well, you still have that bite in your words when you type
and your record collection is the largest and is well worth the hype
but the times and what we had may never be the same as the past,
I am no longer soldiering and you still are a friend, once for all and at last.

discarded nail clippings
             or fat drippings        
all over the individual waves
all can read, a palm concave
                 up to the minute arrival
is life more than a fight or survival
of the next break
or chances to take

wanting for to write a simple rhyme
with rhythms that, dance and move
me like butterflies and honey bees
work, the stamen and pollen pistil
until wings be still as, the night air,
day of travail has gone bye bye.

I

if I yelled into a walkie talkie,
would you melt, or burn,
blaring noise
glaring sun,
glaze the windows, someone!

                 II

fade away and radiate,
move the people dis-populate,
we may all glow,
there are leaks, they know,
but that is not all
they are going to build
an icy wall to STOP thoseleaksnow,
some one strong willed
                                      is taking charge of those positive and negatives
                                                       ­                        keep an i on atom, physically speaking.

         III


shake, shake
roll the water
shake shake
roll the dice
shake shake
what happens
in the kitchen
where it is hot
and you bang
plates together
the do break, explosively
this time, no
tsunami, so sue me
but it was a six point one
when we get a nine what then?


           IV
they have politics,
they have unrest,
they have strife,
put the ad in
the paper, some
one misunderstood, vehement
denials, sabres rattling cementing
bad relations blame the propagandist
bad formula blame the chemist
bad politics cost elections
bad people take lives
that are not theirs to erase, displace
or otherwise disgrace, I know we will
never know what has gone on,
but it really comes down to ONE,
all it takes is one to die,
and it - whatever the point is
is wrong,
all it takes is a million refugees,
not one in power will listen if we
say   STOP                    please,
think of the creative talent who have died,
think of the number of times you have lied,
think of the geniuses unable to breath through their face,
oh wait, if you did think, in the first place,

you still would have done it anyway,
because that is who you are, makin' people wear sarin, eau de ... deathly
                                                silence is a grave filled with the cries
                                                of the innocents
                                                chaos is a grave filled with violent
                                                death with intent
                                                lashing out first and with such force
                                                is a grave filled with numbers of
                                                the lost, who now are no more
                                                the cost is too dear to bear
                                                except with sadness, and mourning
                                                but there is no time there is danger
                                                          ­                              and warring
                                                         ­                                                   while the world dithers uncertain,
close the blinds
draw the curtain,
cover your ears,
we are doing something
here, umm, there.

The door stood open,
I closed my eyes, hoping,
what was out there, "Stay",
right where it was, at bay.

I raised my rod from my side,
pointed at the threshold, decided,
I would battle if it came through,
the open space, vulnerable, I knew.

I could not close the door, for fear...

At the foot of the sill the blackness lapped,
like tasting blood, shaking, I was trapped,
metal sill became black as it began to spill,
into the house black touching the tiles, I felt ill.

Suddenly...

A scream shook my house, and a sword pierced
the blackness, slicing, chopping then forced,
into the house, inside the frame, Daniel Day Lewis,
stepped in from out, spinning in black riding boots.

It was only then, I knew it was a dream.
He only picks his movie rolls,carefully.

I know this will be the most hated words in print,
Only in the Northern Hemisphere, for a stint,
of two hundred sixty two days till summer, again
graces our shores, our winds measured warmth
there goes that Darrell guy, what a pain,
Fall is still nineteen days away and he is lighting the hearth.

Fan the flame,
Fan the flame,
what a shame,
paid the bill,
we got gas,
the natural kind,
The days the
are numbered
till your birthday
and mine, I'll be
fifty four in...so many days,
Christmas is only
1 1 5 jours
Hanukkah is
eighty seven and
is of course 8
days long
correct me if I am wrong
as the days
come and go,
I will know,
I have less
and less of
the days ahead
unless I live
to be as old as
108!

He calls,
words fall,
on ears that,
don't believe,
what his lips say,
and they have heard
it all, again and again and

now this.

won't give him credit,
won't say he was raised wrong,
not my call, he made that effort
gave a name and an age,
they could not trace him
to any place, he was going
to commit a kidnap crime,
unless they stop him in time.

I call him a creeper he knows his victim,
knows her face,
her age,
her place,
so the police put it out there everywhere,
after all they think he lives in New West
while my thoughts roll, could be anywhere
in the GVRD, remember they could not trace
his call.

in the end, who needs words when you can't spell the sounds

they run parallel to the ground, away
leaving t's looking like l's, who may fall flatter.
they are dropping like dots from i's,
but they are not wasps but are they flies

there is still a buzz in my ear

the hairs on my head run from the razor,
but only get as far as the cracks in the floor.
the fingers on my hands touch the workmanship,
sculpting my busted head, but change nothing.

the ringing in my ear is familiar

the life has become an empty tube of toothpaste,
and now I have to refill it from the counter.
the live wire I keep touching, looks
like a nerve, in my one arm that is ripping me off.

If I have a tone, it a came from outer space,

my feet are running on the floor, louder the neighbours
are hammering on their ceiling, my legs buckle, no feeling.
there is nothing so refreshing as a dog licking your
face when you are flat on your back staring out to space.

The tone has stopped, they are here...

It begins.


©DWE092013

Do you wake up each day, with your eyes open, then be thankful,
not that you can see, but that there is another day for you.
Then another and another day ... A life, whether alone, so alone,
or shared with sisters and brothers, grab it with both hands.
Grab it so you have its attention saying, not "look at me,"
but exclaiming "that everyday is a new and exciting adventure."

Mind there is pain,
That even bones weary of,
Even in love,
That will not fade,
In time, please,
Resist being jaded,
There is release,
Not in the mundane,
We all need, once a day,
Some  in  play,
All  in  time,
Even  in  love,
A shimmering,
Tear-stained smile.

Not in sadness, but in laughter,
that is harder than the trials in this life,
Not coerced or forced, natural and
naked with a contagious pitch, striving.
Not only for a moment, but for all Time,
real Play, as for the core there is Love.

It is energy,
'tis synergy,
maybe philanthropy.

It is fruit,
'tis ripe to boot,
maybe entrepreneurial debut.

It stems from a cell,
'tis atom sized firestorm hell,
might be prose or poetry written well.

It is part of our worth,
'tis no gender after the pains of birth,
from notion to thought to conception,

through a period of gestation,

it is then the birth of an idea
comes out of you


©DWE092013

all things green are not created equal,
what brings mean hearts a revival,
the green that some die for,
the green the mint strives for,

there are no green initiatives, only a green economy
there is no interest, that will starve the old, their bank
cupboards bare, soon they will eat their own flesh.

they ayes may have it everywhere so be aware, watch your step there
the green that binds our hands,
binds our feet, binds our minds,
bind us together in defeat.

this may sound like a call but really it is one voice with a bad echo,
bouncing off the walls of misappropriation and missed understandings

stewardship is taking care of what was given, (not earned)
he who made stewards of us is going to call (out our names)
to find what we did with the Terra entrusted with us (what a rush)

embracing the wrong green blinds us as it binds us to a rocky
spire, that double edge blade hacking at the legs of God's footstool.
the light talk about saving a planet, ****** Janet, what fool's
we have been, we blame colour blindness for corporate greed,
oh the
green that bind us
to every wrong to which we own,
will now cost us the best spot closest to the throne.

Do you learn,
how do you earn,
if you did not burn
what you do into gray
matter memory.

Memorize by rote,
                   by rote,
                         rote,
a reducing game,
I'll call it stacking,
to maximize your
gain of what you
know, I mean know
for certain,
repeated physical
and mental actions
over and over,
over and over,
and over and over,
like a martial artist, doing a kata,
till he is caught doing it in his sleep,
or his nerves are always there
ahead, waiting for him to arrive,

but do we know for certain,
anything?,
photo shopping,
auto correcting,
foolish sexting,
conspiracy theorem,
bring me to life
   AWAY
with boredom just a drop of inspiration,
AWAY
with tedium just some time and some space
   A WAY
and I can and will learn it all,
with peace as my covering,
         peace as my covering,
                    as my covering,
                        my covering,
                               covering.

Honest learning is that which is
involved in dwelling, some times
easily and at others it is a crime,
and a torturous process but in this,
                      
"Finally, brethren, whatever is true,
whatever is honorable, whatever is
right, whatever is pure, whatever is
lovely, whatever is of good repute,
if there is any excellence and if
anything worthy of praise,
dwell on these things. "
         *

That would be
what honest learning
could be,
where do I start,
memorizing by heart,
when my is heart turning
to stone, hardening,
not fertile and not prepared
for gardening and the
planting of good seed,
use a funny voice,
if you need to memorize,
tape to a mirror in front of
your eyes, your face,
where you do spend allot of time I might add.

but before you go forward,
        I will be forward and
remind you there are better
things, on which to dwell.



©DWE082013

how did it break, the sky,
raindrops like tears fly,
projectiles aimed at my
heart of strength, you, right beside

What is power of being the last of anything,
That there is no other and we need reminding,
how precious and rare like fresh air,
or a loved one's last breath.

What hold on our being does it have, when there is only one,
That you cannot hold in your hand, or take your eye away,
What would you do, if your child was that one, like our singular sun,
Precarious grasp on life, bumble bees, dragonflies, please stay.

It does not end here.
Last of all I fear.
I will write and write
until I get it right,
in last words that
all can hear the poetry,
that all you can write,
type, say or do.

Peace.

Stop humiliating me with your humidity. So gray.

Nimbus travelers, where did you get impolite
fake happy faces, cover the sky, dim the light,
drop not a drop, of rain, of rain.  So dry.

Stop trying to hide behind one another,
Where is the blue sky, blue like no other?,
You are a cloud after all, and will evaporate.

Yet in what I see reflected back at me is all my
loss, shapes that show my failures, in each sly,
hidden crevasse, which tempts a fall into the sky.


©DWE082013

I have seen the blood stained teeth as big as a man,
I have trembled and shook, cowering as I ran,
My mind retreated faster than I could run to keep it,
In one piece, some days, I can not find even on my knees,
It is a disease.

Peace without rest.
Time without space.
Sure real dreams, life has no meaning.
Death evades, but chases me nipping at my heels.

My heart has pounded in my chest wanting to escape
the cavity I have become rotting root in my mind does
the flesh no good can come of this and my eyes hear what
my ears see and I no longer feel and everything tastes like
fear.  In the air.  Around me.  Tonight and every night
like a light that flickers when the bulb has a bad filament.
Like dragons eyes in the deepest night. Waiting for the next time.
Soon.

I have not triumphed over armies or doubts,
I have not gone into battles with cries and
finished with victory,
I am not a chess master
I am not epic,
I can play no instrument, or have perfect pitch
I have no treasured wisdom at my call,
no deep pool from which to draw,
I am not epic,
I have not ran into chaos or darkness,
not knowing what my chances are,
of being epic,
because, I am not,
my faith is at times like mustard
without the seed,
watered down, not epic,
I do not ride a stallion,
or have tigers as my beasts,
I have a dog, aging as fast as she walks,
we are not epic,
I can not unleash an arrow from any bow,
with accuracy, but I can say, the fights
I have fought, I can count on one hand,
and none were epic, maybe mistakes,
I did not sacrifice my friends lives or mine
to save a princess, the queen or the Land,
I have not fought dragons,
or black forces of night
I am not epic,
I have never received near fatal wounds,
I have not stepped in front of an arrow,
meant for someone else,
that would epic,
and I am not epic...yet.

Gardens come and gardens go
seeding, planting,
watering, weeding
as do the seasons,
as the crop is waiting for your care and
to greet you daily, for without a gardener
such as you, I may have turned to seed,
too true? Or become a bad ****.
Your garden is a beauty every year,
as for me, I am getting there, thanks to you!

©DWE08262013

I feel that chill on morning and nights air,
Walking the dog with out a care
It freshens me
as I capture air and turn it into breath
Who would think that becoming fall,
Like an answer to the court bailiffs call,
was summers reprieve,
not for dealing, or stealing but loitering,
unless you like that sort of thing.

I will close the shutters on this night,
Close my eyes, rest my sight,
holding all that is precious close, in my grasp,
no that is not right,
holding all that is precious, close to my heart,
no that can be done,
holding all that is precious,
lightly, loosely, but being near by all this
night, ready, waiting for any wrong,
fighting in my own sheets, a fight in the dark room,
hoping that all will be right by mornings light,
and quickly forgotten and
the day will be bathed in hope.

How naive of me to forget that one out
there does not care and would rather
make me drink bottled despair,
right from the source.
When he does not own the rights.
           he does not own the rights.
           he does not own the nights.
           he does not.


©DWE082013

Count the many in the sky,
count many from your eyes,
wish upon one, falling through the night,
let the others fall into an open hand and open heart.

In my sight,
For I can only stand
in awe of Heavens' show
For I can only give comfort,
to stem and catch the flow,
until your lips glisten
with the ones I have missed.

Which I will gladly kiss, away.



©DWE082013

The lazy river, large,
filled with
water that carried my
memories of youth, and
a friend of my past,
both downstream,
flowing away, flowing
finding the easiest way,
to go to the lowest point,
so much liquid,
so many years,
some failures,
some fears,
Childhood, has those
but now,
       now what do I have?

What does anyone have?
Use your talents,
Use your gifts,
Before time is dead,
walked on like a too
traveled path, warm or cold
to where you
find your past.

Lest the swollen
river, calls and you
listen, leaving you
only to believe that
what you look for
is downstream.

Use your talents,
Use your gifts,
Be swift for
night falls into the
river,
it may catch you
as it drops by.
Dragging down
the future, in the
present tension,
until at last
you only can
live searching
for the past.

Unable to
tell the stories,
or enjoy the glories,
of the gifts you shared
of the talents you carved
into my memories,
of the time we spent
under the canvas of night
dotted white with God's Artistry,
until that day,
when my phone rang,
and they said you were gone,
                        you were gone,
And i touched the cold with my
my hand, my lips and my warm tears
knowing you had already gone
and did fly away,
                               oh glory.


©DWE082013

Speak to me poetry,
speak to me in a voice,
that is not mine,
Let me hear the absurd,
that is like blood cells by design,
I want images of poetry,
to pour onto paper
Something seen, not a vapor,
sacrificial ink of character  
Not an apparition, a testament of reason,
in an unruly season, of drought, disasters that poetry
can survive, alive for decades of human strife,
to balm with solace
as only poetry can be,
do inspire all that
read of poetry,
in the peace,
in the piece,
the heart of poetry,
that was more,
because of words,
typed, falling which
caused words,
to be written,
from a dark place
that poetry
spoke of,
so that no ONE,
has to journey
there alone with
out having
their story told,
their voice heard,
through an act of poetry.

There is laughter in poetry,
There are tears in poetry,
Poetry is part of a community,
   which call each other part - poets.

She looked at me through humidity,
Of this coffee shop,
Outside
August rains poured down the drains,
To jazz strains, easily
making the steamy room,
more intimate,
playing in the background,
while my mind skipped to others places,
while my eyes stared at her lips,
they moved and said, I am sure they said "I love you"
"Pardon"
As I fell lightly from my reverie,
She said, "I said, "dollar forty two," your a little short, your card is empty",
Like my cup, like my hopes,
feeling in my pockets for change and a change of luck,
Finding one but not the other,
Just then the sun broke open the cloudy sky,
That is why I don't ever want to leave this coffee shop.


©DWE082013



" I don't ever want to leave this coffee shop"

Song -Shape of Love
Artist - Passenger

Is it like the clouds in a blue sky,
With colours that don't occur,
Is it seeing, moving people blur,
When they are standing right beside
You.

Is it when all goes wrong, anger burns
the blood in your veins, like a fuse,
you clench your fists, but do not choose,
the violence we are all capable, to discern
the cost.

:-)

Is it,... is it when you look and see,
Something that no one else can,
Until you show them how to, they can,
Step into your skin, out of their complacency,
for ever.


©DWE082013

Even tempered you don't get mad at us
That is why you are named Cirrostratus.
Even
Uniform
Flush is not quite right,
but the day is bright
so it is quite, alright,
                                  to be on the level.
Fair weather friend like other cloud types,
no excitement, no stress, no hype, yawn.

There is though a shadow, you have this darkness about you,
Yes I remember well the Cirrus cloud cousin. Your lighter
lower twin!
  
But you my friend are so high, stretched across the sky
I want to fly, and touch you with the tips of my
fingers, float like a note from an
opera singer, Cirrostratus my friend we must get
together again and make it
surreal the next time, I'll bring the wine,
you bring the weather, I'll wear white,
you bring the blue crystal sky, and let me fly,
                                                            ­let me fly,
                                                            ­let me fly,
Pour me some chilled white wine,
And don't worry if in the wind we spill some below,
It is only a dirt carpet and ocean, for show,
                                                           ­           I can clean up later.

My steps, river bank edge, look up a cloud!
gazing skyward at the massive roamers,
Left foot became right foot, fell splash, too proud
In water I was cloud-like, a floater.

The depths of the water, under me
Chess piece clouds building up over my head
treading water, current, headed to sea  
I may have been better off dead

Gray and white mountain towering heights
flashes of light, rolls of noise and thunder
jagged light and noise at me causes frights
That sound near can only be a hammer

As Norse gods pounded anvil darkness
I emit, little girl screams, shrill sharpness

We are fluffy
      not stuffy,
we are bright,
       not dull,
we can be
      the lull,
before the storm.

More on that later, after the news.

Reflecting white light and we become bright,
pile us on one another a collective of light,
and airy, we don't take our selves serious,
we are much lower to the ground than cirrus.

Please don't let what I have to say cloud your judgement in anyway!

We are piling up to be the top of the heap
want recognition for the sunny day, around noon
living it large looking the part too,
we are the flat bottomed cotton *****.

We are the fairest of the fair, but beware as the day advances,
we may get bigger, darker taller and you take your chances,
to be about and about, there may be a change in the atmosphere,
how is that anxiety about thunder and lightening dear?

From cotton to solid rock tall,
from mole hill to mountain,
thirty thousand feet is all,
hope you don't mind if we take turns
blowing through, easy to find us
no fuss, look for the Jekyll and Hyde
you know the Cumulus Stuff.

Outter wear, of gray,
everywhere for everyday,
ram clouds uniform.

the blanket of air, caught on the tree tops,
the coyote calls of victory echoed, with
repeated howls and barks, they owned
that moment this night.

Blood was spilled, stomachs filled, the pack
would hunt all night till the sunlight would
make them rest.

the blade had only one purpose in his hand
demand the cash and away he ran, not before
he made a point of piercing any resistance,
leaving piercing cries for help into the night,
lifeblood ran out of one, while
the other ran out, blood pounding
at his temples as his Converse flats
                                      pounded the ground.

Echoing
under the blanket of cold air
trapped in the tree tops,
this night.

suddenly sirens cut into the cold,
the blanketed air with red flashes
and roaring screams, as the coyotes
crossed the road near where the
knife was stuck in a heart heavy
chest, with no air cold or warm.

the coyotes were safe from harm,
the man ran and ran, no knife in
his hand, as the paramedics, worked
hard to save a life right in front of his
children and wife, the call of the blood
was too strong,
the blanket of air got colder
                              got darker
                              got covered in blood.

Seren-dip-me-pity,               (she was self-accepting failure,  bad luck wannabe, wears black and sniffles)
the ardent opposite
of Seren-dip-i-ty,       (she was an accidental discovery, no recovery needed, awe, found objects, in the     
                                                                                    moment)
they are part of the
seven sisters Seren,

wherein lies the rub
Saran-wrap, was third           (caught up on herself, clean and air tight, fresh as the day, tough like teflon)
in line, (changed the spelling of the family name - to be sooner alphabetically)
Seren-ate,                         (she sings she dances, she eats, she sings some more, she waits for applause)
does not speak or gesticulate
unless she performs in song.
Seren-ade, used to sing well           (jealous, performance orientated, sometime for love, lately for money)
as well but when the other came
along and did it better she got bitter
and moved in to retail sales        (lemonADE, pomADE, calvacADE of arcADEs, you get it,                                                                  ­                                                      everything ­became a parADE)
And as for the twins who
are always fighting Seren-ity    (lacks calmness, lacks peace, wants a piece of you, uneven temper)
Seren-e                                         (more easy to be obscene, like evening air with a heavy chill, not bright).

The seven sisters of Seren,
who were always preparing
for a fight to the right to
the next beau to knock
on the door, but soon they
all stopped calling,
they were
no longer falling,
over one another,
as the Seren-ities
were now old biddies,
no longer remained a
worth-while dowry, befitting
sitting silently as the seven
sisters of Seren squabbled
soiling the solitude of the soul.

Oh little cloud, little cloud,
small, bright white and round,
so far from the ground,
why you seem to be shy?

The weather is perfect,
just good on demand,
whenever you are around,
and round too, I see you.

Drifting or floating
I am not quite sure,
come closer if you prefer,
so I do not have to hazard,
a guess.

It is easy to see, like
one,
        two,
                three,
that you my beauty, are
the good weather bringer,
          stick around longer,
     I will bring you dinner.

Now what do clouds eat?
A little water a little dust,
some sun or cold is a must,
but you are such a small one,
let me tie a string to you
like I own you, just for fun.

I would let you go, as high as
you wish, I have this line, a big
reel, I use on fish, it is light, it is clear,
no barbs or hooks,
a slip knot, that will let you go,
when there is no time left to play.

And we will go our separate ways,
                   knowing that for a space in time,
I was a companion of yours and
                                     you were all mine.

Loose clouds, sink dreams of sunny days and sunny ways,
They are the front runners the fore tellers, driven
before the wind of the next wave of water falling
from the sky and from my eye.

It is a SIGN, It is a SIGN, I tell you don't wear a target out
when Scuds are about, It is a sign of bad weather and my doom.
DOOM I say!  Falls fool and Winters wimp, blown in my haggard face!

Seeing Scuds (a loose vapory missile, leading the bad weather)
at my doorsteps, dampening my foot falls, scud after scud,
more bad weather, dark clouds, I bend into the wind
head down so I won't drown and the Scuds can't see my eyes,

That I have given up, hide oh hooded head
and given in, I use my umbrella to hide behind,
will I or it survive the wind?
until spring rings in, with summer.
.

Their name is not Trish,
they are not blonde but gray,
                                                 not from age, but the contents,
they do not elevate, or leap from
the third rope of a wrestling ring,
                                                but they drop on you a million
drops of rain, from low levels,
drops that find their way into
                                                 the lowest part of your shoes,
and not into your heart,
the drops tap dance across
                                              your umbrella until the clouds
lift and go away by tricking
the wind to carry them away,
                                           to dampen spirits of others, to their dismay
unless they are human sponges. ( Important but rarely seen part of the
water cycle)

No clouds at all, winter, spring, summer or fall,
Tells the weather watcher no change at all,
Cirrus my friend with a fair weather bent,
Your swirls, streaks and curls, so very high,
when there are just a few of you, goodness is nigh,
but when you gaggle in bunches and take and
curl your lip to show your ornery sides and swirl in the cold,
I am told through the white and cold grey, BLIZZARD!
                              get in doors or receive a frosty reception.

Sitting on the edge,
mountains make a hedge,
horizon's silhouette, borders

to the imagination
of what lies beyond,
juste le beau monde,
anglacism, ou non?

Peace is what awaits
where my imagination
                          sates,
while I breathe slowly,
the last of the sunset air,
just out of reach, over there
past my fingertips, but
I touch the distant clouds,
the sky changes hue and
I imagine you sitting in the
next room, as the colour
matches your blush, and
a hush comes over the world
as I close my eyes,
and still see the mountains
with green pine trees so high,
and I breathe in and hold
I am
refreshed
by the mountain air so cold
and bracing sends my
heart racing,
no balcony,
no home,
just the mountain
the rocky mountain
beneath my feet,
the solid rock
created by
God.

tattoos on both arms, shoulders wide,
shaved head with a scar
that scar was a jagged edged
piece of art
hung in the Gallery of Violence.

her mouth moved and it smelled of smoke
which tasted profane, her hair was clean
her dress was nice, in a rough way,
a piece of life,
living where few people Tread with Willing Hearts.

another stood on the corner, every one was rushing
to work in the early morning light,
her heels her legs, advertising near the job site,
dignity ignored,
stepping into the next contractors Pickup Truck that opened the door.

two hit and runs minutes apart after midnight
one younger was injured slightly
the other died from his unsightly injuries,
disregard for human life,
incidents related, no, they have caught and arrested one,
driving without care because of Where They Were, in Whalley

This just in, "Life Is In My Face",
could be anywhere,
but just down the road from my place,
all of this is too real,
how kind I rest, in the surreal?
When Life Is In My Face,
bending time, filling space,
raindrops like tears evaporate,
like the peace, like the tranquility, like the dignity, like the safety
of another city night, raining, raining
straining it seems, to get a rest,
from the beast that is easily aroused.

I went cheap, spent no time,
                       on this rhyme,
             no designer phrases,
   left so many blank spaces,

that you have had your fill
of my empty verse,
your report will be terse,
this poem is dead
where is that hearse?

I do not have the real thing, diamond cut prose
or pristine crystalline rhyme, I forgo grammar,
some think I jabber and jammer when I speak,
no crown jewel here, I use no tool so poorly as the
tongue I was born with.

But I do so freely,
I don't shed blood or take life,
I try not to lie, truth be told (most of the time)
I do have an edge, with cutting wit (okay I am lying)
Life has turned for the worse, a bit
I want to put all things I value in a back pack,
Walk away from the talk I say,
Into the woods to hear that if a tree falls
in the forest and nobody is there
does it make a sound.

I'll let you know,
Hello my name is nobody.
no first name
no middle initial
Nobody.

So if they ask,
So if you, continue to read just
tell them that Nobody sent you
to find me.

IT exists, what twists,
then
raised fists, evil persists
what
then goes on behind the scenes
where
we won't find any on the media frenzy
like
in the deepest waters
in the deepest thinkers
in the deepest pockets
who is it that tinkers
with the root
of all the nerves of the rest of us,
real violence versus movie violence
you seen one you have seen them all
are you immune
                    and your compassion fall,
some one wrote how the "West failed Egypt,"
who did the East fail then, South Korea?
but again that is what we are led to believe
and allowed to see, really not the whole story,
take it to the Area 51 as IT is said by the CIA,
There is no place like home,
that has peace,
have we been fleeced,
free water from the ground sold for
billions all around, I did not sign up for this
let that nestle in your thoughts, in your nest,
C I A
C I B
C I see,
what is reality, do I really, even exist beyond
this moment or am I in the mist,
           or will I be missed, are they shooting at me yet and still
quick pass me the bottle of approved pills, mouth so dry I can't
spit or swill or swallow to wash down, all the garbage, "out there
beneath the pale moonlight,
Someone's thinking of me and loving me tonight
Somewhere out there someone's saying a prayer"    

For peace
for mercy
for the children
who have only
seen, known
breathed air where
death erodes the hope
while we play at violence on
video games  - terminal disease,
PLLEASE, there are foundations
to help, as these countries don't have
leaders, they have bleeders; who take
the riches, while others spend it all
dying on the streets, of places they
used to call neighborhoods, are now markers
where martyrs
forgot to get out
of the way, no shouts
other then agony and misery
no friends to an honest living,
because
they are not
there to see the next days dawn,
chaos consumes even the sun
as black clouds rise and dust
is kicked about from the rubble
of exploded dreams
of trampled hope
of life that does not reflect love.
Who can talk about love at a time like this?
It will be all right it will okay,
it is not your Neighborhood,
well at least not today, witness
or
is
it?

four feeble pairs of wings
flapping, beaks preening
                                           imaginary things.

mom bird looking old
pop bird real bold
their four offspring
                                are being told

"avoid the black birds
the biggest and the blackest"

they perch on the rooftop
near the gutter, cheeping
                                          loudly all a flutter

even in the bird world
the squeakiest young'un
                                         gets the greasiest grub

diving, landing, more
feeding on demanding,
mom and pop bird are
in charge, "beware of wings
                                               size, LARGE"

finding a wet garden bed,
beaking the broken ground till
tiny pebbles and tiny insects
                                                feed the hunger digest the rest.

Young wings no longer frail,
flight and landings
                               dive and lift, glide
and swoop, and land alight
                                              on the edge of a solo flight
until the three birdboys and one birdgirl
                                                        ­            find a mate, each

(And give mombird and popbird a wel-deserved rest)

                                                          ­                             oh and as for the three bad birds
                                                           ­                            in all black tuxedos, they were chased
                                                          ­                             and they raced away from six fast
                                                            ­                           fearless finches

there is nothing to absorb the shock, the hurt
there is less than there was, but never enough
there is a way but it is a blind alley, fear has closed
                                                          ­                    my
                                          ­                                   eyes
there is no one to trust, so we trust no one
there is page after page of pages of words that mean nothing
       (the internet is a desert and it all looks the same)
there is an end, we have sown sadness, we will reap madness
there is  a Lover of our soul,
             if all else fails and we find shoals
             we know we won't be alone
             as the ocean of sharks gets frenzied
             as we struggle tangled and are denied
             pieces inedible we find the deepest trench
there is a tough decision, hard one, gut wrenching,
                                     it is so cold and so dark sunk so deep
                                                 still sinking, into the silence
                                                         ­             which paralyzes the soul

S.O.S.
S.O.S.

S.O.S.

"little bird, little bird
why don't you run"
(said the orange cat as big as the sun)
"little bird, little bird
you don't cheap a bit"
(said the orange cat stalking closer than close)
"little bird, little bird
why do you dance
and skittle so?"
(said the orange cat raising a clawed paw)
little bird
looked the cat straight in the eye
"lean closer cat to hear my
words as I am too weak with despair
if my wings were not clipped, unfairly
I would far away fly,  but you
were so entranced
with me, I forgot
to introduce
my friend
the dog!"

this is short and sweet,
things have soured,
was in the ocean,
found and trusted a raft,
was I daft,
now been cut adrift,
raft is rotten top to bottom
to the core of the heartwood.
there is a rift in
my naive trust
of circling sharks
of pirate people
who disarm you
with kind words
then throw nets
trap the free
flight our birded wing.

She flies no more.
Broken wings,
can't be restored,
Bullies sometimes
dress in suits and ties
and where brotherly
and sisterly disguises.

So sad