who I am,
is not what I do,
I am not old,
but I am old enough,
                                  to know better, whoever she/he/it is,
what I do,
is using my senses,
I am not unkind
but I am that kinda shy type,
                                                not a wall flower, but bring in the poeple and you won't find me,
you can read in silence,
you can read aloud,
you can cho[p and mince
words or absorb it all like a sponge,

maybe one day, someday,
I will tell you who I am, no I am not famous, I am not Epic,
I doubt most truths and the ones I don't, I am still trying to
stand
under
are you sure you read that right?

Humour has helped me survive to everyone else's bane,
dysthymia is to be a temporary curse, so far four decades,
does not seem in the temporal, to me,
my glass has a crack and it is always have empty for what I
don't have, I make up in humour, not jokes (they are for the mean)

but enough of me, for this is about poetry,
how IT saves little bits of sanity, watch the woe in me,
(I use that line alot you see)
why so transparent, why so vulnerable,
this is just scratching the surface,
but enough of me,
for this is about empty gardens with rusty gates,
barn with no roof and an appetite to sate.
for if a person is a goof, sure there are few who relate,
"for you will see more foolish things than these" to
paraphrase a fool before the Lord, someone whose heart was adored,
for it was always after God.

There is much in a life the strife, the pain, soap and hot water
does not take away or wash it down the drain, or the trouble river
which has a bridge built on pillars of, naivete and emotions, in that river,
with the water riding high showing portholes of watery eyes in tear ducts,
that run freely, because they were born free, we are all prejudiced by birth
until we become self-aware and accept what value all humans are worth,
at par.


©DWE022014

there will be no poetry tonight,
the sky is clear and if'n there be a moon
                    there will be light.

the traffic plays a base note tune,
the frost lands softly, a delight,
nothing sinks faster than a frozen balloon.

there will be light,
that shines into the lives of ruin,
gathered in packs, of two or three this night.

the tears that fall on this freezing night, collect in a heated spoon,
there will be a night light,
whereever the homeless sleep, entrances, streetlights of even the new moon,

there will be light,
snow by Sunday a boon,
for the ski hills and plowmen who,
have not made any money to go to Cancun,

but there will be no poetry tonight,
the dog is ill and there is no clue in,
the stars as to what is wrong, but there will be light.



©DWE012014

words can't sooth some wounds,
kind words are not a balm except to the soul,
if each day is an emotional edge and precipice,
what tenacity, but it takes the toll
pay a price, the entrance fee is steep,
no one is asking you to live gracefully,
Janus had two faces and you do not,
you may feel pressure of force to fracture,
to fit what every one expects of you,
but what is one beautiful sad girl supposed to do,
she writes poetry filled with woe you see, you see?
she is a mom, R E S P E C T, that is what you get from me,
as for the rest,
you will do your best,
there others out there with similar tests,
                                                          ­      of the human spirit,
as for God, He has big shoulders, go for a walk and let him know
where He dropped the ball, but on the way back, be prepared to listen
to Him and Him alone, is all,
baggage we all have,
If I could take one piece of yours,
and carry it for 1 year, I fear I lack the courage or the guts,
                                                           ­  and I would use alot of buts to
explained why I failed and you succeed,
you do have choices,
please see that you do,
ask for help from those around you,
you do have choices, that sounds empty, hear the echo...
I should throw in a disclaimer,
but I can hear "it is easier to blame her"
but we all know that is not true and that is from the Pit,
I care, but knowing you are no where near here,
makes me unsure what good this will do here.

with eyes so old seeing it all was easy,
spinning around there is nothing queasy,
in the head
but one thing yet to be seen
refreshing, so crisp so clean
that
makes knowing what to look for from the start
being so close to what is really is feel the pounding heart
dare not go closer, mistaken for the wrong stuff,
nothing tough and sinewy or even tougher,
is
this way and that way, can't find a way, even in the fog,
with the biggest **** spotlight shining out, so much light that my
silhouette is pasted to the fog, like Davinci's pointing man
the
way, fully vulnerable and exposed, wingspan equals altitude,
it would be a loss to fall from your own height,
not from the "mountains of madness" over and over an
edge
of no return, or what is the point,
of a sharp blade, for the dull witted, but what
of glory, that is the edge of glory
don't let them catch me peering
                     I have found it.

walk one foot in front of the other,
not your normal gait,
the sobriety test pace,
just to see the looks on peoples faces,
at shoulder height,
put your hands out to the side,
make sure the cyclists ride
in their lane with the traffic, not where we who, walk the walkway
touch your nose with alternating fingers,
touch the sky with hands raised,
pull the invisible bell cord,
                      you know the ding-dinger,
now stop perfectly still close your eyes and listen and smell,
is your life richer
are you more at peace,
what did you make
creatively
that the Maker marked your place in destiny
throwing words down on a page,
just hurts some words
throwing life down on a page
bring life to those words,
are your ready to live up to what you write,
or maybe you are writing a new life,
as a form of therapy, be honest, what is inside,
that kicks your pride, across a busy bullied road,
of people who act like road rage is a right
whether or not they are in a car,
oh
wait
you don't have to stand still
anymore,
sorry I left you
back there,
it is dark now,
hear me call, come this way
you won't fall
but hurry and don't be late,
that parcel of words close to your
heart needs to be shared,
I won't dare you,
that is not what those so close to the edge do.
But here is my hand if and when...



©DWE012014

oh,
busy life events,
that blow in and fill a tent,

of canvas,
with more wishes, than ways to entertain them.
my dusty wind blown whimsical wishes,

trampled by the heavier, well, Others
wishes, that bury mine,
they bring their own dirt,

to bury mine, doesn't hurt to put up a sign, painted "Here lies the dreams of..."
too bad mine, they wished to be
cremated, if theynever saw the light of day, nor came to fruition,

chased about place, but not caught or captured, but tumbled
around in the hay, the scarecrow way,
just kick the oil lamp over, or "the light unto my path" over,

and let the flames lick the pain of loss away.




©DWE012014

shake the key prints from fingers at the end of the day,
walk on the sidewalk leaving a trail of all the alphabet used
to get through the day,
rinse and spit, rinse and spit,
wash out the mouth, that said words, combining letters and sounds,
to get a message across,
can't close the eyes for the walk home,
traffic would honk, as I wandered on the road, or the only vehicle that is dangerous is the one you            
                                                 ­                     don't hear.

Breathe breathe, congested inverted air now gone, except at each stop light,
it may seem fresh, it may seem clear, for the dozen minutes to home,
the lungs comb air from the building and air from the pollution,
what is the solution sought?

Leave it all behind, don't let infect, reject, misdirect, what needs to be said.
This is a free read, as well as a freewrite, in spite of all the bureaucracy
that waded beyond knees, so if books are published with poems or prose or
a mother's memoir or a monstrous surreal pieces of fiction, buy them all please,
and send the message needed to be heard... go home, and write so much more.



©DWE012014

There is garbage in and garbage out,
more of it stays in, leaves doubt,
what to think of life and there about,

the cost of msinformation

when you lay down your head for bed,
and your stomach is full, there is no dull lull
in the energy, inside see, oh there is a problem

the cost of winding down, the clock that
goes tick tock, ticktock, all night
as you glow in the dark, from metabolic sparks,

fitness hits every attribute of your life,
physical,
emotional,
spiritual,
social,
intellectual,
mental,
vocation, in no particular order,
adapt or become fossiled grizzle,
life will go on while you fizzle
out
of
existence,

It really is about knowing when you are full, and of what,
It really is about knowing when you are empty and need a refill,
of what won't make you ill kept, ill tempered, ill so others do not
keep, their distance... by the way
how are things in NYC to night? One week to go...till that Big Game
What about Australia and all points between,
and how is that other side of the Atlantic doing,
I won't go further than that because I have to riot,
and I am having one writing this.



©DWE012014

late, darkness falls not lightly
                                   but nightly,
moon gathers up the fog,
to let a new damp cloak go again,
in the morning when,
the sun drags up and out,
from the grasses,
from the brush,
from the tallest reaching
arms that trees have to
dance with,
the veil,
before it returns to where the
stars applaud,
as meteors weave,
warp and weft
that make the next
days misty
morning drape
to soften the
harsh glare
       and stare,
of the unkind,
of the concrete
blockheads,
who have rebar for brains,
of the makers of pain,
of the committed sharp cutters
who want
no softness, as that is where love
takes hold
while waiting late and lightly.


©DWE012014

Walking in the morning fog,
icy patches, watch those missteps,
the mist it hovers, street lights
get glowing eyes, squinting, sizing
up their appetite, as you are devoured
going forward.

Then out of the soup that tastes like
every asthmatics worst nighmare,
comes a howl and a growl,
we will call him greybeard, and
it was weird how a grown man,
growled and howled while he
sat on frozen wood, at five fifty-six AM
and growled and howled at the
glowing eye above him as there was
no moon.

He never saw us as we moved past,
picking up the pace we moved fast,
he must have ice in his veins,
ice on the road, and sidewalk,
veins of light and in his body,
must have been the hand sanitizer,
coursing through his veins,
having a howling goodtime,
with the cold empties lined up behind.


DWE012014

Presented the ring, surprise,
                       look, at her eyes,
                     himself, surprisal!

a gentle puff of air, and the stream of fragile spheres fall,
gravity takes them down, against the air currents inside that want to fly,
higher, the rainbows skitter across the round surface,
as her excitement bursts with a chirp and smiling face,
her feet can not keep still, it is against her will not to touch,
so many float from the wand as she watches them with such,
wonder,
such awe,
delighted, and
as gentle as her touch is, they pop, and with an "awww", she moves
onto another, until the air is still and bubbles are all at rest,
she softly says, "more, more...please", while almost clapping her hands
reloading the small wand a voice answers "Here we go,...again"


©DWE012014

I could write of many things, I could say it in the right jargon,
But I am doing this for free, so consider it a bargain.

If you spend the years ahead, as determined, when you did this job,
Your dedication to retirement will be, full and completely yours,

You have a home arond which to putter or you could go to a golf course and repair your game,
but Don't change. You have often said, "I am not the man I used to be, or maybe I never was."

If you get bored or lonely just don't file, your tax returns and one of us, is sure to call.
I have learned that when I have a problem, and I must "not hesitate to deal with it."

Whether it be your quiet effective wit or your common sense wisdom,
Or the few words exchanged, I would turn, and see you working hard at the job again.
Dedication, you never punched the clock, you would leave when the day's work was done.
Retiring will pay dividends, you are dedicated to a plan, and you have a plan,right?

Having no list of things for you to do or "how to" occupy your time.
You could take up writing poetry, and I have a spare dictionary on rhyme.
You are at the pinnacle, peak condition, the top of your game, quite a climb,eh?
From now, whether you travel far or travel near, each day, enjoy the view!
I have much enjoyed working beside you, thanks for putting up with me.



©DWE012014

Circles and ovals made in space,
As sweat rolls of a brow and face,
legs piston forced, make the pedals,
go round and round,
                                  steady cadence to the musical
chamber, it is so full of sound, notes fill it full
while the legs go up and down and pedals go round and round,
the rest
of the gym
is full of sound
but nothing is
heard in my head                                       except the sound of "quitting would be nice"
as my ear buds are
pumping sound
to keep the legs
going up and down as
the pedals go round
and round and the
arms can handle the
need to pull to keep
the rhythm, and not
break pace, now the sweat pours down my face,
streams roll, hydrate more
as so do the hills, so climb                                           " off the bike before the grade increases and"
the gear increases,
a need to pound out
to the sound, at this pace
a twenty total minutes,
then my feet will
walk on ground, feeling strange
toweling off and cleaning
the stationary machine,                                              "it is not a machine it is a monster"
the workout is complete again.

Next stop the shower, to drown the voices of doubt and admonition, this is my life and I am on a mission.


©DWE012014

This is for you,
Not for the things you have done,
Not for battles lost or battles won,
This is for you,
For whom you are,
I know, sometimes she disappears,
Or you lose track, but she comes back,
This is for your bubble,
The place that is safe,
To do art, to enjoy life, to find that PEACE, sorry peace,
That passes, not life tests, instead
The peace that passes all understanding,
This is for you, it may not help when you are tired,
It may not make the sleepless nights go away,
This is for you, I understand the physical pain,
But we will hope, I will continue to pray, you will continue to gracefully dance,
               a brush and paint and mixed media, all art, for others eyes to see,
                                                            ­                                 so beautiful, yet for therapy,
To share your happy,
And for your own heart.

I don't think we were ever meant to retire,
                         I truly believe with the desire
To create beauty, until....eternity rises,
Like that slow moving elevator at the doctor's office.


©DWE012014

Nowhere to go
but up
           ergo ego
                        stringing me along.

©DWE012014

It matters not the hours,
The quick five minute showers,
to rinse and wash the sweat away,
from the workout or just the day,
rinse the dust of worldliness,
to finally rest in peacfulness,
let quiet be your hepa filter,
bring you away from off kilter,
body breathing, absorbing calm,
healing those weary bones with balm,
yup
a time balm,
my pillow, my friend,
my head is full of poisoned thoughts,
wrong bill of goods the I cheaply bought,
I need a time balm,
if when it goes off silently,
and there is nothig left of me,
the self that came through the door,
at the end of the work, plusiers choses,
tying my smile back to a grimace,
clothing fused to my skin,
I have become the job,
help me step away for my job is in trouble,
it tried to rob me of my soul,
my pillow, my friend, add a bubble,
push the button, light the fuse,
for it is noisy in my head and refuses
to go quietly and seriously
I need the relief, not grief,
of the time balm.

©DWE012014

Rain drop
                  falling
                   sends sonar
                    signals out
                  calling,
                               for any sign of life
the few, are many
                       drops
                   falling
                    calling
                      to know that they are not
alone.
                      Ring
                       signals
                      go out from the splash,
there is no drought
                        about these parts,
   there is no pout,
                                  on faces of the
dropletsfor their cloud mother,
                                  lets them
                                   all by and by,
releasing each one
                           until
                            she is done, which
                          lifts
her, lets her drift
                        with the wind.        


DWE012014

she sat, back to passers by,
just out of the pouring rain,
wet hair, feet too, both socks soaked,
through and through.



Her short blonde-dyed locks were more like a pointy sponge drying in the wind.

rearranging to find dry things to wear,
blue gauze dress dripping water too,
naked to her underwear, without a care,
she put on her polka dot pajamas,
that were meant for nights you played twister, with her.


But she was so alone.  On concrete steel stairs at a mall
central to the city where being a street person is a
measured percentage of the population,

                                      what frustration,
and with distrust she stared anyone down,
talked in an angry voice, to everybody around.         But there was no one,
who would stop, three over stuffed bags of belongings
while swearing and tossing her
head, longing to be someplace warm,
                                 away from harm.            That got her to this point in time.

Her feet were covered, and maybe warmer,
she packed and repacked all that she had,
and she was mad, like angry,
and on concrete stairs, and on user beware, and on the bottom of the arc
of her life so far,
so far away from the dreams she had as a little girl,
so far away from the hopes that she now only copes,
from one breath to the next breath and smokes a cigarette in between.

Alone, she knows better not to despair, no one would care if she did.

©DWE012014

her dress was blue gauze
                           because there wasn't much there,
                                                          ­         for hair, or makeup
                                                          ­             after her breakup, she went to the mall and used
yes uses, the outdoor steps for a changeroom, putting on her polka dot pjamas, once that
could be used, for the game of twister.
                                           Poor sister.

She took it all off in the downpour,
                     she chose not shower, the water was too cold and refreshing,
                                               make her catch her breath while wretching,
                                                      ­  no one walking by found her fetching,

they all turned away as they walked by,
so did my wife and I but she checked
and confirmed, the stairs were her change room, she was putting on dry clothes
she had three overstuffed bags, her feet were cold and wet, her socks were wet,
we did not see any shoes,
sadly her angry looks at
the invisible people she
muttered too
uttered curses loudly
kept anyone wanting
to help far away, as far away as Oz,
whoever wanted to be a bridge for her troubled water,
and all she needed and all she wanted was a dry place
to lay herself down,
sail on, silver girl
sail on by,
there will be serious prayers for you tonight, because God does not
make life trivial, we do,
take your bags,                                                            ­          He will cover you with wings
and your baggage, in your hands,                                   He is sufficient, to provide for your needs
is all that you own in those purses and bags, but you are not alone,
even if you have been given up for lonely.
Will someone be sent to help her?



©DWE012014

the war they say is many centuries away,
  different continental breakfast, different time warp zone
there is an ocean and a sea between...well,  understanding and action

then they don't understand war,
they don't know what it is to fight a cause, except for personal gain
they hired people to do just that, the fighting part
                              as a matter of fact,
                             they cut them lose
                             with out a thought
that when the soldier came back, they brought
more back
with them than they could handle,
faces of strangers, places of danger, all you are glad is you day is done and a rucksack under your head, lives of friends and pieces left behind,

then why does it take a battle while some one on some Hill
                                      rattles
a sabre, cutting what is approriate care for someone whose
mind is still there, war changes you, if it doesn't and you don't
adapt to fight a war...YOU DIE.

sadly though no one has learned
                               that it is burned, into your brain,
                              into the heart that earned
respect of peers and villagers,
                            well diggers, and such,
cattle drovers, but no one,
but no one knows, how to reset, refresh, return to the naive
state of mind where the past is blinded to your present life,
where the army sees you as broken out of policy, how words
on paper know people right to their guts, beats the crap out of me.

It is more than hugs and teddy bears
they need to know you sent them there
and you were not over on sandy ridges,
or I E D bridges, and culverts, patrolling
but hang onto them
to show you care, and will always be there when
they argue with a loved one, startle when others
make a loud noise, cry when every one else is laughing,
or just need a moment to collect their scattered thoughts.

I have never served, in a war zone,
I left the army many, many years ago,
I know now, I would have been changed, if it me returning as damaged goods
                 some may have thought my actions deranged
but all I would be trying to do is get the fresh air in to my lungs
and stop the tears as they stung my eyes, but there is no one to hold my hand.

there is war
there is a war,
for hearts and minds,
            found in minefields,

there is chaos,
there is a chaotic trend,
to steal your peace, your sleep,
              until the end, yes the end.

adding swear words,
would not add to what this
does say about the world, for ... wait listen, do you
hear IT, running down the drain,
a cleansing rain,
let me run outside,
with a towel and board shorts,
rip across the parking lot, jumping in puddles
until the people from their windows shake their
heads and mumble,
that somebody ought to call the police,
but no one does, meaning no one will,
for they want me to suffer and fall ill,
a consequence
of the quenching drench,
that I took, as my flipper feet, ran slapping
the asphalt, to the end, the end where I
looked over the edge, and saw there is more,
where that crazyness came from,
there is more.  I will behave if I can just reach out and touch....

Language Corporate,
disease of words,
too many spoken
mis-          stood,
       under

too many in print
              to imprint,
themselves on your psyche,
meaning less
               than they did
before, but somehow affect you
more

a semantic
dance to,
position themselves
           the body corporate,

over head,
over your head,
they have you  in a ***,
while slowly increasing the heat,
on the stove,... how's the water?

the sound of water, tells of waves,
each one thunders,
rolling in not even the wind behaves,
on my bed the pillows
soften the sound, hold my head and quiet the waves,
no longer
do they pound, the round curled ocean fingers,
roll and land,
with weight clawing at the sand covered rocks,
little by little,
taking it all away to leave only the sound of
the water rolling.




©DWE012014

You meet need
         not greed,
You meet
shameless want,
You see eyes
that haunt,
Stand clear of
the purpose driven,
You barely notice
the ones given up on livin'
Then there are the innocent,
                                to feed.

Rainwalking
black umbrella, dark as the sky,
over head clouds moving slowly by,
dropping misty curtains as they go,
unveiling what my four eyes see
ahead, beyond the spots.

sidewalk walking,
glass topped bus stop,
straight ahead and slightly left,
blue sky tarp,
covers two shopping carts,
mirrored squares decorate the front,
hiding more belongings,
bust show your expression
       if you dare look, yourself,
in the eye as you are judging him,
homeless, and using,
a corner of a bus stop as a storage depot,

temporary,

until a complaint, brings the transit police,
and a pickup to steal it all away,
oh and they brought their tazer, "just in case..."

"next stop, 94A and King George Boulevard,
                                           Surrey Memorial Hospital"


©DWE012014

in the wild, there is nothing mild,
oh sure, there are sedate centipedes,
bobbing butterflies,  owl calls that
echo along forest walls, even the plants
can supplant your will to live,

but today

a different sort of experience,
they showed their teeth,
the puffed and snorted,
I didn't dare retort,
and did not make eye contact,

then on the streets,
some physically assault,
some slink in shadows,
take out hockey moms,
and eighty year women
with purses, curse these cowards,

but today,

surrounded in a confrontation zone,
my heart beat wildly in my chest,
my arms and legs felt heavy and tired,
I prayed for protection in this test,
of wills, they flex their muscled limbs and
are not alone, while I flew solo,
at ground level, staring bared teeth,
and territorial ownership at stake,
I was looking for two dumbbells to finish
my work out


©DWE012014

I sat in a catatonic state
Looking forward to sate
my appetite
for coffee,
but unable
to move or enjoy the taste.

Frozen.

A mask of glazed eyes blinded
by a bright white light, reflected so much more
was I standing on the wrong train tracks,
had I died and waiting for my turn in line,
was this my karma as a deer in the headlights?
none of these had a chance to cross my mind.

a figure silouhetted poured from that light,
her features delicate and skin so pale, in an eerily
beautiful way, was that her hair or wingtips peering
draped gracefully over her shoulders, and she asked me
"would you like to try our new mocha and vanilla via?"

I saw spots of white, and said "I would if I could see ya,
please step closer but out of the light"
as she stepped out of the light and to my side,
I just realized this whole time I had been trapped by
a reflected beam of light from the sunshine outside,
that found a highly polished mall marble floor, next time,
and there will be a next time, I will wear sunglasses
so as to not be served, like fine wine, before my time.

she has conversations from all sides,
                                            besides,
they happen in her head, in the brain,
                                             no strain,
                    no one to argue or have a conflict,
                            she does not have to restrict,
what she says
         that way,
problem solving and solution finding, not binding, brilliant
but without knowing it,
if you say something against it,
she may wonder did I say all that out loud,
her face will fall but that is not all, she will burn with Anger,
until she settles,
the internal battle
in her own way
she doesn't want her way,
she wants the voices to go away.
And take Aunty Anger with them.



©DWE012014

shut it down, shut it down,
but it will not,
try on a bed, one pillow under your head
                                                            ­       not two,
how about a cot,
                          no naps on the spot,
                                                           a glass of warm milk or two,
warm water won't make you ill what if
a warm shower instead,
                                      a routine, hour by hour,
                                                           ­                until it is that time to stop,
stop caffeine, after two in the afternoon,
read Moby **** or War and Peace, be with you as you rest,
maybe eat earlier instead of late, no deserts after eight PM,
praying may help, read a Holy Book with time to listen to God
for your soul or physical stretching too, failing all that,
systematic muscle relaxation from toes and feet
                           up through each muscle group
                           to the eyes and face then fall asleep,
                           clench the muscle full, then halfway
I know I am repeating my self,
this is indigestion for the lack of digestion of what I said before,
count sheep,
count rocks.
count horn beeps,
try electrical shocks (with your doctors approval),
oh did I forget medication (ditto see your doctor),
left side, right side or back side,
change the bed direction,
or how about a quiet music selection,
less video screens, I am not even talking games,
phones and tablets are to blame,
tap your chest over your heart, in time, in beat
breathe so that the emphasis is on emptying out,
the lungs will on automatic refill themselves,
dust your room, empty shelves (before bedtime)
warm the bed or have *** instead,
write out a to do list so when you
sleep you won't lose what is
important to you,
like sleep.


©DWE012014

walking from A to B,
no this is not geometry,
but it might as well be,
as with your eyes, see,
well what do you see,
unless you live in BC,
you won't see me and
I in turn won't be free,
to see you.

with your eyes, that first glance,
take a risk that is hazard's chance,
don't step closer or bend down,
log it away in your card file brain,
before it is washed away to the drain
or picked up as treasured claim.

use your eyes, with that first glance,
no glossing over, might miss romance,
call it flirtation, or orchestration, you
are the maestro and the other, the ensemble,
well, conduct yourself accordingly but tumble
safely.  

those eyes so beautiful you have, can find words,
to clear the tears off your cheeks with the
new merino wool sweater sleeve and
that intense emotion that has
you locked and loaded as
someone goaded you
again,
and again,
and again, if this was *** that would be fine,
but it is not and your vexed
at how poetry rocks
your world but
also rocks the boat,
whenever you take
the time not to memorize by rote (that would be too staight forward)
take the technology out for a walk,
instgram your photo of your poem and share it on facebook, and
twitter while showing your interest on pinsterest, how is that *******
working out for you?,
or dot those eyes and cross your teas,
take ink or graphite, and write about
your sorrows, your joys, your day, your dreams,
what you saw,what you thought saw, like a puddy cat,
you did, you did and that Bugs me I forgot the color or was
                 it just me and invisible over there?
You get conflict, at that first glance at your notepad,
or keyboard or mumble "I need to write this down,
before I forget".  That first glance you take, all else fades to black,
                                                          ­                 until you write.



©DWE012014

the water was dark, as asphalt,
nothing could be seen, until
looking real close, the fish moved
so
slowly,
among the lowly seaweed,
if they could laugh, then seaweed
                                        would
           ­                              know
                                      that fish
                                     are ticklish
                                   at this depth.
So in defence
of their weakness,
for their troubled
neighbours,
the fish as a group
has a stratagem, ahem
to release bubbles from
                    both ends,
but only while amongst
                  the seaweed.


©DWE012014

buzzing and landing,
         not demanding,
any attention at all,
            on the wall
rather be not visible,
life can be miserable,
       things can go boom
   while I'm in the room,
      if someone tries to flatten my face
stand back and just give me my place
                    on the wall
                    on the wall
                     that is all
I want,
is to hang out,
and hang off,
near the air as it
floats by, with treasured
                        aromas
                        to be tasted
                        at my leisure,
                        unless one of them
                        goes into a seizure
                        and begins to beat
                         space and time,
            some surreal pantomime,
missing me
strike one two three
           why are they not out?
Errol Flynn they are not,
caped crusader,
or
Darth Vader,
hero and villain,
in pursuit of a fly,
my oh my, such moves, such grace
all to flatten my face against a wall,
I am so glad, with such a mess, I was small.



©DWE012014

trois cent soixante cinq jours
that have been spent by each and everyone,
blue sky, rain clouds, every where under
                                          the same sun,

the same sun, day in and day out,
rise to set to rise
                         AGAIN.
so dark right now I sit at my desk and
see only me in the reflection of this
window in the co-pilot seat
                    dog at my feet,
she has my back, nose toward the door,
nothing comes in without her noticing
oh where was I,
so many places already have welcomed
                          2014,
so much traffic on the the boulevard,
sirens singing there urgent call,
get to your parties, get off the streets,
be safe, be wary
fire crackers,
fire works, you bet it does,
the stars will never be so close
until they explode above our heads, nearby
next year is nearly here so close, nearby
friends few, family too, nearby,
God bless all of you, nearby
tangle of lives, tangle of signal,
tangle of words, emotions mingle,
oh to be cold to it all then only death, would await nearby
that is not how the old leaves and turn color,
and the new arrives very soon in Yonkers,
which is not very close or nearby,
this year has been an education, by any measure,
these poems all, quatre cent quatre vingt deux
que j'ai ecrit en 2013 has been that pressure,
valve or release and meagre creativity, nearby
close at hand,
to prepare
the soil, to let me toil,
as I wrestle and roil with sentiments
instead of sediment, nearby.  


©DWE122013(finale)

you would think that growing up you could leave somethings behind,
but each day, by this one or another and even family, you get carried
back,
back,
and back,
to a time when defending yourself meant you were outnumbered,
your memories tell you they never stopped and you knew you were
not the only one, but they always made time for you,
down,
down,
and down,
so you became the clown, fast with your words, not with your feet,
you know how many times sitting down I somehow missed my seat,
you know how many times with my books, I played hide and seek,
and that was elementary school,
stares,
after stare,
while stars,
closed the night overhead and your pillow on your head and you
would dream that dream that tomorrow would be better and they
would see the good in you and make up for lost time and call you friend,
but,
but you,
would wake up,
to being the **** of the jokes as you got older the stakes got higher,
now you had to fight or be called as well a quitter, a crier, the higher
the grade the more they played with you like a worn out soccer ball,
deflated,
patches worn,
once they beat you down, you were left in a field of your own misery,
as your tears poured like rain, your own storm of the pain, that inside
of you was shaping castle walls, armour plate, look you in the eye,
and there
was steel,
no feeling, give them no fuel to feed the fire of their desire was a thought, but
you were no longer reeling, you were tired, just wanted it to end, you knew how,
you knew they would talk about you, when you were gone but they would
move on to someone else, so you stuck around, drove a banner into the ground,
saying
no more,
not me,
no more,
not one other,
we all now see,
"how weak and sick and twisted your life is, look in the mirror do you like what you see,
the ugly, every word and name you ever called me and everyone else is written on your
face, permanent ink, what a disgrace" threw my broken geometry case between two, while the third one, dropped my books from an open second story window.

The grade twelve teacher arrived to muffled laughter, all eyes on me, tears rolling from eyes, no control, in the blur I did despise every one in the class, he said to me "What is your problem?" I left room running and slammed the door, cracking it from hinge to hinge to floor.

I was never again bullied, no more, no more...
However, choose a path of peaceful resolution,
these three became, no not friends, but they did
respect my throwing arm.


©DWE122013

I can't end the year this way,
the title of this piece won't sway,
It is not an anchor to hold the stay,

but wait and listen to the choir singing
as they practice in the church hall down
the road, with too many cars, so listen...closely
and you may hear the high notes on
a night clear like this, just like this,

the information that swirls on and on,
about people, places and events,
homeless people kicked out of the park and tents,
political figures mishapen by absolute power,
absolute greed,
absolution to them a quick rinse in a shower,

more information feed my gluttonous mind,
I absorb none of it as there is newnews to find,
there is a woman out there
who has a reputation for causes,
wicked witch in the East beyond Oz,

gut check as some said
world paused to remember well,
so much left to do there as well,

Oh Africa!

The world's greed for your resources,
makes nasty fodder for the choices,
as to who is in charge this week.

So much pain, it is plain to see I can't write about it all, it would take an eternity.
A loss this year like no other, but a life to celebrate, who will Madiba motivate?

Natural disaster, filled with remorse after the eye of and storm has passed,
loved ones looking their loved ones lost, some evil gang backfills, a brand
of poison into the the void, the pain the anguish, in lives,
to steal the aid and make it their prize, to be aportioned at their will and price.

And George is back in the news...sad, so many things this year that make me
want to ball up my fists and punch the air, walk down the streets until I begin
to shout and let it out, harm no more, harm no more, anniversaries of bullets,

and little ones who touched, so many with who they were, I wonder who they would
                                            
                                                                ­     have been,    

I am not being flip and this is not Christianese, but God knows as the spirits they are
                                                             ­                  and He is.

There is no one poet
who can say it all,
there is no one place
that tears did not fall,
this may be a wrap up,
I have left so much out
and it falls so short,
maybe the ink I spill
is wrongly placed.

Tomorrow night at midnight, let's just embrace REFRESH!
not forgetting
lessons learned
poetic stripes
maybe earned
by writing or typing or wiping away tears
I could go one, but that is one of my fears,
...losing you.



©DWE122013

groans to laughter
what am I, after
riches not
a fool and his are soon parted,
fame not
I have had my fifteen ticks of shame,

time...
to
love...
never will have enough of either with her,
love...
the
time...
have so much gratitude for what has past
and what will be, what we have between her and me.
So what
am I, after...different before I met her.

She puts up with me
when I skip down
grocery store aisles
you see,
she laughs at my
humour and tells
others not to encourage
me,
she knows I can not rub her
back but she asks me any
way, and I may be getting better,
so it is gratitude, I display each
and everyday...maybe she will let me stay.

And the coyotes will
find something else to eat
or starve another night.

I rasp when I talk
until
paroxysms shake me to be quiet,
like some impatient ill-tempered,
thing inside my chest where my lungs
were last seen breathing,
now they shake like cans of rusty nails,
and a sneeze,
                    and a sneeze,
                                       and a sneeze,
till I and Fifi, have to go outside before
one of us wets,
how are you doing you ask and show caring,
not wanting me to be sharing whatever it is I have,
I answer with a muffled sound,
like my nose was dropped and I sat down on it,
"Unwell, hankyou, por assking"


©DWE122013

Essential Happiness

laughter, hope,
                peace
                beneath,
                the sunshine,
dance barefoot on grass,
to give to a child.


Simple Pleasures

kiss lightly
        more ecstatic
find comfort
        together
        which
          is
rainbows and peaches
      bluebird moments
             enjoy wonder.


Dare

some believe
           in possibility
some feel,
          know,
            have trust,
          they
                dare do share,
                from no  thing,
only the whisper of a soul.




©DWE122013

missing it again,
keeping hoping,
closer to land on,
a place,
but hearing a
beat of hearts,
not even a border
can stop,
the sun sets are not the same,
dream of what
will be one day,
family and friends
will say,
it has been too long,
            not too far away,
but something was missing
while you were away,
the sunrises just don't look right,
pick up the pieces and put
them where they belong,
like they were never gone.



©DWE122013

shhhhhhhh,
kick back put your feet up,
take a tea, let it steep deep,
open a red let the air go to its head,
get a book, shut it all down,
power off your phone and leave it alone
get off the grid, if there is one, with power
where you live,
flip the page as your mind steps on to the
terrain of words,
while your socked feet,
touch anothers under the cover of
not enough leg room,
but you care,
so you share,
the ottoman
as your imagination
goes to automatic and into the words
that create pictures and stir emotions,
that take you places and show
               you faces,
and lives,
and living beyond, the hurt,
the superficial,
the ache that seldom goes away,
the real world,
that may have spit
and you are hurled to the side,
and it always seems to be on the wrong one.

Take heart, this too shall pass,...

whether it be poetry,
biographical history,
   a short story, pulitzer prize winner,
a novel idea,
or a series with or without a quest,
may it be the best time you spend,
while being grounded in knowing
someone, near or far is reading
what you are reading and
is with you and with you and
is on the same adventure too.




©DWE122013

Minutes from now the Eve will become the Day,
Christmas yes, gifts of hands, gifts of food, away
from your beds, to embrace your family, for the
gifts will wait, but in this moment of embrace,
All Else Waits,
All Else Waits,
For that moment to pass, when you find where
You belong,
You have longed,
To fill the emptiness, but now newfound peace,
Is the brightest star beside the greatest gift,
Of love lifted, shared, to each an equal portion,
                                      Not by some magic potion,
From One, the desire to share with those who have not.
Until they do,
May All Else Wait.
Stars,
Desert wind.
Thread thinning and wearing,
Like nerve endings,
Store window dressing glaring,
"Over here look at me
You have no glitter and no glam,
Patch the holes in the fabric of your coat,
why not start with your heart",
Broken by a fall from grace,
don't listen, Don't hurry, don't worry,
We Love You
signed the human race


©DWE122013

No Snow Arriving                for Christmas
New Snow Aging                   now raining
Now Slowly Abandon             draining away
Next Season Awaits.





©DWE122013

I followed the tracks, in the snow, it was a three legged rabbit,
I was so sure, but then I stood back and watched from habit,
on the balcony,
above the lawn white with snow, they alternate front paws ******,
and they are still fast, in the snow.

Amid tears we smile and laugh,
Never have we been closer, than when we have been helping each other,
Now we know how to listen, even though sometimes it is to our own voices,
In the middle of all this, we still hug and kiss and hold hands awkwardly, and in the
Very icy slippery days of winter, she will still reach for my arm offered, for support,
Everyday I wake up I am thankful she is beside me,
Rich has my life been, have you seen her art?,
She is a great mother, as I read recently if she embarrasses them, they have not lived long enough,
Art she does, artist she is, colour to the darkness, her imagination
Reaches beyond the rainbow, somewhere, someday, somehow, you will still finds us together for
Years from the past added to years from now, we will still be having a blast!