To make, a

p r a i r i e,

it takes

a clover

and

one

bee, one

clover and,

a bee

and revery,

the revery -- alone

will do if bees,

are few…

Emily Dickinson

Ages past I was once a prized rose,
prized by a Beastly prince
prized by a promise since
filled, prized by a Beauty who chose
a simple request to be brought a single rose.

Please let me stop, to catch my breath
look not upon my petals withered
my thorns still own a fine point tapered
the Beast would not forgive the Merchant's transgress -
ion, so I was privy to a ransom demand, He then Beast, obsessed

that Beauty was to come of her own free will
otherwise Beast would the merchant ****,
(and remember I still lay on the ground, stock still
  not wanting to incur the wrath or step of ill will)
either of a Beast, my Master, or the Merchant, and his own disasters

to have arrived a thorn's point, a life and death balance, no act
no wonder once it was all done, I aged slower than the rest
but for Beauty missed her family and the Beast was in fact

Still a beast,

some say I was put under glass, some say under a magical spell
I was possibly picked up by beauty and she was pricked by a wicked thorn under her skin and a tiny drop of that love's blood sustained
me, think what that type of love, could do for the Beastly,

prince,

read the story for yourself, take a dusty book off the shelf
learn and live the lesson for your self and share your love,
like Beauty proclaimed hers,
and the Beast received then became the Prince,
from ugly, and the families all, filled the great hall,
Beauty had a marriage Banquet, the next day
I saw it all from my place, now let me retire, I fade faster
and in the end The Prince, his Beauty lived happily ever after.

Mind the thorns when you lay me to rest.

sky so true blue,
no ego or eagle, take flight in you,
not tonight, on cue
everything now to their nest, fly!,
night birds begin
to hoot havoc before the moon
hits their eyes and
they glow as a disguise makes them as bright
as distant stars.

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

Every journal I own is filled with invisible ink, waiting.
Waiting like Chuck Norris, for the action of writing!

The words are all there, written with care,
no shadows or mirrors, neither does Chuck
Norris need shadows OR mirrors.

He and the inked pages, are invisible , to the naked
eye, waiting for action.  The action of putting a pen
to those words is like Chuck Norris springing across
the room or words spilling across the blank page!

Inevitable and exciting, but first a disclaimer,
so if you continue to read, as the author or poet,
I, cannot guarantee that your senses will not be
assaulted, though your imagination will be tested.

In the end who will be left standing, who will be bested
Chuck Norris or you?

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.

there is good in all,
woman and man to a fault,
(the only bad came the result of a fall from grace)
being a woman does
not disqualify you from
a man's work,
men take note,
say with me by rote,
'I must stop being a ****."
(chauvinisima)

take my love to the next level
measure it against the bevel of the Platonic
lust is a bust, then there is love, gimme agape
every time after a time,
and after a while you might under-
stand beauty...real beauty...really understand,
take as much time as you need,
you need this time...to understand the sublime.

Stalking flies like they
were treasured prizes, was the feline.

Following the perp without being overt,
          weaving fleeing, rookie eyes.


©DWE092013

green, on the forest floor, moves
bit map shades, stay low, fool the eye,
as if the trees have roots to prove,
that all the while they were in touch
with the ground
with the ground,
the moss crawls as spores fly free,
ferns cover all with dignity,
Devils Club, only found in the lowest
of spots, taller than most men, with broad leaves
and thorns that leave nasty, red dots,
and a needle and void that fills with...
                  pushing them out, quite a fuss,
                  and some pain.

Same pain by a slightly different name,
Oplopanax horridus, or the Devils Walking Stick
has broad leaves above your head shade from the
sun and thorns on every surface
that break and stick and bury as you hurry
and brush by, slip on a mossy log and your
hand jets out for support, your face
                            contorts
to the magnitude of pain as it is plain,
these needles will stick in you and you
don't belong under the under brush.

©DWE102013

I have not yet read your book,
maybe others things took,
the time, your time, from mine,
I read what you said in another
written work to your brother,
Rich Mullins.

Brennan, I know you not at all,
and after your book, I may fall,
short of understanding who you are,
but that is a measure of me or how far,
I have to go to be nearer to God.

You have written more than one book,
and the face I see when I look,
at yours is a man who wrestled with those
things of God while showing love like the Rose
of Sharon.

I will miss you though I did not know you that well at all,
except, you like Rich, were both poets, thank you for being
you.  I still have your book and one day, I will, it, read.

oh fall is here all the real flowers begin to disappear,
I know what I will do, if it is okay with you,
I will find some fake greenery
borrow a live
stem or two, or three or four
or what the heck a whole bunch more
all real one's from my neighbours garden patch,
and then I will mix and match and call
it mine, put it on display, no one will know
what could they say,
and I will sing under my breath,
"it is a free world after all,
and my imagination is so small"
but I sure know how to borrow!


©DWE102013

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

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


©DWE092013

If I had an addiction it would be to chocolate dark,
What a laugh, what a lark.
I cannot be out of my mind, in any state!

If I had an addiction it would be to wine red,
What a joy, tannin's tasted, straight to my head,
I cannot say my life like a bottle emptied, was a waste!

If I had an addiction it would be to the written word,
Not what I have inked, typed, read or heard,
I cannot put on paper, with what the Bible fills me, till I am sate!

The school sign that stands
alone,
surrounded by grass,
has been painted,
the champions yellow-gold
colour
and with purple, fit for a
coronation,
yet winter has made, it
look old and dusted in brown powder,
while rain washed-lines
run down, stained with rust.

The old woman at the bus stop,
was dressed beautifully, when
she looked at me, and saw an
unshaven
split, wild boar, beard, she
stepped back in distrust.

My lonely "Good Morning"
echoed,
with my heavy sounding,
foot falls under the shelter
of the empty, new bus stop,
near the school's weathered sign.

I ran the gauntlet
at a walk, groups of students,
come by slowly, filling
the sidewalk, full.

Their faces shine with contempt for me,
as I walk to the shoulder-cold, side of
the road as
they talk,
they chatter,
making what they have
to say matter more,
when others try to interject.

Few, even, attempt to make space,
they don't share well or anymore,
unless,
with their thumbs to text.

The four eyes I have, and the
brown long low duck-bill brimmed
hat point down an empty sidewalk,
my worn boots, and my
footfalls echoes,
are now lost,
in the trees and the
rush of morning traffic.

I look toward where I work,
my breath sharply catches,
as I fight,
back the panic
of another day
away,
surrounded but
alone,
away from home.

He is a fish,
Just a Beta,
A better Beta fish,
there never was.

He has a home,
A crystal palace,
what was once a
cookie jar, is a
better beta fish tank,
by far.

There are no trees,
there are no sunken ships,
there is no plastic or real
plant  life,

but there is a legion of
rainbow rocks scattered,
                      no matter, on the bottom of
the best beta fish tank, yet.

He is blue, turquoise and green too,
he is not sad or mad, likes his food
and youtube music too, like me, like you
surround sound for the best basic beta
fish living in a best beta fish tank,
there never was.

He is so humble.
An average Beta Joe.

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.

who'd have the salt to
pour over a wound,
cleansing the edges
and the in between but,
I am thinking tears would
have been more gentle
and still clean these wounds,

but there is that hover,
of a possessive lover,
standing over the para-
lyzed form, docile and with
a mixed bag of contorted
postures, and your phone/
camera takes pictures
and videos just like a drone

from above,

it hovers,
in my worst dreams,
we are lovers and i scream,
not in passion or ******,
but you began twisting
and plucking all
your perfectly placed tacks,

I guess, at this juncture,
that book on acupuncture
was worth the weight,
in flesh,
and still you hover as
I stream consciousness
on my mattress that feels
like a dry rocky creek bed,
and over my four poster bed
a black crow hovers
and the beak resembles
your nose, so please as
I sleep let me wake with
my ugly toes, and my covers
intact and no lover hovering in my
room, and no betrothal to Groom.

The Olive GMC and the Mazda Blue
sat side by side,
To say my interest was not piqued too
I would have lied,
One flipped a knife while looking out,
they divided water,
Cheese, eggs, carrots, and more about
Provisions provided
Unkind thoughts with unsaid words,
were behind their bravado
in plain view.

Shock not awe, what had I watched, what had I seen,
Looking out after each other
Brothers in unity together bathed in criminality,
Awash in a tight knit community of wrong-
doers.
Were they about to run, or was this a trip
for hunting, who would know,
I could not hear the voices, only watch the
show, horror on my face, as they
looked around the place.

The battle is over
Now starts the war
Wary and watchful
Hour one through 24
I know we will take hits
They live like this
We are not trained
Except to call the cops,
And when, they get the
time, to come by and stop.

After all it is only circumstantial.
And for some of us it will be a disaster,
ruin, ruin, ruin us and push us beyond
our financial
limit.

Prayer spoken by man and wielded
by God,
Leave it to Him and His choosing,
seems odd,
To some and not to others,
join me if you can and if you will,
for Him to intervene,
before our place becomes
a crime scene.

body of water
liquid corpse
enclose a copse
of undersea
trees...

some standstill to
blend in, some wave
in a tai chi motion
some see weeds
some seaweed,

like fabric it wraps
taking shapes
by dressing
in designer
clothes,
ideas that float
enclosed
to the top
but not out of popularity
but all the
waves from
the deep,
that lift
the body
in the body
of water to float,
           to surface.

There are many wiser people, (wo)man,
where, wiser words, phrases that people can
say,
but  speak with love from lips with a,
voice, of reason with grace in time, peace, one day
mercy,
will be the contagion that will infect,
all, these are not soft words to find, to dissect,
great,
loss to learn, and more to achieve, demand,
cost, many lives and hard lessons, over and
over,
are we learning slowly or is the cause, wheels of
suspicion, turning on one another, afraid of strange ideals, of
who,
we are as people that say wise words, destruction
changing, not the greed, the need to be that percent, the seduction,
out,
of reach, out of touch, soiled-free lives, unrealistic
among, a common world, of uncommon people, heuristic
amazing,
solutions in lives where character is determined by the
grit, of coarse!

The globe spins,
smoother with
each rotation,
what winds,
blow us to
the ground , do
you stay down
or get back
up to meet
the next
blustery gust?

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.

The heaviness of my head, my eye-lids too, push me to nap,
The heaviness of my heart, drives my mind to do a recap
The heaviness of my heart, catches me daily in a rusted trap.

I put my head down on a pillow soft, needing peace and quiet,
My eyes close, I get none or less, I say "ringmaster stop the 3 ring riot!"
My eyes close, I get none or less, but heart pumps and pounds in private.

I do not have a positive thought, as everyday is, a battle fought.
Captured, imprisoned by my choice,  wheezing, throat tied in a knot
Captured, imprisoned by my choice, so this body; my cell, my lot?

Find some good, something right, don't be lukewarm in this fight,
For fresh air, for fresh thoughts, 'tis better to run away, choose flight?
For fresh air, for fresh thoughts, for my life - hit erase and then rewrite...

The pool of sweat I lie in, soaks my pillow and my hair,
Oh when will the day come that I will not choose to care,
About the wrong stuff, about going against the grain, beware...

Waking,
But wait, it was all a dream, life is fine, nightmarish nap leave me be.  
Eyes open once again.

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.

Diamonds on the wall of my blue room,
Dark chocolate by my bed, unable to enjoy,
Colourless whine poured out, it is just a ploy,
Sunshine through the blind of my tomb.

Oh pity where is thou sting, that barbed song you sing,
Oh death where is thy mercy that you grant,
Life won't be able to nag at me and rant,
What the  "Na Na Na na Na na, hey hey goodbye", brings.

My ears hear sour notes, my tongue taste flat ones,
How did I get here so fast, when I started last,
Finished first, did I cheat the torture of my past,
Racing my engine, beating itself, while I dream reruns.

Well,
well,
unwell,
once again, drifting off leave me be, let me nap till after three,
grant my heart a rest for Monday comes and another test.

DWE 2013-04-21

I watched the fog come in today,
pushing cold air out of the bay,
to where I stood barefoot, a traveler,
the sun became veiled, plans unraveled.

Cool May day at fifty two Fahrenheit,
fog shrank and shifted from grey to white,
rolled slowly  gaining size over crests of each,
rock face, all the way to every bridge and beach.

We chose a different path and drive,
Napa and Sonoma Valleys, so alive,
101 was the temp not the route,
stop counting the signs of repute.

I'll go back one day,
for in this life I have
                in no way,
tasted enough.

If you are not a dad, you have a father and have a Father,
But for those who do not have a father, you have a Father,
A Father whose Spirit fills your lungs like air.
Breathe in and hold Him so close.  Exhale and breathe in, again.
So comfort will fill you from the inside out.
He has a Son, you have a brother, do you know Him,
or of Him?
He has washed
you from the
outside in,
taken it all
away.  

We camped, I remember camping,
mom and dad would sit in the front
seat sharing a drink in a can,
"dusty gravel roads can bring out
a thirst in a man."  Sunglasses hid
their eyes from the glaring summer sun,
station wagon packed in the back,
tent trailer with a hard top towed behind,
windows rolled down to condition the air
temperature and the rush went through
our crew cut hair, Goldie a Sheltie dog,
hung out the window until the wind got
to fast to see blurred images going by
like memories, no clean lines to define,
what was my childhood.

Thanks dad and mom for camping.

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.

By the time you read these dots and dashes,
Most parts of the world will have those splashes,
of colour
that excite me and ignite a change
of a season,
for this reason the weather rearranges,
our calendars,
outdoor events move inside, lightening flashes,
go before thunderous sounds and crashes.

Uprooting and harvest, closure and clothing
changes, rain boots and umbrellas do the thing,
to keep us somewhat drier,
jacket on in the chill of morning,
jacket off and begin,
the humid commute home, people warming
and sit by the home fire,
with their feet up, yet summer mourning...
                                                     ­                  .
                                                               ­        .
                                                               ­        falls
                                             on the deaf ears of relentless change...

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!

Writing for social change
                             is strange,
as it seems words can do so little,
write the right message of peace, or accountability
                                                 from a place of humility.

You have to actively see and believe,
              educate yourself and receive,
knowledge like a digested victual,
you have so much freedom, a gift and not a wish,
                                    share yours on an others' dish!

Find a topic near your heart and soul,
                        staying silent takes a toll,
the masses can read and won't stay noncommittal,
write an editor or an  MLA, MP, the UN and wait and see,
                                                              or put it on Hello Poetry.

We may read, we may like, we may make a note,
you may not know the fruit of your planted seed,
                        until someone, somewhere succeeds
                                                                           or is freed.

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.

if you measure with a tool or a spoon,
the recipe or what you build may be a boon
of consistency, insistently...a hope

if you measure twice a reward thrice
may appear, increase in joy's result
and fear to disappear... a relief

health and mind will be renewed,
if only for the moment as, the darkness
takes a cloudy hold once more...a measure

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

how to describe out of control
by using an elephant in a barrel roll,

how to use colour to
explain black and white,

if there is a success story
this is not it, don't worry,

speaks well when he can
be heard, knows how to
use words, to inflict himself
upon others, thank goodness
he only has one brother,

likes fall more than spring
notes fall flat when he sings,

(if this were a real critique
this ain't going too well)

walks with a limp too fast,
hangs on to the past
by a thread,

hears sounds
at night that drive him
from bed, probably all in his
head...sigh...

that is just a snap shot of the
toxic wasteland some go through,

negative self talk will *****
with perception,

make one lose direction,
you want doubt, this way
to the insurrection,

life ends too fast,
it can be gone in an instant
gone in a flash,

be a dreamer no matter how big,
trick is, how to take the little steps,
to reach each one, (feel that... can't
even say the words,* success and joy*,)

by setting out to
do what I intended to
haiku this review

scored a five point five
out of ten, in this life,
if age and numbers matter.

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.

Walking in the bookstores, searching, questing, testing,
which book is the one, not for fun, or congesting,
IT will fill the hole in my dissatisfaction, it will give
meaning to an otherwise empty space filled by my warm

                                                                                      body.

I have been at this for years, sometimes I walk out with
less than I went in, other times I walk out with what I
bought and it is all for
naught and leaves me cold   to   the   touch,
                                     doesn't matter much,
in my dysthymic passive aggressive crunch.

I have Jesus, and I hope it does not take me
until eternity to have my ah-ha moment,
good or bad, don't point me at an omen.

Life is as fluid is the water cycle, and as
hard to find as the water table,
in the desert.

So how do I leave you;
I don't know the answer
to the impossible question,
a cramp in my digestion,
a cactus thorn in my side, doubt
not only clouds my mind and
evaporates my sound judge-
ment; but would I recognize,
or would it be discovered a surprise,
if I found what I was really
looking for.


  ©DWE072013

"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!"

A foul wind blew in last May.
The cool night air still lingers. The stench, is fading.
Though the hot head moved his/her stuff.
He moved allot of stuff, but he had help.
He did not betray any emotion, other than
seething. He did not
see a thing other than red.
The cool night air coolly lingered.

Saturday the notice was served
verbal barbs flew, they were leaving. Period.
There was no grieving.
The white truck arrived.
The white truck came took the first load,
he was very possessed by those things
he did not own. Never, ever.
The white truck had been here before, delivery
after, delivery, after,
delivery.  It was criminal.

They have taken more stuff out then
they brought in.
During daylight anyway.
More stuff than most people have when they have
day
jobs.

The late night visits, by the police will be less,
less stress for the rest of us.
The memory of the strangers,
which would come and pay cash
for unlawful sales will go stale,
maybe.
He would do most of his own work,
at night when our eyes were closed,
rest was often disturbed, sleep too.

I ramble but he gambled and in this
round he lost.  She lost. They lost.
There a businesses and homes and cars
that have paid the cost.
He is considered a small fish in the
Enforcement Sea, as a species,
he has evolved and hides all very
well,
he could open his mouth
wide enough and swallow
....!
The wind has changed directions,
and what lingers is smelling ... less.

The sound of your silent voice,
speaks loud from the page,
after all it is a real choice,
to fake and rage
on the road,
at the machine,
not required to be unrequited,
step closer and let me goad you
to get angry,
with what is said,
how words alive were made dead,
so they fall victim to gravity, depravity
then slip into the malaise,
of a hundred thousand other words,
and a thousand thousand poets who like birds
take flight, *****,
after they have written rhymed verse or worse,
prose,
it matters not,
none of this matters, it is rot,
crumbling from my fingers and onto a keyboard,
washing up on beaches around the world, the seashores,
what are poems for,
what poets do you adore,
when you read their words,
you see their hands, stained
with pitch black ink,
liken their one utile hand to a squid
gripping a pen, twisted tentacles,
that reach out a grab your heart and
your head, but how, most of them are dead,
or should be,
oh to be a modern poet,
write some words on paper with lines,
add a treble clef and you'll do fine,
if it is hard,
find a bard,
he will string the words, with
thread attach the notes, measure
what you said on a scale,
add it all up and there you have music theory,
explained by a math murderer

the suns rays stray
bent in an array
no diffusing the display

few shy away from ultraviolet play

skin tones grow red,
hair lighter on the head,
start and finish colours bled,

the corpse moves again instead

The distance from point to point,
the distance from oil to anoint
the distance from toking that first joint,
  
end result was to be broken legs, if the male parent I did disappoint,

Think can become will, with stones of little steps,
A person of another country, is it possible to annex,
Dreamer, truth, no track record of success, the convex

Reflection of the sun, disperses all light
Leaves the fool in the dark
Pound sand,
tasting salty tears
no anger here, for tonight the son ... has faded

She was pushed, into a box, no, that is not right,
she was made to accept, inhuman acts, what a sight,
how dare he do it?

So much hate and vociferous violence directed,
at an innocent, she was starving, for the opposite,
he shamed himself and blamed her.

Bit by bit and piece by piece, she was disassembled,
restructured and her psyche crumbled till she trembled,
even her her sleep.

There is a millstone with his name on it, he is not alone,
that admission makes me not sad but mad, he may be
alive, forgive and forget not, before God, to atone.

Next stop Hell.



To her friends;
You did not fail, although you might have those
ransomed thoughts, if she was but an angel, you did your best and chose,
to help one who was spirited away, you did your best and God knows.

I have no other words to comfort you, in this tragic loss.

Butterflies and dragonflies,
Weaving trails on unseen paths,
Bees that bumble, buzzing beautifully,
In the light and heat of the humid day.

Flowers' centres are a delightful repast,
To the insect kingdom that wants summers' bounty
to last, spiders hold it all together with the webs they spin,
The acrobats and airborne members leave mere morsels
for those below.

Those whose many legs, walk and only,
leave a microscopic footprint,
Devour, carry to store these remnants of
the phylum's failures and death,
They eat to live for the moment, they store
not for themselves but for the next generation,
For in their lives of living for the moment,
they too want to know if the next bite ............
will be enjoyed by them or will be them......

His heavy soiled worn
work boots, are set aside on
the woven mat in the corner of the room,
behind him.

Picking up the violin and bow,  with rosin
sticking, tuning as he moves across the open, lofted
space
in preparation of play.  And by playing,
the chatter and noise of his work day far and away,
from this private space were no longer a distraction.  They were behind him,
now he had completed a new song, knew it by heart,
as it was from his…
with the sounds and notes soaring above the vaulted
ceiling rafters, he was getting that feeling that comes
with his play.

He began to dance for his audience of One.
the music was his, but with it he asked for forgiveness,
for his thoughtless ways on those days when he cared not for,
any other living soul than his own. Then a heaviness in
the flow, the rhythm, lead him to a place where he knew he
was forgiven now and forever from before he or this song,
were ever birthed.

He dreams Celtic.

Arms moving as he played, feet lifting and placed,
jumping from note to note, to land and lift again. And again.

Lightly.

He dreams Celtic.

He paused, so did his music as did his play
and he stared his work boots down.
Then he quickly he began again fingers dancing over
the strings,
as feet danced across the floor, he knew
that in playing his music there was joy,
in his past there was a history,
that told a story every-time
he played
because he dreams Celtic.

Though the day may tax him,
it was able to be tamed, for
his dreams of music are reality
and he dreams Celtic.


DWE 2013-04-21

Silent city night,
Shattered by an elbow,
On a car key fob.