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.

He was a bright kid,                                                             ­                                                               
H­e was as brilliant, as the son
Any father would be proud of,
His dad was!
And still is,
How could he not be?,
High School, Masters, PHD,
He had the grades, and
If he was like his dad his
Heart was in the right place,
But the lake did not care,
His mom,
His sister,
His dad,
They have all cried tears
That burn and soak stains
That never seems to come out,
And never stop,
Sepia memories,
Unforgettable,boy to man,
Un-refillable,
Undeniable, emptiness,
Now heart wrenching sad.
Sad.

©DWE072013

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

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

Chicken Little looked up at me and said, "The sky is broken and is falling down."
I looked at chicken little and said, "you keep stopping and we may drown!"

Chicken Little heard a thunderous report and looked at me and then the sky.
I looked at chicken little, shaking so and said, "its just a garbage can moved by a guy."

Chicken Little looked at the dark, dark clouds hanging nigh.  Then once again at me.
I glanced her way and said "well, you are the one that said you had to ***."

Chicken Little walked quickly, nose to the wet grassy ground, stopped to ***, hurried.
I saw her heading for the door leash in my hand, her bladder empty, she almost ran, worried.

There was no thunder this night, the clay does not let the water drain, so fast, puddles
muddle, where to step without a splash, but Chicken Little the dog can rest at last.

We came in and closed the door, leash hung in place and coats left to dry,
with a shake, from the fur covered head to her tail, loosing water every where,
'why, she was total dog again,' I quietly mused, 'more than Chicken Little ever were.'

Great pitch,
sales pitch,
your prep,
was great,
you knew
everything
about her,
you gave
it to her
straight,
you knew what
you wanted,
to achieve,
right from
your intro
(se)duction,
you
addressed
her
respectfully,
you got
to the
point,
conversationally,
sensational,
your delovery
was flawless,
you closed the
deal, almost,
but when
you go to
yes, you got
no.  Sorry
the cat will
not let you
eat at the
dinner table
with US.

Nowhere to go
but up
           ergo ego
                        stringing me along.

©DWE012014

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.

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

what do you do here?

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

what do you see here?

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

what touches you here?

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

what finds you here, today, lonely one?



©DWE122013

somebody rang out the sky of it's blue,
leaving
the water heavy gray mist, to mope among the
trees, the brush, the cars, the people, the
streets with buildings and light poles until
the Sun,
surfaces,
highlighting the ***** dishwater hanging about
and no bubbles
to lighten the somber mood of the day.

oh but, this mist has moved up to fog status,
the soup you walk through, drive through
breathing in the
odor of all that has passed this way and left
behind what the fog has bitten out of them,
or they paid as a toll, so the fog doesn't
demand it all.

until someday the water table will get excited
again and let the droplets fall,
and fog becomes mist then nothing at all,
and returns the blue to the patch of sky,
which I spy with my little eye.

Your skin is like the softest petals,
Your worth the rarest, of rare metals,
Yet
In the sunlight, you sparkle like a jewel,
So I guess we never met because I was a tool?

A discarded rusty wrench, with an oily stench,
I meant in play, when I said "*****", standing on a bench,
In the park, of my heart and yodeling my love for you,
From afar, so far, you never knew, the only feeling I had left,
I had for you.

There is always hope, I am not just another dope
I no longer need stuffed toys to cope,
Being the empty cup that only fills with tears,
I am chipped about the rim, your lips will never
drink from this cup, but wait I know where we
can meet, at that park, with my new pup!

If you have a dog to bring, we can talk while they play,
I promise I will only listen, I won't ask you to stay.

Too long.

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

Not guilty doesn't mean you are innocent

not surprised by the wrongs these days,
some play at life
some deal death
anger in so many places
fury on drivers faces
all twisted like a basin
bristle cone pine

trVth
is people,
long ago
we lost
our youth
and innocence
no patience
no rich milk
of any kindness
and total blindness
to even a mite
of charity
due to
economic
disparity
alternating
faith less
worry and
less faith,
have
we gone
beyond
hope
there is
love
there is
the
lover
of my soul
which IS the
Greatest of these
even more
than
TRvTH.


©DWE072013

scattered boxes, empty halls,
empty voices call, scattered socks

Mismatches all,

Need to, want to
Fill this heart with joy,
Not bubble gum cot-
ton candy ploy,

A hunger like ivy needs a trellis
just to grow, up toward where that,
strange ball of y and o is amber heat

Plant to the Sun "let's meet"

ah, but this roller coaster has
gone off the rails and pitched all
people in skins, that hide their
emotions behind a scream,

pitched them, forked them good,
draining every drop of human kind-
ness, masking it with superficial
paint,

so paint those empty halls,
with all the upset and subsets
making sure you stir first,
for even after painting,
a coat of that paint, or two
"to warm up a cold space"


you still may be left with empty boxes,
and unmatched socks, and a painting
project with no end, as you will paint
until the paint is gone from the bottom-
less bucket, and life time supply of brushes

which as you
paint it is the
echo you hear
in the empty halls
from the empty boxes
forgetting to stuff
a scattered sock
after shredding,
in either ear.

Hours pass,
so does memory,
and I can safely say,
you have all heard,
the question, like this
hey you live in the Big Apple
back in 1989 I met these four
guys, nice guys from Jersey on
the train going through
that real big train station,
do you know'em?
if I could remember their names, I bet you would recognize'em.
OR hey you live in Ontario,
I was in the army and I had this
friend he is six foot seven, nick named Too Tall,
you can't miss'em, blonde hair, blue eyes,
he was posted at CFB London last time I heard,
his first name is John, do you know 'em?
I spell his last name if you think it will help?
And in 89 when I got out of the Army, needed
to clear my head, took my wife and son,
for a walk way down south, on the good old
Appalachian Trail, met this guy along the
way, he was famous, I guess, trying out
boots and socks for some company with
Wing in the name, and some colour like Red,
he signed his name on some of their ads,
I, for the life of me can't remember his name,
do you know'em?
there I go again,
watch as I wax and wane,
trying weave my
minor misadventures,
like some debenture,
into story lines,
not to sell a bill of goods
fully true, see?

It is late somewhere in the world,
I have said too much tonight and hurled,
back in time and found memories with grime
and grit, and spit to clean my hands to
get a better grip, on who I am.
but better who I am with want, to be...
and what is your story?


©DWE102013

he almost died when his car built with his hands and time,
                                                          a­nd some of his money,
rolled over and over and over more times than mortals can
                                                             ­ survive the shock of the stop,
after the pounding of every three sixty and hit finally a rocky, outcrop.

But my friend lived, more bumps and bruises than could be counted,
by his girl friend. Years later though,

south wind blew overnight with ten more centimeters, of light white powder,
                         when two died the slide came down after the copter left,
                                                        hig­h in the mountains with no cleft,
to hug or find, safe passage as the snow cascaded faster than his car
                               ever did, driving him into, through the trees, far
he rolled over and over and over, the mass of white powder pushed
                                                                ­                      and pounded
                                                         ­                        until all was still,
and he was one of two held tight in the frozen grasp too long until
                                                   they found him,
                                                        eigh­t others
were safe that day, as he told them how to do it the right way,
he went first,
then the number two, and that was all it took for the monstrous white
wall to become larger and harder than a rocky outcrop,
                         the only thing that ever made him stop.



©DWE102013

Be listening to the Adagio in G,
When you go for a walk, any walk, or walk all alone, lonely
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor,
When you look South, where your life has gone, without you,
The clouds are moving bringing rain and storms, to spite you,
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor for strings and *****,
When careless words leave scars, like someone keying your car,
When thoughtless people talk like you are not there or anywhere
How soon, you wonder when things will change, if, for the better?
Be listening to the Adagio in G minor for strings and ***** composed by
Remo Giazotto.
And, snap out of it!

days or days of words,
leave me like a flock of birds
one by one.        find a place,
                        to come to rest,
and take me there, let me be,
but not alone,

i am so alone,
eyes observe with every breath,
every step, down streets filled,
my arms by my sides, hang tired
reaching for
the spectres,

relationships,
empty boats,
float by, no rope have i to throw,
nor harbour safe
or sage place to anchor, there be,
distractions like rocks, waiting for me,
YOU,

lay alike in wait, wish I, you would,
find me, for your softness,
would rip me bow to stern,
empty all the words i did yearn
to spill on paper, cover a screen,
with worlds,

in ink stained blood, of my own hand,
my write hand, type set for all to see,
when i am free,
and believe,

that dragonflies, win staring contests,
the story is important to tell, and will be read,
humbly God gifts us,
and we each in our turn,
not deserving or have earned,

finding, sharing, enough to care,
to give what you have,
trusting, rusting away,
from the inside out,

rain drops pelt the ground
from the sky make a sentence,
fill a cup with a paragraph,
throw myself to the ground,
soak them up as i roll around,
run inside and wring out
every drop on pages scattered
across the floor and watch
for words to appear, that
i will know what i am like,
                         really like,
so the lies i live will flee,
to the shadows and leave me,
so
you will
know that the one you love,
is a writer of stories,
a teller of tales,
not a scribe but a scribbler,
who places people and places,
and colours and conflict,
and lives and love
and cups of coffee black.

Thirty days hath November,
have i the will to write fifty
thousand and ninety-nine words,
from my heart,
from, my hands,
to tell a story.
Give God the glory,
i will, in thanks.

She walked along the wet side walk, looking steady enough,
Her dark coat, became red in the early morning and street lights,
Pocketed hands, hood up, hiding all but a tuft of,
her brown black hair, walking toward me, with a vacant stare.

The leash in my hand went slack as the beast, as we call her, stopped,
To nose around in the rain-wet grass,  I looked toward that girl again,
Red coat, hands stuffed still in her pockets, red hood, pointed top,
Was that a stumble or a wobble, as she got closer to us.

She spoke with a slur and struggled slightly with, "Isz this how I get to MainStreet?"
"I am rEally drunk rIGht now! I am trying to GET there isz thisz, how? "
I said "sure keep going up the hill and on the Skytrain to go downtown."
She headed north while it seemed like her choices went south.

As she walked away, I wondered after Red, if she had already met the wolf or was
she on her way to Grandma's house and that encounter hadn't happened yet, because.

Tearing cellophane
                                 drops it, silver foil follows
C-stick lit, habit

If I tore the pages out of every book on writing
I have ever bought threw them in the air they
would bury me and the
hill would loom as large as my failure.

If I tore all the empty pages from all the empty journals,
I have not soiled with, ink or spoiled their purity,
and threw them in the air they would bury me and
the mountain would have streams of tears at my act of neglect.

If I counted all the hours, by dumping sand from
ten thousand thousand hourglasses, when
I would have done better writing
instead, of doing what ever it was I was doing to disappear,
from my grind in the wrong gear, the pile would be a mountain
chain, to the sun, and I would climb and like Icarus fall, into the ocean
after all with that much sand, I would be at a beach, right?

like a barrel full of beer
roll out the clocks
with a cheer

like a ball on a busy streets
brakes squeal louder
than the scream

like when you are done
ahead the day is won
roll the clocks
one hour

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

your heart, I wish I could see it laid out before me,
like when I watch a cellist play their part beautifully,
wood and sinew, bow and flesh,
                                         enmesh,
in a dance, where notes fall like a wash of tears,
which run down, laughing so hard at the sadness,
     as notes ascend and descend.
          the chest rises and falls,
              and all I want to see, in truth, is your heart,
                 the cello braced for news good or bad that
                    you are about to share, but not your heart,
                      please don't play me for a fool, I'm not an
                        instrument too, that you have found boxy,
                          and poorly made with materials that age fades,
                            what will you do, when I can no longer hold
my tune?
your heart, I need to see the path you are going to walk,
so we can go side by side, no secrets, our touch is real, with
no distance, so we can in whispered voices, talk, not like the
bow that makes those strings sing, or the pressure of those
fingers to get the notes just so, no...

Like the notes on the aged sheet music, the dark spots and lines
now fade, here and there but remember, the music we once moved
to, now moves us in our memories, treasured and measured beats,
your heart has shaped them, whole notes have become half notes and changed my life...
                                                        n­ow reveal to me will we ever share a destiny?

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

Rain drop rings, placed in puddles,
At the perfect place, and the perfect muddle
of time.

Beg the universe, to take charge put things,
In order, while the border of sanity, blurs a
vision of double. Losing it, feeling buried.

A double life, a day job, with no potential,
and spare time, where piranhas tears pieces
of time and me away. No time no need to worry.

Tenderness, is not ready to receive, what
is left, if it be known, if it be shown,
if it be seen, who is the master of the wind,
take flight.

Put up a kite, wait while flies, feel the tension,
and let it go, a kite tail may save a life.

The squeaky wheel gets greased,
the noisy person gets appeased.

Don't ask, don't tell, take swig from the keg
Do first, no consequence, then for forgiveness beg.

If you did no wrong  
Or you did know wrong,
from right, go ahead play along.
They might donate a defence fund.

This story is so far gone, the centre has been lost.
At a tragic cost. Sad.
The attention is now shifted, into the wind,
So tack, tack, tack, attack, is all you can find
to do. Sadder

Boys will be boys, in a world which desperately needs men of H umble,
                                                          ­                                                             I ntegrity,
                                                       ­                                                                S obriety,
                                                                ­                                                       C ourage,
                                                         ­                                                              R esponsibility,
                                                                ­                                                       O bedient,
                                                        ­                                                               S erious,
                                                         ­                                                              S trong.
Men of Character.

Was that a squeak I heard?
Or a scrape
of your chair
as you stood?

can't hear the street noise,
windows closed by choice,
boyz'n girlz play with toys,

cars, trucks and motorcycles,
the boulevard rumbles in cycles,
but what if it were only bicycles,

oh let's not forget the transit buses,
without them there would be fussy,
folks unable get to work if it was sunny, and
                                                     dusty,
                                                 or slushy,
                                                 or muddy,

birds whistle, crows caw, some young
seagull already lost, calling out "spring has sprung"
and "can't find you", pack of coyotes howl, the young

whoop it up over a first ****,

an early morning ****,

not for the thrill of a new skill,
but to provide, as
in nature no one gets a free ride.

tension like a hydro line
swallow to feel...
anything at all.

penchant for less meta for
typing with a ball point...
spaces white like pills.

drink this description, you
may need to take in small
sips, as it burns the lips
if spoken out loud.

drowning like loneliness,
shares silent despair,
resistance is futile
in the liquid.

pins and
razors, catch
but awaken
even the cold
scars on
nerves who
only want
to be numb.

see me dumb me
pound the chest
to thump the heart,
no button no restart.

Leave the words
swallow the spaces
shave ice chips,
poke pin holes
into the swollen
bloated body of a
work of self-unction.

Hey wait, I am still under
the water, seeing the surface
under construction, from the
bottom up,
read them all to know
me,
meet you on the bottom.

A man died, I don't know him,                                                             ­            he was married to a co-worker
                         I may have met                                                              ­           her or I may have
                   walked by her desk                                                             ­            and saw her name plate.

He was riding his bike, the day                                                              ­           before today. Yesterday. Can we go back to yesterday, in 2001,                                                            ­                  I know, I know...

That was a day when people                                                           ­                   were talking or packing or getting ready for the next day.                                                             ­                 There weather checks, I bet.

My feeling, my reaction to that day,                                                             ­    the next day that was
                   that will never go away,                                                            ­       never ever go away
                                                            ­                                                                
I stopped what I was doing at 6:29                                                             ­  and 7:28 at home this morning.  Without warning                                                          ­                warning, I sat at my desk for 1                                                                ­                                                        minute each today, at 9:59  and 10:28.                                                           ­                                                     To this day, I look at every
HEADLINE and none was as gut                                                              ­        wrenching, shattering my personification of the soul, as that one.                                                            ­  There have been others but
for me that was the first,                                                           ­                                            Was it the last?
Terror build fast.                                                            ­                                                         Changes things.
Fear full                                                             ­                                                                 ­                 Tear full
Names                                                       ­                                                                 ­                           Etched
Tears                                                     ­                                                                 ­                                Pouring
Crying
was I, was all,  IT was an evil, IT was so terrible, was ..., was..., was..., was holding on to me, can I let it                  
                                          ­                                        go?

©DWE09112013

Looking, but do I see what you go through to breathe,
The things you do while wearing masks, makes me seethe,
NOT at you but the world, your situation, what lies beneath,
Your hands shake involuntarily,
Your approach each day warily,
Did you use up your spoons, before the end of yesterday,
How will you get out of bed to see the weather this day,
I know you slept, did
each nightmare creep up on you, when you were off guard,
I am there,
I care,
In the dark,
I did stare,
none, the wiser,
you have your cocktail, of pills, of drugs, and they help you
if you have an average day,
This is for you ,
on the days you are through,
no spoons, left
hours yet before your
head comes to rest, then
nightmares consume,
your time at rest,
I pray, and
I pray, and
I pray,
the vultures will be swept away,
by the jet stream and
leave you,
while I stay by your side,
because I want to, it is
right so to do,
forever.  This is for you,
I see so many who do not understand,
their lips move,
as they mouth the words,
or they type, their intent is
clearly in the wrong.
THIS IS NOT EASY.
You are brilliant,
you create,
I ... am in awe
of your therapy,
your art, your beauty.
This is for you,
in respect, in love,
I express, and
from above,
He sings over you.

words,
said too often,
heard too loudly,
new meanings,
new beginnings,
each generation,
a language unto
itself,
shelves of books,
books by the hundreds,
in one hand,
words by the millions,
stored,
absorbed?,
where to go from here,
what will be the next thing
to bring literacy,
to everyone,
a language
to be read,
their voice
to be heard,
listening
skills
in demand
as much as
reading,
bleeding sounds,
spoken verse,
rehearse and
memorize,
despise money
put to war,
when there are;
those not fed,
those without a bed,
those who cannot,
read a single sound,
if you are looking for
me,
if you want to put a name
to my face,
you will find me, in
the spaces, the spaces,
between these and many
other words,
find me in the spaces,
see my face,
share your gifts,
may it be then,
returned to you
unexpected.
Words of
gratitiude.

This may not be,
the last thing I write,
or
the last thing I see.

"I loved her and
                            I never knew her"

This will be the last
                            thing I say,
this will be said on my
                            dying out of the fray,

unless
          many
                   years
before
I seize the day.  Seize...
the moment.

walking through the trees to find a forest,
moist moss padded paths,
raised roots hardly hidden
to tempt you to go off the trail,
into the friendly ferns,
where rabbits race away, while
you find the cagey coyotes, then
stooping under a fallen giant slippery log,
to glimpse the fleet foxes, flashing tails,
to find the lone wolf's footprints
following you
stalking you
no sight
no sound
invisible... for you hope,
not to see the teeth,
and especially not the eyes.

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

I would stand up but I won't quite yet,
there are many miles in this story to go
and I worry,
that someone times 2, or 4 or 6 or 8
will get off even
though they did
                                                     participate in a crime
against decency,
under the cover of
night and "oh please excuse their immaturity"

I have digested
what we all know,
evil is not to blame, evil did ooze and course
through their vane bodies,
inhuman shame, shame her honour is on your heads
                      and will be until you are all...
locked away in jail.

Your friends
don't do you
favours by
backing your
cause, words
hollow, flapping
jaws in the
face of boys
who acted
like the men
who fill their
lives, cowards
one and all.

Your getting all trained up to knock a senior citizen
down and take a purse
                         or worse knock them off their bike.

The white pie in the sky,
holds my dreams and
serves them one piece, my oh my,
at a time.

So when my head lowers like
a lander on my pillow white, I
make a case for the dreams
to feed me, to feed my future,
while I digest my past.

Oh but I lament
to my discontent
what is the context
of the intent of the
the man in the moon,
serving me one piece
of me at a time...non-stop
all night, ...
Indigestion?.
or Insomnia?

©DWE072013

She's not around,
suitcases poorly hidden
after, the night before.

Some  bags were
by the barrier
wonder where
they were?

Belongings here,
no one in sight,
but is she alright?

the staccato of warning shots were lost on the captured still water,
of the aquarium tank, I am he the tank, so please don't blow my seals

you grow on my transparent sides
like algae, ******* oxygen, override,

all the good that came of me,

I am left with the green, but not worth a dime,
in the real world, misery has hurled compromise

to be worn like sack cloth while my *** sits on ashes,

to keep me company, I read out loud sounding every vowel
though the consonants are all I can see, bubbling to the surface,

throwing in the towel
is mutually beneficial

for the good and the
bad in me.  I am done.

Change the water or buy a new tank, and this time
buy some fish to keep yourself amused.

Wanting not to be,
worried, fearful,
crowded out
wallflower,
trapped.

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

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


©DWE112013

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.