Doubling Down

Two sides to every story,
life would be what, without worry?

The grass is always greener here
rainfall is a fact not a fear,

Go ahead, leap the
barb-wire fence,
getting hung up a consequence,

and now the rambling starts
with a pounding of hearts,
wishes on lips, arms flailing
any thoughts are alienating,

natural hand holds flesh covered,
the head pounds ideas on hover,

when burnout takes you out, all life becomes toil,
clothes too tight, strip and run into the night, roil

in the street, of a different city,
they don't know, they offer one pity,

so much anger, tears bleed,
strongest muscle has no need

to speak of the gamble,
this affair a dreamt ramble.

Oh I See..

Vanity in my mirror,
I see Vanity in the windows
I shop, reflected

pausing;

longer, less and less
to spend money, time; time, money
I see vanity in my tablet, my computer
screens.

I see vanity  re-
fracted in faces,
I look into their portals, at their
windows, blinded, shielding their
soul.  But,
those others who turn away,
refusing to accept my eyes in greeting
or those that stare at the ground like they
have lost...

something, like a way OUT,
through the ground but that
leads to hell, unless,
wait...vanity;

I have worked,
worked very hard at mine,
Sturdy Legs, great support,
where the concrete Slab,
sits below my Chest Of Drawers,
one of which holds an imperfect thing,
which
         beats,
de-
      spite
it's
      un-
           fin
                ished
state
and atop this mobile furniture is
what?

a cloud, no, an expensive mercury-backed glass s u r face,

NO,

a perfect carving chiselled, no.

There is no face anymore, just a surface
that reflects inside and outside,
every face that stares, blankly at me.

Help us, help us all.

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?

there were seasons when all was restful,
every change was seen with a smile,
like some secret shared between me and God,
and so appreciated, with awe.

there was a summer when all was warm,
the embers in the fire pit, cracked and popped,
they floated high and for a brief moment,
joined the stars above our heads.

there were weeks when all went well,
purpose was found and fulfilled,
activities were sought and enjoyed,
school was a time of learning and
yearning to explore.

Then, I woke up.



©DWE102013

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


©DWE122013

I am going to a vacation resort,
                                           of a sort,
    all inclusive, no cost, it is free.
you see it is like this;
The only rating Stars are the ones I did see,
when the blood pressure goes up, yipee.

It is only for adrenaline junkies,
your heart will pound and race,
       you may get red in the face,
your breath will come in gasps,
                 fall short or be a raspy,
                        sounds like f'n fun.

I may laugh, I may cry,
My mind will be distracted
       (a comment redacted)
or even at a stand still.

I won't be able to think at all.
I only bought one ticket,
                      at the wicket,
The agent said I have a lifetime of reservations,
more than he knew,
won't be my last trip,
they are holding my next fares, looking for
available dates,
sorry you can't join me, they meant the calendar kind.

Besides,
it is my secret hideaway,
and mine alone,
there is a whole industry built around me, myself and I.
The place well it is well named, the village of An,Xiety.
                                                       ­                        population 1.

Oh, I heard there might be an opening at a place nearby,
                                             a little bigger, the town of Wor,Ry.
I break into a cold sweat thinking  we might be on vacation,
so close together!

hide and seek,
child's play, run away,
to stay, shhh, so still,
shadow absorbs,
all but the fun,
where night and
day matter not,
just get lost, in the game.

Then you will seek and find "home free"

wire coils with evenly spaced teeth,
shredded the clothing from beneath,
experience is a teacher, tangled and torn,

out,

getting no where, so no point to seethe,
fabric strips draped on a concertina wreath,
technique is a quality, better used and worn-

out!

lost!, lose!, loose!, free the beast, free the beast!,
into the rabble, into the pen of fractured plates,
***** the grey, matters not, just find that ten per-

cent!

wounded heart, bent aging knees, cannot rise,
to run away uphill against the wind, no surprise
no one will answer, the silent cry, or the loud sh-

out!

empty places, empty faces, reflected sour silhouettes,
every fifth bullet traces and arcs in the night sky,
why can't violence be allowed the right to die

out-

right? Left, right left, get in step with techno sounds,
dance all night, while the para-military do the rounds,
around the wire obstacles, to keep her away, keep her

out!

Blossoms fall like raindrops,
when the raindrops plummet
to the ground at the speed of
                                         gravity.

Bare branches
hold promise,
Buds barely visible,
green sparks delight all,
who see what a glimpse
of fresh spring,
renewal so...,
so...so needed,
leaves and flowers,
tentative openings
and offerings,
awaiting
to receive,
sunshine and
                             raindrops and
                                                         wind.

Till blossom petals
fall
covering the exposed earth
done
foster growth,
                          bring hope,
                                                 ignite enthusiasm.
                                                                                    See?

Is it the number of toys you own and use,
gathering mud, blood, or dirt,
to figure out your worth.

Is it the number of people you have met,
share a smile to an intimate encounter,
all relationships are life's echo sounder.

Is it the number of days and the misspent ways
that the grains of sand
fell from your hand.

Is it the number of experiences, of all that you have absorbed,
from head to toe, inside and out with every sense,
in those moments of past, present and future tense.

Is it the collection, of the cells that make you who,
and the places, moments you share
with God, you who, He spared.

Every day I move from my bed,
Stretch my body and shake my sleepy head,
I find it harder to be alert once November,
passes winter to December.

"Really?" you ask, "why is that?"

Dark is as dark does, clouds absorb the sun,
I find rain a constant companion, walk or run,
It is a journey every day I leave my home,
Wetting my appetite is easy to do, pick a puddle
to splash through.

Too may walkers and runners get hit,
Drivers drive too fast, in their prescribed induced states,
Pedestrians take their chances, do you believe in fate?
or more??

Watch out for the other guy or we might find you
victim of a drive by hit and run, the carnage and dismay,
lack of compassion or skill I'd say.

"Since when is one life worth more than any other?"

The hits we hear about, the near misses are many more,
silence does not keep score.
Wear something bright, brighter than an idea,
Do not rely on those behind the wheel.
So wear white
or something brighter
like the morning sun
on your walk or your run or ride
Be as white as reflected light, so you are seen,
as plain as day, run/walk,ride seriously injury free,
I pray.

brown mousy hair
shapeless smile
there are only vacancies
all the enamel is long since gone and
hardened her skin, yet she smiles all the while she shops
                                              she eyes her gains and stops
                                              happy noises and she dances
                                              like a little girl
childrens' bike
adult one too, part of this trip
nice pair brown capris,
other shopping bags litter at her feet
while she finds bargains at her
favourite big box outlet - Dumpsters
where she shops.


©DWE082013

the dreadnought,
has at least six guns
           or six strings,
both are heavier than
this poetry, one is larger
in life, than the poet see?
The other has better curves,
oh, enough of that.

One is a metal machine,
the other a classic acoustic dream,
one from war, the other,
well the other you buy from
a store or some garage sale,
one floats on the ocean,
the other for only a little while.

I am no bard,
that is not hard,
to hear,
stand near,
you are my only hope,
oh beyond the canopy
where stars and wars
are witness to my
profanity,
I swear at
this, one day
I'll be good,
no great, not
grate on all
the nerves that
were collected
on my behalf,
as I have none.

So dare to compare
yourself to me and
I will grant you the
victory, because as
there is no one like
you,
good luck finding
another like me,
why did I give
you the nod,
well your more
different than
me and odd, that
you did not
note, your
the boat
and I am
guitar,
your rusting
and I am a
chick magnet.
So go ahead
dare to compare.


©DWE102013

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

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


©DWE082013

She leaves her walker parked right by the white car door, wheels locked
so it does not wander off.  It gives her the support when she might
suddenly need it when she is all alone, a castoff.

Her home is small and all is in it's place, prim and proper.  She
would not have it any other way.  As she has gotten older and
given charity much, even her tea set and tray.

Her spouse had left her, wasn't his fault, his heart, simply got
tired, with no insurance, without family alone she faced fears,
could not keep the home, there were tears.

That was the not so distant past.

She had all she needed now, she was good at keeping neat
and clean, her clothes and a few belongings always within
reach, hung in place, nothing really new.

She slept little these days, noisy traffic driving by, even
rearranged, her bed was not as comfortable as she once
had.  Times had changed.

She started her day with a wash and a walk.  Brush her
white hair. There were the usual neighbours, who didn't
stop to talk to her, inexcusable!

Recent blunt reality.

Though she could not hide in plain sight,
parking her car in an empty parking lot,
every two hours she must move.

Her home a car, her closet a back seat,
the steering wheel a towel rack,
sleeping more upright helped
her breathing but not her
aging back.

Her possessions and food little
are in the trunk; one in a box
and the other on a chunk
of ice, she does not eat
much and pleasant
memories are
less and less.

Alas, make up takes time,
when the light is fine,
her friends don't
know, she does
not know if
she gets
calls or
letters,

Anymore
in these
declining
times.

I remember the cold air, salted from the Bay,
The large sea lions, both young and old yell
at each other as they stand on each others ground,
Slippery wharves, their islands holding heavy harems.

I can still feel wind and see the bridge so large, it was
called Golden, Gate to the setting sun and ocean
beyond, I can still see kites colouring the gusting wind.
All dancing as men women and boys held onto each kite
like it meant harnessing the force that pulled taut their twine.

I smell and taste the food, the wine too, where the heat
rises with the land, walking among the vineyards, how
each grape tastes differently, weak brown grass blowing while
lush colours are reserved for the grapes below a wrathful sun.
  
One day I will, we will go back to see much more,
experiences and travel will be measured by senses,
teased and explored till sated, memories will be
added to the life journey, but my heart is mine,
and His, more memories will pour in and be absorbed.

Thank you San Francisco.

The slow serpentine hop became circles
rapidly by two rabbits chasing, dressed in
their light brown summer fur camisoles,
territory owned was defended by a win,
give up ground was to give up food and
the right to eat there to your fill, on demand.

Shadows played tricks
thorny hedgerow caused
****** in the skin, drawing
blood, as the chase
went outside a steel
wire fence, into where the
warren was, and
coyotes crouched
ready in wait too.

Some days nobody wins,
over some green greed.

If your own shadow can't stop your heart, surely you, they will bind,
They will make it, so you cover your windows with bullet proof blinds.

Take courage you are not alone, here or anywhere.

They want your thoughts to become theirs, to say what is on their minds,
When the reflection in a pane of glass makes you do a check behind.

Have faith hold on to the rocky cleft, with both hands and heart.

They hunger to monger your fear, it is food for them to feed, like a crispy pork rind,
If you are losing hope and all seems lost, they have done the job and off to a to find,
the next victim.

If peace is your shield you will not yield, to the Spirit of Fear.

They will put in words, what your heart and eyes should never see, else you go blind,
The common doubt is everywhere, to make a stir they take a poll and see where each is aligned.

Cover your ears, close your eyes, watch who you make friends with, the world cries!  

It is late and morning comes and I fear I might sleep late,
too late for me did you see me say... but alas
I will get up and fight again tomorrow, have no fear, I'm the bait!

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



©DWE2013

Eyes that mirror broken trust,
Nothing to move through your heart of rust,
Speak not with a tone, other that to atone,
Say not, a word to break a spirit or a bone,
Say not. “Sorry” won’t do it alone.

Raise not your fist, foot or voice,
STOP you have a choice, whether it is a
child or a loved one or even a dog in the street,
they all see you and your violence, together complete.

Is that who you are? Is that how you will be known?
Not by the seeds sown,
but by the darkest of your insides shown?

If you were on the receiving end would it break you or would you bend?
If you have been there in the painful black corner of a memory past,
why not make your experience the last??!

Then, Nothing will fill your hand but warmth, compassionate tears will be
the drops of oil to lubricate and prime the pump, your heart!
Blood will flow through you once again, that icy season, your winter, will be over.

Then, changed you will be ready to give and in time receive…

Dear Life
The Continual Condition,
Alive at the Center, and
Into the Wild,
On the Road,
Double Lives

Tortured Wonders
Writing
No Other Book
My Name is Art and I Am,
Bicycle Diaries,
The Book of Myself,

The Book Thief
and 7 Minutes With God.

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

Knighted Dark.
                   Dark Night
                             Night to Light.
                                              Lighted Path.
                                                           ­   Path to my Feet
                                                            ­                        Feet to find Words.
                                                          ­                                                 Words to Speak.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­   Speak until Heard
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                         Heard
                                                           ­                                                                 Spoken softly.
                                                         ­                                                    Reason Spoken
                                                          ­                            Rhyme and Reason.
           Sparsely Sage, Rose merry and Time to Rhyme.    
           Sparsely
                          Found Lost.
                                        Lost and Foundering.
                                                     ­     Floundering at Sea
                                                                ­                       See Me
                                                              ­                                 Me thinks strangely.
                                                      ­                                                             Strangely dreamed.
                                                        ­                                                                 ­              Dreamed
                                           ­                                                        Dark and Knighted.

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

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

The foggy embrace,
hid the face of the mountain
while the raindrops became
teardrops hidden from sight
running down in a hurry and
collected at the toe of the *****,
washing grains of sand and time,
away to the river, older than the
trees that held onto the fog forcing
the embrace without arms but
branches and needles pointing
skyward and leaving a
why word about the fog.


©DWE092013

eyes that drink it in,
eyes that glaze, eyes tempted sin,
walk, drive, hear or see,

        scent or feel,
what has this to do with me,
is it all the outside objects of desire for poetry,
is it for a friend,
is it at the end of the day, in a wild free-
verse way, is this a dress rehearsal for after-play,

in love,
of love, gone astray
of self-image, renovation reconstruction,
but you can no longer see the dysfunction,
but,
but;
the broken exploded pieces of your heart,
are lodged in every nerve, you can only writhe
to your pain.  

you have meter, you have mitre, cut the rhythm so
close to perfection, a pentameter of frustration, first
name, iambic.

Will you be content,
with the content,
language sounds
hard and rounds,
soft supple syl-
lables slipping silently,
off your tongue,

the strongest muscle,
a double edged, an implement,
sword for word play too.

Poetry is special, as those who strive
to write it,
they may be life lessons shared
to right their ship,
poetry may be long,
it may be short,
you may
write in
privacy,
and no one will
ever read your poetry,
but if they do, you may know, that their
life has changed, and they may never thank you.

And as I often do and this is not an insult but
sometimes true, though I write poetry from
that awful place of woe in me, I seldom
see myself a poet. But my Muse I believe
and it tells me that I am.

Earth to
the rain drops,
"STOP!
Or else..
Friend Sun!"

The throb of my head is a pain,
The pulse beats and strains,
my will to read, to stay awake.

My nerve down my right arm,
Tingles like a silent alarm,
no jolt, just feeling out of control.

Not a good day to lift over my head,
I might lie down instead but with dread,
that live wire, inside, will not settle down.

Age shows at the strangest times and places,
You remember the names forgetting the faces,
Or is it the other way around, you tell me.

I have built bridges, with many hands and mine,
I have had sleepless nights, but now I must rest, FINE,
over time good days will replace bad, downs by ups.

Who will replace me, as mad as Hatter or in me cups?
Driven downward, not to disbelief but, on my knees,
Sour now my lips move in a prayer, "Remove this disease"

I am not ill, misguided maybe or forgot about hope,
I whine and complain, sure is a poor way to cope,
eyes grow weary, need to rest, this day is done, ...

... did I pass the test?  I will  know,
when the sky lightens, eyes open,
on their own to find the alarm,
next morning, with my right arm.

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

Across
the sky
cloud smears remain

Gauze
in bunches
white and bright

Winged
ones broken
no flying dared

Spirits
strong births
and weddings still

People
parked lives
in garages safe...

other
places need
earth shaking change

from
flightless broken
wings ill repaired

1968
turns out
a 2015 sequel

Cities
both, streets
filled, with rubble.

One
an Earthquake,
other Equality troubles.

Everything is dry, but not in the House.
Still there are hot spots that need water,
a lot of crystal clear solution.
Not the emotional pollution.

Tarry substance, oozes from a heart
that has a cauldron just below,
it is not what is devoured,
but what comes away digested and imparts.

Black acid like fire burns and ignites,
goes around and excites,
while leaving all in flames,
spot fires building higher,
all that can be done is putting out fire.

Putting out fires.

It is all on fire.

©DWE092013

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


©DWE082013



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

Song -Shape of Love
Artist - Passenger

It was white, like snow, like linen sheets
Drying
             in
                  the
                         wind
It had silver buckles, like cutlery, that was only used
at Christmas
                       at Thanksgiving,
                                                   ­   but it was made to wear,
It had extra-long sleeves that tied in the back
for
       his
            own
                    protection,
Not from the rain drops
That tasted like tear drops
Not from the housekeepers
Barely five feet tall, a hundred pounds
if that at all...

With out his arms to salute,
He would not walk away,
He was a soldier, and this was now his Dress of the Day,
A good soldier was always
prepared to salute, now
he wasn't able.

Look into her eyes, if she will let you,
she will look down and away, I'll bet you,

She may point to this or show you that,
All to distract,
so you don't
notice that she is

l o s t.

She pays a price, at what cost?
For every (anti) or social interaction.
Therapy, it, is or she might hide in her hidie hole,
so she is not found, by that black cloud carrying
Troll.

If you see her,
If you meet her,
you need to know,
that it may not show, she is finding her way.

The dark clouds ring her crown and may obscure
her worldly view, she knows what to do!

Paint herself onto paper, disappear in a vapour,
you will find her on the page, finding her way.

There are days when we occupy the same space,
we don't see eye to eye or face to face,

the distance across the room, seem miles apart.
She needs me there on that shore, when she is in the trough
of a stormy wave, it might help her to find her way.

Don't

load her

up or use

all of her spoons,

she can't cope and be

found...

finding her way.

Famous words,
famous title,
   my take, take a while
      to digest, the twisting of,
       the thread turning,
to bite into a groove,
stand on the turning
metal edge and see what
comes at you from around
the curve, of the ever turning
of the *****,
into,
the abyss,
the sunrise,
the surprises that await,
or a some would say your fate,
                 then there is your faith,
that the ***** will keep on turning,
and the desire keeps on burning from the
inside out,
call it what it is, passion, PASSION,
from the outside in,
call it what it is, yesterday's fashion,
peer pressure,
bullyitis or as I call it cowardice,
don't stop the *****, turning,
each sunrise you are earning,
no points,
no dollars to fill a greedy need,
a chance to make a difference,
a chance to find fresh romance,
a chance to give instead of take,
as for love,
you have to recognize the source,
before you can imitate of course,
let the ***** turn
for once it stops,
you are either dead,
or Jesus has returned instead.

Unbroken, eternal, a series of points,
joined at the hip, what a trip.
Minute differences, missed by the
human eye, they are there, just the same.

What a shame.

Was it like this before I touched it, before I was almost
touched
by you, travelling on parallels lines, just out of reach.
What a trip, joined at the hip,
a series of points, eternal, unbroken.

What a crying shame.

I keep one eye on you and one eye on my line,
I do not, I can not afford to lose track of either,
For what if the distance between us shrinks and
we
meet
or if they cross and we have a chance and a choice.

To share, space, time, breath, touch, all with out
words or with more words than I have spilled tears,
listen to the other talk in that intimate moment of
the embrace that will never last long enough.

What a dying shame.

Any time we spend, even within in sight,
should be enough to satisfy, our emptiness, right?
Oh these parallel lines keep us together and apart,
please, if we meet, let me feel and share your,
beating
heart.

Mine isn't doing so well,
just now,
it was
broken,
some how, I can't stop for long,
as it might.

STOP

And never start again,
these parallel lines,
are now not grooves,

But the very graves,
where we will lie,
in parallel. Even ever after.


©DWE072013

Hearing plugged with fingers,
sounds
still spill
into a skull bowl
full of salt and water,
saline, what can one crave,
praline robed in dark chocolate,
the last light and frivolous thought had,

two
orbs glazed,
Signals phased,
body of
piece work,
mind over matters
most,
flashing, all the colour,
then comes the red,
then comes the green,
                                seen in observed beauty,
then comes the black,
then comes the white,
fading like the night,
to remember...

The first time of everything
Oh
and just remember the scents
and tastes
touch

as far as days go,
this is just another one,
and i a son,
of a man,
who died, not on this day,
for this was his birthday,
he was not an encourager,
in things he did not understand or believe,
he was not a kind man,
but he opened doors for women,
in his chauvinistic ways,
he was a jealous kind,
he was an alcoholic kind,
he was a smoking kind,
                      he was blind,
to the wrongs,
that he did, and his tough language
hid a man who was a boy
always looking for the approval,
he found somewhere else,
he changed,
he grew,
he became a new creature,
before his God,
this was a good thing,
at fifty two and one third
an aneurysm
blew a small hole with
force, a pin ***** in a spot
in his brain,
and drain away the good and the bad
that was my dad,
he never went back to work again,
he was there for the next twenty two years,
conversations had left me in tears,
for there was no depth,
as I would go to my car or
to catch the bus and sit, looking
back at his home then the home,
but to my fault I chose no one else
to ask the tough questions about
raising kids,
I chose no surrogate,
I went
on my way
alone,
but that is another story,
for today is his day,
remembering playing catch,
taking turns,
with my mom or my brother,
he was a carver,
he was a boat maker,
he wrote letters to politicians,
he liked to go fly fishing,
which he taught me, but I never got hooked,
but
driving him home,
from the Militia,
when he had had, imbibed too much,
muttering under his breath about the laws
and such and such,
later he came to our wedding,
and left too soon,
he and his new spouse prayed
while we hiked and fancied completing
the Appalaichan Trail with a two year old,
their prayers brought us safely home,
but at seventy four after a fall and time in a
home, he died alone, I cried out when I was
told on January 8, that day the year,
he is gone.
So today, I raised a glass of red,
took a moment and said,
thanks dad, for what you did do.
May I forgive and forget the rest.

White, pale watchful friend of those who abstain normalcy,
Often ridiculed and blamed for uncontrolled lunacy,
Overshadowed is the light you give, by the blame brutally,
cast your way.

Round, tonight but the rest of the time your shape shift changes,
And people treat you with hardly a care, like distant strangers,
When there is no moon at all, they limit their verbal exchanges,
to the weather.

You are so full of yourself tonight and your ghostly white countenance,
The sirens are busy, noisy travels north and south moving to accidents,
People doing strange and dangerous acts, driving badly is evident,
with a darkening night sky.

Some nights you just drive me crazy.

Leave the porch light
on, will you, or the dark will
be like our embrace.