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

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

A chosen career, trained to survive, with out any fear to be seen,
They watched when he left for the Air Force or Army or Navy, or US Marine,
Overseas, out of reach, out of touch, but she stretched out and reached,
There was snail mail and e-mail and wow, there is Skype,
Overseas, he is, his parents and hometown reached out and stretched,
They tied yellow ribbons and remembered him and all brothers who served,
Banners on gym walls.
Remembered in prayers.
Extended family gave care,
To his kids and spouse.
Then...
Like many who served before and fell, as he served and
did not get up from
where he fell, sacrificed for others,
answered his call, brushed the desert sand off and,
he went Home.

His name is etched in black, dates and medals noted below,
Lawns manicured, green with white markers row upon row,
She still reaches out and puts flowers by the white marble stone,
Lying down, she stretches out on his grave, even when she is not alone,
The cold comfort so misunderstood, she is as close as she can be till
they both unite in Eternity.   She stands and his mother kneels until
the sun has set.

Her family, his family, catches and wipes away small and large tears,
They all live in freedom, when he left, he took some fears...away.

I have had it all wrong,
I wonder if my grandfather
thought that, when on a steamer
                    he arrived a dreamer
of moving west from Montreal
single trying to find a life, better,
opened and tasted peanut butter,
                                                and never did ever eat that again,
I have had it wrong, all of it
He kept dreaming and trying,
took the train to the northern Alberta,
saw his dreams take shape as he built
                 homes for other dreamers,
he met his wife, but that is a poem for another story,
he was a pacifist, he did not support, killing another,
but he sure had a temper,
           for a peaceful man, he decided to retire, and that
let him get old, I admired him for what he stood for and sit at
a desk he built with my dad.

I still have had it all wrong.

The desk is nothing special
other than the hands and
knowledge that built it
and something a father and a son
did together, one of the last things
of each other, that
would be remembered, they worked well with their hands.

Both men were dreamers.
My dad had his dreams, he mostly kept to himself,
but you just knew that they were to do with
things outside of the house.

Oh don't misunderstand, he loved working with wood,
he knew firearms, he recieved a Medal for Military Merit,
for dedication above and beyond what a militiaman was
to do, he wasn't a pacifist, in many ways he was different
from his dad and so many more he was exactly the same.

                                                          ­                    Shame, I have had it all wrong.

I was not an A student, but Gee, I tried hard,
my potential was palpable we just needed to resuscitate it from time to time,
I joined the CAF, married and had three who have amazed me,
with their strong beliefs, so different from one another, see?
I have worked twenty jobs and not one among them defined as a career...
oh and yes, I have spent time  in an unemployment line.

I am not a carpenter, like the other two could, my grandfather as a career
my dad took it on as a hobby, I am a pacifist, yes, but don't push to hard,
I might write you into a poem...  

I have written so many serious and sombre pieces,
There is already so much sadness in the world,
If planet Earth could cry a tear, standby with the tissue,
I deal with my stuff in words, I try not to hang onto them,
Rather free them like birds, Ravens and Crows with Hummingbirds and Eagles,
My soul is sore and
Animus would rather soar,
so I pour the toxins from my mind, my skin, from my day
you already know I am not perfect I sin, from my way of life,
so I pour the garbage I live and beauty as I see
it is around me for you all to read, shame on me
I have had it all wrong.

I don't have to get it right, I must write.



©DWE122013

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

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


©DWE122013(finale)

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

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

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

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

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

Hear the rain
fall, here the rains
drop, where there
was once grass and
clay soil dry, yet now

the pools of rainwater protest,
with all the little droplet hostages,
the collective have not the resources to,
from here escape!

To true though grounded too, due to weather, any possible help the unfriendly breeze, has wind-instrumented away.

After you read this, I drought there will be
a dry eye in the house, and you'll all pool your
resources, to make me Maui's most wanted poet for
awhile.

thinking about all of it lately,
when is the next day like the last
payday,
when is the next day like the last
kiss
we shared,
when is the next day like the day
most feared,
No where to go,
No where to sleep,
No where to eat,
No drink,
No one to love me,
most feared see?
no pillars to support
life as needed,
oh but I am not being clear,
Another fear,
using big words,
so there are biological needs
So insecure about personal safety,
so shy to ask a friend to be a friend,
(and don't bring up the f - word (family) or SI)
respectfully don't address my self-esteem,
when it and I are in the same room,
lastly actually realize there is creativity,
in the moment, but look at me, do you see
any of it, mostly tell the truth to me,
I will accept the facts you find.
If I am not available I am looking inside,
so knock most loudly, if I am not present
or aware.

©DWE102013

Mystery intrigued me,
3 zombies walking with a ragged stagger,
talking guttural sounds,
wanting to know if I had any zig zags?

I looked at the hats into the eyes,
thought and said "No, don't smoke guys" and they,
stumbled by, hunger for a smoke
mounting; I had spoken truthfully, never have, never will.

I stopped and turned to stare, they asked,
an older woman, who didn't slow down or say a word,
looking ahead, the day walkers approached
a couple of construction types at the bus stop, who
patted themselves down and shrugged.

Their pace became more erratic, as they were
denied, they sped up, getting
twitchy as they weren't flesh eaters but they
were addicted to smoke and
rolling there own, the heat and flavour, they savoured.

The knew what it would feel like as soon as they...
Amazing what grows out of a few tobacco seeds,
oh and what seeds have you sown...

The table cluttered and crowded with stuff, in the now empty home,
Each item had a story and together, made enough pages to fill a tome,
But on the floor all by itself was a lock of hair in her tarnished pewter comb.

The fine dust coated all, as no one was left to brush the dirt under the rug now stolen,
The wall-paper curled down from the ceiling, in disrepair, "oh how the mighty had fallen",
Was scripted in red lipstick, on a mirror faded and cracked and aged, not gilded but sullen.

Emptiness filled and all that was left,
No treasure, the present was bereft,
Four decades of waste and theft,
Then a grey hand reached and caressed,
The tarnished pewter comb, the lock of hair left,
While a voice saying quietly, "it was for the best."

Nothing.
                                                        ­                             I am lying,
Lying.
Chilled Sweaty Feet.                                              Gross.
Being Gross and
the other too.
                                                       Won't say it twice
                                                        out­ of respect for you.
Rude people.
                                                    It is not they lack social graces,
                                                     it is they don't like other faces,
                                                     than their own.
Everything.
                                                ­    I am lying again, all the time.
Generalizations
Selfishness.
Feelings of
impending doom,
life for me may end
by noon, tomorrow.
                                         I am on the clock, tick, tock
                                         There is more sand in the bottom
                                          of the hour glass, no way to turn
                                          it over and no refills allowed.
Yesterday.
Helplessness.
Haters.
                       ­            Do I sound like I drink
                                   from a bitter cup?
Waiting...               oh...My time...is up.

My dog walks are getting crowded,
Drag the main, the girl, she asked,
"I know this is a random question"
as startled I close the gate,
"But do you have any plastic bags?"
"No" said I, and stood to wait
for her to move out of the way,
there was enough time to take in her face,

her life was rough her face said so, but
no language it spoke but two, body and *****,
it made me walk the other way as she turned the
way I normally do,  that face textured, maybe
crack pipe burns from in her youth...

As I walked quickly away large trucks rolled quickly by
I turned to keep an eye them, caught her, in the corner of my eye
following, and not very discreetly.....

wispy clouds
on a blue sky
and a blood-
less sunset, lost on all for now
some despised boys in
cowardly mens bodies
have more bul-
lets than teeth,
yet the chickenshit bites
and mark and
grief they leave
behind, spent
casings litter the
halls of learning
peace, pieces, seething, see the thing
is now, lost on all for now  

so how much hate do you have to harbour, to ****** a child?

yet the clouds of
witnesses stay silent;
no, not the common
man, the common
women, who have
in common with you and
I, tears falling from, my eyes
our eyes, there is
horror, there is shock
there is mouths
open and no air is
getting to the lungs,
a silent scream for
justice, as no one
can bring the children back, memories do not cut the loses,
yet the clouds of
witnesses stay silent; those
seats of power
must be real com-
fortable at this hour
eschewing respon-
sibility, for there
is no gain by get-
ting involved,

the ultimate of pre-emptive fear,
how hard can they be to find leaving a yellow streak
wherever they go, crawling on their yellow bellies.

this is not to be read,
out loud for even the
sound and rhythm,
from anywhere in
world, would break hearts, my heart
cannot make rhyme and reason
about this crime,  see there is
an evil scaramouch, no credit
the pantywaist
deserves, takes on flesh and
payment is required.

What is lost on all for now..
What is lost on all for now..
What is lost on all Africa for now..
The value, the energy,
the beauty, the potential,
the future, there were
musicians, there were
geniuses, there philan-
thropists, there were
artists, * there were poets,*
they were children and
grandchildren, they
were going to be parents,
they were going have
children and that is
lost on all for now and forever.

Waking up when others, brothers and sisters,
finish the day, they go to bar, then the bus
mingle in the crowded fuss or get in their cars,
                            to go home slowly if it is far.

Alarm goes off, the
house to yourself,
sit in your ******, watching the news,
what you missed while you slept,
eat and dress, not in that order, as you
update your status, make your bed and the
bumpy mattress, pack your late night meal
ready, set as you go to your job on the border.

The patient drive, and you are not in that rush.

The hours nobody wants resemble people,
that nobody want to get near,
move through dark of shadowed hopes,

motives are suspect, call them creeple,
yes,
both the hours that move so slow,
and the bodies that hide, but can't diguise their intent.

You dictate the night, look left and right,
as people in a slowing stream return home,
their treasures packed away, receipts in hand,
passport ready for your command, to hand
it over.

There are those that "went for the drive, or to get a tank of gas"

Every one that passes though your gate,
despite the hour being late, smiles broadly,
as if to say,
nothing here to declare
go about your shift, oddly, questions
you do and ask these, late nighters to drive in
open the trunk, show you the receipts and
if they are in luck, they told the truth,
but
when they got to pay, they got to stay,
unhappiness empties their wallet,
then those three guys with mullets,
dare you to show them your gun; their laughter is like rusted metal lids, turning on a glass jar,
you being Canadian, don't have a gun.

You can still wish.

The night ends uneventful, your eyes
see the sun and know your day is done,
you will be home maybe to bed,
maybe stay awake, a chance you'll
given, you have four days off.

Night shift will ruin you later in life,
when those in the home will be able to
rest, you will be awake, no matter
what meds they make you take from the platter.

When the dark shadows close in, you have a job to do,
but where?, while
you won't
remember how or who.

the guy on the walk,
beside the road

stopped to gawk,
spoke to goad

every car that
drove by, every

person walking
past, as he spoke

they moved fast-
er to get past.

Or be caught
up in the fracas

with the man with
baggy pants, spoke

to fire hydrants,
and spoke to the

telephone poles,
in a language they

had never heard,
but now my house

is silent and closing
in it is time to go out

in to the chaos of  
the city streets

a fracas needs to
move his feet, and

feed his hunger
a blood thirsty disease

dietary fracas one
encounter at a time

three times daily
taken with water or rain.

Beware of the clown who
has not a painted face.

it builds

it is built, by

layers of wind,

pressure so low,

ions of energy,

stacking, packing

waiting to attack,

with force and no recourse,

rain and hail, pale

in comparison, to

the spin without and within,

of the column, the pillar,

just add fire, and the ire

would be more obvious,

touching down, to the ground

where people construct dreams,

but there is no emotion in

the storm, but people,

those trying  

to survive,

or revive their communities,

who are relying,

in the aftermath,

more than on memories,

splintered,

hands and hearts hang

on to one another,

for comfort,

for it is the only thing,

that makes sense after

all, the air tense with fury,

they restore,

they shore up

the courage and faith in humanity,

American quilt tested,

structures bested,

blow after blow,

yet the people remain,

lives lost, many in pain,

and they all share a refrain,

"we remain,

changed, yes, alone, not,

shared loss,

fortitude gained,

we remain, together as community"

Sun bleached sheaf
SCHOOL's OUT scrawled
in pencil, as if an uncertain
secret message of summer,
FOUND!



©DWE072013

Starts with a plan,
You need a street,
volunteers with care,
You need chalk and artists
volunteers who, give time to share,
too make it complete!

Every artist bends,
and begins to work,
some kneel some stand,
there is a demand,
on every body,
fingers coated in chalk dust,
as the asphalt grinds away,
minutes become hours.
measured by smaller and smaller,
morceaux de craie
a chill is in the air, yet
warmth is around each artist,
as they work the asphalt.

Centennial Square artists of chalk
beautiful works to be seen, and the kids,
could work with chalk; was the talk.

Government Street, quite a beat,
to walk and see artists' heart,
and love for what they can do,
put on display for you and you too,
as you enter
to the center
of the Bay Centre!

You, on your way to or from work, walking by,
you who want to see something different downtown,
you who have friends in Victoria from anywhere,
you who may want to do this next time, next year,
let the chalk do the talking!

©DWE092013

the cars that wash
down the boulevard,
take the wave sounds
with them, leaving
low tide markers,
deaf to the rush
of those metal wave
makers, some street
walker, wobbles on
high heels, and
weaves while waving
wandering from grass
to curb, wanting a
lift, cause life is a beach,
and all she can see for
miles is sand castles,
empty of their dreams,
empty like her,
wanting more than
sand dollars and the
stings of the jellyfish.


©DWE102013

Good Night  Poetry
Arc of the moon curves
as an outstretched hand
leads the way
Good Night Poetry
Arc of your back lying still
as a finger traces a line
a sheet falls away
Good Night Poetry
in motion
as two shadows become
one in the moonlit room
Good Night Poetry
no more woe in me
yet this is but a dream
misty shadows, lift as
the moon falls and as
the sun rises...alone.

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

Take heart, this too shall pass,...

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




©DWE122013

No point in chasing me for my money,
It found a red tide, isn't that funny,
No point in chasing me for my time,
Spend it all doing prose and rhyme,

No point in getting into my flesh,
I might be confused and think it a test,
No point in cheering me up and on,
It might leave you feeling put upon,

No point in breaking down these unfeeling fortress walls,
You won't find me, getting lost by the sounds, the echoes, along halls,
No point in remembering
landmarks on my skin and the bend of my joints,
You won't know where I have gone,
which one of 360 degree compass points,

Experience the ocean,
Scent the wind,
and throw my ashes there,
for when you find me,

My arms open wide, my hands too,
were painting pictures on the sky,
of me and you,

It will be at the end of my journey,
Failures outnumber successes,
I gave up and gave in.

you can't use, a diva who loses her voice,
you can't as she, is less than a diva can be,
why are you looking at these words in shock,
sing along
celebrated personage,
are people too, but
you would not know
standing toe to toe,
in a crowd outside,
a concert venue,
around and over you
the adoration flows,
each fan wants a touch,
post on Facebook, Instagram,
Twitter too, fulfills the need,

just know
they don't
let it show,
that divas,
have private,
lives like a cat,
that publicists and
public, use and scratch,
times nine,
it will be fine,
by design,
they will fade,
into the background,
frenetic energy,
Will dissipate,
they will always,
sing, with voices and
songs, written to feed
the times for one day
A diva's petals,
do fall off, gracefully?
gratefully?,
but they will always,
be the voice of freedom,
to dream. the rest...
is music history...

two eyes staring down,
One,  the virtual and the real
One of glass and the other cheese
not a creature
no other features
stand over the city
reflect urgent transparency
if it is visible
it is true
the heavens
secret hold on the moon
one hundred percent
that has split and become
two, the virtual and the real
like life the dream
like living in reality
in sickness and in health
should be fifty/fifty
yet images have blurred
edges that serrate and grate
across a blackboard skin
that is the sound, of giving in

the sky had a case of random cloudiness, the moon,
the stars could still gaze upon the Earth from the
glass shelves, that only rarely let the stars fall and
the moon change shape, like the way your *******
heave when I kiss the nape of your neck
many times

They hide gifts,
They hold thinking,
                  stinking or otherwise,
They help sort, organize, stuff,
                      S.O.S.
for us who need boxes and either
what we own is inside a box, which'is
inside a box we live in but the letters
of the names are scrambled as
they were dropped as I rambled
past the point of no return.

Then there is thinking outside the box.

Compass points that are arrows to Mr. and Ms. Direction,
an insurrection of sorts if your internal compass,
misleads and you wrap your arms to shore up the sides
which look like ribs but act like boxwalls and constrict your
breathing, and you end up
heaving, gasping and reaching for a paper bag,
to even your breathing
           to signal your leaving, anxious for this to end?
                         so I can start grieving for
what I never had,
an imagination, without walls of cardboard.


©DWE112013

she sat with her back to the brick column
holding up a vestibule, she found useful
as a public sorting place for the private
contents, of her camel coloured purse, remarkably ****-
tered as her "****** life", her short term
fix, IT, took a carefully cared for, crack pipe.

Running late was I, and eye contact was made
and I quietly but firmly said to the seated glazed eyes look-
ing up at me, "might be best if you leave."

next day kilometres away, early morning bank
deposit, and a coffee run, me and the dog, out
for fun "car rides" bring her much delight, a voice
from behind said "mister, mister you gotta help me!,
I'm, not an addict, and last night I could not get home,
rode transit for free out to here from Kitsilano but,"
she breathed, "in the it cost me a ticket for one
hundred and seventy five dollars, when I got caught"

I looked at her, seeing her hair dishevelled and a face full
of what, despair...? "so what do you want from me?"  
She
ran on with her mouth, playing with her top, the sentence was
run on and wouldn't stop.  "I made some bad choices, came here to meet my EX, found him with a girl having ***, and I need ten or twenty,
bucks to get me home, the transit cop said he would not let me back on and would still be working until three A.M., stranding me, until this morning see?!"

We
went back and forth, verbally,
"transit does not cost that
much, stop asking me for
money!", and she fired
back,
"my math is bad,
the money would be
nice and do your Karma
good, I am a big  believer
in that", finally I left her
with a small handful of
small change and watched her walk
away, got in my car, got my coffee, got  going home...

but as I drove by her, she was standing back to the hedge,
calm had returned as she waited, her hair was in place,
I saw something I failed to observe during our dialogue....

under her arm was
that camel coloured
purse...two women
suddenly became one

Hear the motions of the engines,
Speed South to North,
As well North to South,
Care not they, the sounds they make.

It is a confession.
They speed in the land of ****.
It increases, then decreases,
As they travel past, the open window,
Winterless blast, a confession,
It feels close to spring.

Care not a bit that sounds, rude, to those who tomorrow,
Will wake up to snow, while the blizzard sounds here,
Are the rush of thoughtless trucks and cars,
Which are driven at speeds above the posted limit,
Even if they don't have to travel so far,
To get home in the drizzle, to their green grass.

Maybe snow would slow them down,
Or keep them off the road entirely,
No, no, not them, they are rude,
They have this attitude,
Drive like this, no matter what the weather,
They are better than the conditions, they drive in.

Another confession, they are in it to win, and no one
else knows there is a contest and contestants.

What a surPrize!

Hand him a sextant as he drives at night, after all he has to navigate,
Through Facebook and Likes and texts and bytes of downloads from
YouTube...would not want to be fashionably late in reply otherwise
Your social life, and status,
may die.

Trafficking bad habits,
Instead of "look out for the other guy or gal"
The phone and the life it holds,
can be dropped,
"worse than a dropped call",
is all the sirens wail as they go by,
Life in the balance, ghosts
White knuckling it with one hand,
While eyes are fixed, to a deathly white screen
And fingers dance solo in some sexless act,
The result is the same a distracted fact,
The mind is no longer in the car,
It has left the body already,
Waiting for it to die,
Watching from above and reaching to all
Who have fingers and a phone
Wanting to be ghosts and sticking to the life,
Which will make it happen.....by accident.

Drive defensively,
Leave your phone in the trunk.

I will let my self sink in to the blue,
I may float for a while and smile too,
I will close my eyes and think of ...
I may drift off as I drift out in the sea to,
the sea dreams, or landlocked in
the lake of the lost, feeling small on
the ocean adventure,
all from by bed with blue sheets and
king size comforter.

My beard is a windsock, I know the breeze is changin'.

This my vessel, the anchor has been weighed,
I set sail tonight again, to ride the waves,
for when morning cracks the horizon,
I find a port and with my sea legs, walk,
the lands, never yet
finding home.

the three quarter crush crunches
                              under foot,
till you leave the man made route
                       step from sun to shade,
of the forest, inside a park, inside a city
                        to see inside of me,
what do the shadows stir, was that a
                        movement that blur?
or is my deepest insides pooling fear
                 when I walk alone out here,
it is then the beauty escapes me, some
                traffic noise nearby masks
the peace that could be mine, walking
                further to find rotten logs,
in my thoughts, so if I just sit a while,
                  let the green needles, inject
me with a sense of humility and blindness
                  evergreen, ever clean, silence,
now pristine, I have walked deeply to
                 the place there is no sound,
except that which is so close to surround
                 me in its entirety, and I feel
that the onion layers of tears will peel,
                   leave me stronger to go back
into the world uncluttered, save for the pack
                   of sensations I take with me
no fear, no darkness, no sadness just be free,
                   with bird whistles echoing instead
of the thoughts that can only hold the despair in me,
                  I like my forest walk and would rather
listen to the birds and nature talk to one another.
                 Than the self-doubt poisoning my stream.


©DWE102013

What was once water, now ice,
         Fall has begun to winter-over,
          Crackles and breaks, sections slice
        Grass green-brown but no clover,
What was once warmer, now bites,
into flesh,
into light clothing,
have no fear or loathing,
never heinous or aimless
looking for the creche,
for what is not worthless,
is priceless,
not painless,
but with difficulty
admit it, found faulty,
forgiven,
rewired,
good liven,
inspired,
stay warm people as the shroud of the Arctic, glides down like the temperature falling,
don't turn a deaf ear, share of your surplus and good cheer, do you hear, the street calling,
                                                        ­                                        do you hear, in the sprawling,
of anycity, voices of those who, the cold is told to show no mercy, so be kind... as outside in winter ********************­********
                                                                ­                                                          is appalling.


©DWE122013

Young One tries to hide her frowning face
I see the scars, the open sores,
Her hair hangs such away in place,
The world sees what she ignores.

Reality.

It has been a while since she had a fix,
Hood up, Eyes darting right and left,
Just looking like she'd been  in a conflict,
Width birth achieved, looking possessed.

Anti-society.

The other Older bends around to light her smoke,
head shielding the wind,  straggled hair showing,
She steps off the curb into traffic,  without a hope,
But the cars don't stop, loud honking and horn blowing.

Climactic.

Leaping back to the curb and looking up at the light,
in disbelief, swears a blue streak that it was her turn,
Defiant waves her smoke in her fist, it was "her right"
Paths about to cross, Past and Future, would they discern?  

The two come face to face, not recognizing, looking stern.

Anti-climactic.

I think of caramel apples this time of year,
I think of Thanksgiving in October, oh dear,
I think of seasonal gestures and try to wear
nostalgia,
I think of pumpkin spiced pie, and sage too,
I am so busy I will forget to think of you,
I ******* hot coffee, sometimes burn a lip,
If I eat at a restaurant, I always leave a tip,
for nostalgia,
I keep something near my heart and others
in my head just behind my eye,
I love the fall of the leaves crisp and then crumble,
to top the grass and tumble in the chilling air.

My mom always said it best,
But my dad said he'd "Break our legs if we did
drugs"
My mom always said" that you be sure to be safe,
and just don't",
Today they, the temptations, are here and there and
everywhere,
I am not judging, but I am not budging either,  
For anyone who loved her, I am sorry for your loss.

how did fifteen year  old A...
why did fifteen year old ...d...
when did fifteen year old  ...r...
who was with fifteen year old ...i...
what was fifteen year old          ...a...
where was fifteen year old         ...n...
why was there no help for           ...a...

I cannot finish my questions as they keep pouring out
of me and everyone of them is tear stained,
so recently a Falcon fell, and I am sad,
                        no judgement, not mad,
trying to understand
trying to make sense,
each of mine were
fifteen once, and nostalgia
wells up in me,
knowing that could have been
me, getting a call or a knock on the
door, then the wind leaving your
lungs, and you can't hear anymore,
for all of your screaming,
and tears scald as they run down your face,
one you loved for too short a time, is now gone.

©DWE092013

Color or colour compacted into a stick,
In the fingers of an artist, quick a slow trick,
can be performed, art before your eyes,
as the asphalt roadway takes on a disguise.

As the sun moves above the fog,
the warming begins and hours logged,
step by step each artist to their own pace,
they begin to add color, yes colour to the place.

Finger soft flesh chalked, bent knees, dusty clothes, holding
chalk stick court for public eyes, conducting the dust, loading
each shade onto the black tempura space to be a master piece,
there is planning, layout, maybe blocking and she says, "PLEASE!,
pass me the knee pads, asphalt is so ******* the bent knees."

The hours pass and fog drifts away, looks like a blue sky,
will be here for the day and overnight, no threat to erase, nigh,
day one is done, look forward to day two, maybe some rain late,
in the afternoon, oh no chances for thunder and lightening are great.

Performance art done with heart,
all know from the start, any water,
will wash away, the efforts, the hours,
that beauty was on display, while made.

No tears were spilled, and the glow of perspiration was contained,
This cat for tonight is the empress of her domain, Government St, Victoria BC



©DWE092013

She, dressed in black, gingerly moving each item of clothing, with care,
The road side gravel and dirt with concrete is her boudoir, straight hair,
dark and greasy, she moves to put each item away, how did they get there?

Maybe, her friend, taking watch at the street, looking north, with concern,
Glancing over her shoulder at her friend as she bends and each item returns,
to the black luggage and black bags,  where is her home, I can't quite discern?

Later, I  see her all alone drinking from a water bottle and she can't sit still,
bags are packed near the bus stop, several blocks  away and back up the hill,
No friend in sight, the bus did not take her, where to spend the night, she'll chill.

Somewhere.

Just as she always has had,
leather skin as tough as
it always was, but her
heart,
beating,
tenderly,
quickly,
waiting,
for night,
or worse
to fall...

The skin, feels touch a cool gentle touch,
                         it has not felt one as such,
since the last time, replacements arrived.

It is such a tease this breeze moving slowly,
                    one minute and creeping lowly,
begging you to chase it close to the ground.

Suddenly changes swiftly, forcing curtains out,
                                     of the way, oh don't pout,
the breeze will come back and get you to play.

Reaching up to the sky to stretch and tire you out.

You'll be a dried up leaf chaser, catch sand in your face,
one second slow next fast and faster to change the pace,
what a delightful tease lifting curtains moving branches,

                                                    Exciting flowers to dances,
                              go ahead play along take your chances,
        not a cloud mover, it is just a breeze, trying to please,

Trying to put you at ease,
                                           after days on end of summer heat,
                       still stale air and relentless heat,
                                   be polite and sit still, offer the breeze a seat,
             resistance is a bold stratagem, but your
weak, open your arms embrace them,
          easy as pie, it is a breeeze.

The metal x said "Thou shall not pass"
Neon yellow gloves pointed to the sky,
warning who was watching, when they
were hit they flew far and fast (20 feet)

Embedded in the rubber that hits the road,
are what seem to be the remains of a toad,
but they are not, not at all,
they were the dangerous daffodil.

I guess his hate governor must of broke, or
he must have felt the power of engine,
so he closed his eyes inhaled that ****, or
maybe the forced move pumped his adrenaline.

What ever the case, there was not a witness and we know no flower whisperers
The stalks fresh with Spring agility could not stand the weight and snapped crisper.
then burnt back bacon char coaled on the grill, so far this is a measure of his ill, will.

We have nothing but WIDE TIRE tracks to go by and too bad he is the only one, for sure
and at the end of the month he will live here, Nevermore, Nevermore, Never ever more.

I am not meant to be, where I yam, what I yam
Unless life like spinach, is meant to be canned,
A failure by all reports, I have no retort,

Not one, n o response, my previous successes
lead me to believe, that "what have you done
lately" does not deceive, fills the beast, technology,

That leads me to my breaking point,
Rogue wave, out of the deep blue see,
If I were a martyr, that might be true,

But I am nothing more, than a man
with a love for words and I play with
sounds, really adore what they do;

with my mind,
with my heart,
preventing stagnation,
of my imagination.

Ah, the breaking point
not the tip of a coast,
where land ends,
              and bends open water
to new possibilities.

We all have at least one
In our life, in our career, in our day
Weakness, faint of heart,... No Way,

Even the oceans, and their waves,
As those waves come to shore,
On breakwater's and beaches

Break! but do not dull the ocean's roar.

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


©DWE012014

This will land like focaccia,
Like the careless 'forgot ya'!

And a man will stand while staring in, through the coffee shop window, going off glossolalia.

The ebullient cashier trainee
remembers every name and mixes up almost all the orders
for coffee,

Cars are lined up for the drive-
through, their voices sound like
didjeridoos, in the ears covered
by single cyborg clip-ons

headset taking orders.

The ****** iconoclast, Street person, bows to the ground, hat off his head, as he prays to the cigarette holes he made in the EXIT sign outside,

his hat remains empty, as each car that whips up the wind that tumbles the receipts tossed egregiously at him, like leaves in the Fall,

While the cruciverbalist sits in the corner in the only soft seat, finger pecking her keyboard while stares at the line and sips her chai tea,

lagniappe of chocolate stashed,

away in her voluptuous bag,  the beleaguered barista has cups lined up over the transcendental horizon,

and she can't wait for her break
so she can eat with Olio Nuovo
olive oil, and Selection Artisan
ged balsamic vinegar, she brought
to dip, her focaccia bread in,
which she forgot almost,
on the counter at home.

Colonies more like,
little islands, of freedom,
to express, you.

Not Polynesian,
get aways, not tropical
until, hot August nights.

Rolling in like waves,
     make me crave,
gritty sandy lave.

Wave your arms above your head
singing
sha na na  nana  na, I see the joy
when others are fit to be tied,
they can't keep their anger inside
controlled
yelling and waving their arms
madly
shouting at the top of their lungs
till hoarse scratching
sounds
are all they have left, they are spent.

Sha na na  na na  na na na
Wearied men and women wander the street,
Some are too, behind a steering wheel, pedals at
their feet, their hands lead busy lives,
texting,
talking,
dialing at will, cornering while drinking coffee,
phone by their ear and cigarette in their mouth,
who's driving the car?

Sha na na  na na  na na na clap clap
I can't carry a tune, hit or miss each note,
Given up on memorizing anything by rote,
Be a bringer and giver of peace,
Don't distracted drive for there are police,
Sing with me, drown me out, when I go flat,
You are the best,
You are the king or queen
of your domain,
and I yes, just tell me and I will make it so,
Make it so, make it so, don't let it pass,
make it so.

But, please do not hurt me, I cry easily,
I will hide my face, the streaks of dirt,
will be the remains of my pain,
marking me sad.

Sha na na na...  enough na.

Manicured lawns, sculpted shrubbery dot the landscape,
Indifferent drivers of cars going to or coming from an escape,
Hydro parallel lines almost invisible but a contrary shape.

This is where life happens,
but don't get on the bandwagon,
for big city life, from inside the fence,
short walks to and from work, less tense,
d
e
s
t
r
e
s
s
if I had vehicular commutes,
a one hour sentence that pollutes,
if I lived further away,
I would be an employment cliche.

My ear buds on,
my music in,
I hear what I
want, on my
travels, where
the music opens,
the landscapes,
of my imagination,
manicured not,
indifferent not,
every workday in
every way is
a new and
exciting adventure.