the aging stump now hollow,
                    not one to follow,
into the vibrant past
  or gift of the present (which is all we really have, even us trees)
           the future, what future?

sewing fresh bark on the outside
                             to look brand new,
overlook, please, the needle mark or two.

dehydrated fuel chips for some others'
                                              kindred fire
     if there is any green left, don't mind a
                                       little if there's smoke.

Logged many hours going nowhere,
roots of evil, to foul the air, and clench
the dirt deep down, gripping every wrong.

To the very fibre of its' being
with out knots for eyes for seeing,
        blind to all that does surround,
except what can be felt in the ground.

All will fail and finally fall,
hope any seedling falls
far from this tree,
there is no sustenance
to be found, in this clay
soil unyielding ground
once thought to be fertile
        not even agile fibrils,
                           remain.

The other trees show their
                         disdain,
reach up and up to the sun
full canopy of green broad leaves
on long strong branches
and block the rays,
**** the chances
of a life, of any life at all.

The gray stump remains
crumbling, a humbling cycle
to the disintegrating end.
To life. evermore.

©DWE082013

Good dirt,
Bad dirt,
Bag of dirt,
dirt in a bag, avoided dirt bag, almost,
flowers, herbs
and veggies everywhere,
not a clean spot, all is dirtied,
soiled by my touch,
perfect plants in little pots,
re-planted, by gloved hands,
staying dirt free,
not gentlely,
name is Darrell,
not Mary,
don't you dare ask me how does
my garden grow,
for I will say, with dirt
on my face in my hair,
it is too early to tell so;
you can go look for silver bells
and cockle shells and all those pretty maids
in some body else's row,
cause I moved dirt for what it is worth,
for hanging baskets, on every word,
and herbs to flavor, my tongue,
as I stripped those young plants
from their root bound temporary
prisons,
for reasons unknown,
as I did not inherit my mother's green thumbs,
I did not earn any merit badges nor did I join 4 H,
in the days of my youth, now
I grow weary of faltering crops,
it is to easy to stop to ****,
and wet the soil, care for
those things that rise from the dirt,
that were moved, into containers,
with indelicate fingers, gloved,
not loved by any living thing they touched.
Give me dirt,
I can't hurt dirt,
broken stems, ripped leaves,
I grieve for them and that
they may forgive, my clumsy
ways, and be touched by the healing sun's rays.
I understand dirt,
for it is where I came from,
and His breath.

You can sit and watch grass grow,
Drop seeds and reap what you sow,
Get dirt on your hands, you know?

Wait and see what mystery winged things
                                                             bring,
Observe their dance, how they see to clean
                                                           ­  wings,
Absorb the flight and the strut and the peck and
                                                      the song it sings.

You can walk the dog a good long ways,
Run with ear buds for the endurance phase,
Remember either way get out and go play.

Listen carefully, take care of you, only you know how,
No one else really can, not even your lover or friend, wow,
Free yourself, find peace, seek as much blue and green, Allow:

A Time for Love;
To Express Joy;
A Life in Peace;
Doctoring your Patience;
Delivery of all with Kindness;
Self-discover Goodness;
Unearth Faithfulness,
In the realm of Gentleness;
Wear a Patch for Self-Control;

but -

Start with time to watch birds

you rubbed the
grey worry stones
over and over,
that were found in the Chest,

                                        treasured or pandora's box, what else was inside?

patiently losing
kind parts
of your fingers,
massaging

                                     with printless tips, losing all identity, such sacrifice!

the still stones
hard with worry,
until the worry
fell away,
           landing and curling
           like shavings a
            Carpenter's work
           would leave  behind,

and the stones
began to look
like red and
soften up some

you took it in stride, no pride or boasting, no scolding no holding it over my head,

                                                          ­                    
you never faltered,
you went and
stood silently,
watching me
tire each day
from my new
and advent-
urous ways,

behind me to
remind me
there was safe-
ty in your arms,

                                                          ­                        tall tales told of night time fictional conquests, lies about lying with strangers!

the pink flesh
you wore, never
turned green
knowing we would
find each
other
every
night

                                              
till dawn
              and morning
                                   light glinted
                                                       of your hair,
                                                                ­           your smile,
adding colour to the design?

It might have  been the cold, that as the mercury dropped, so did the new spring grass,
It could have been the wind that blew forcefully and bent the golden long grass down,
It could have been the rain that fell and weighed the tan wheat grass to the ground,
It might have been the sun that burnt the roots turned the poor grass brown with drought,

It was not the cold, it was not the wind, it was not the rain, nor the drought it was a black bear sleeping, no doubt!

Sky so clear and as blue as I had ever seen and gently held the sun, while I went over a log,
I awoke it on a walk, as I was listening less and talking more with my dog,
The bear looked at us and without any fuss stood up, snorted and walked away,
My dog pulled tight on the leash, grumbled, growled that the bear would not play,

So, if you go out in the woods today, you better not go alone, they, the bears, are waking from their winter fog.

jets sound like thunder as they float and lumber in for the asphalt by the sea,
their wake, vibrates the hydro lines, with only a gentle shake and shimmy,
not heard over the traffic that speeds up and down the boulevard lanes,
cars, oblivious to the aircraft overhead, and they go north and south again,
i sit on my balcony to see lights that show the shape of wing, nose and tail
i watch the wires silhouette high above, needy to feel their dance of pain,
and the millions of volts will brighten up this awfully gloomy tale.


©DWE102013

Families are families, once again,
Happy endings, sure, from tragic circumstance
Courage like this, seldom at no expense,
Three woman and a girl have a fragrance,
of strength,
of  life,
of much more,
Than Words which are sounds,
a little more than hollow,
and maybe peace will be found,
Somewhere, when questions, will
Not hang in the air, after needing to be asked,
While giving many others hope,
Resolve,
                In your vulnerability, in your time,
so much...
has been made better...
by your safe return, that ...
                                leaves me speechless,
in my stunned silence...a flood of tears.

Peace may not find you and your
Resolve will crumble in your hands, seen by
Observers who will shake their heads while
Fear will come in with each breath and
Easy stuff becomes hard because of
Selfish attributes that have your name on them, playing
Silly word games when work needs to be done where
Idiots need not apply and
Objections will fall on deaf ears
Neophytes BEWARE and
Aware that
Losses are not counted in the win column.

Misunderstanding purposely
Is a poor choice, unwise
Seeing your education
Combined with your
Obvious position of leadership
Neglecting the human cost while
Dutifully embracing rules
Undercutting human values
Cynically pointing one ring- finger in any direction to
Tyranny.


©DWE062013

They train and they train to run,
some are serious and some for fun,
               with friends or family, a journey.

It is a journey that takes courage,
but when they train to compete or complete,
they are on their own.

No one can do it for them.

For all who were there or saw it on TV,
social media and next days paper,
the struggle, Will Be.

The race has changed course,
hardly any will notice they
just race to keep up.

No one can do it for them.

Boston is waking up and will again and again.
The sun will rise and set, courage will be found,
where? it may surprise us all.

Even make you catch your breath.

For these few are many too many.
Catch their tears and water the forests.
Though there will be grit.
No one can do it for them.

Don't stand in front, they need to see the future.
There is space for a stripe of people on the left.
Another space for a stripe of people on the right.
Behind them place a stripe of people too.
                                                                               Stars overhead.

No one can do it for them.
So stand with them,
                                      after all life has become the marathon.

It snowed overnight,
Falling flakes, white, with cold,
The ground was covered.
The sky was falling,
apart and not losing its'
place high above us.
The ground was lighter,
with flakes and whiter too,
yet stayed beneath,
our feet; only laughter,
left our lips and returned,
to the sky. It then
fell lightly on us
again.... softly falling flakes
of snow, winter's white.


D W Elverum March 2012

the magic of science,
the faith in a miracle,
words lead us astray,
sounds ring true,
but from whose lips,
whose ears do hear,
the feather light weight
of truth,
the whispers of mistrust
that lie
heavy and pieces
make a maze
(instead of amaze us)
  so that layer
   upon layer
    must be told
     and behold,
       to enfold the
        nugget of untruth,

but wait,                              no wait..

when that first
sliver of light
breaks the horizon
to reveal,
a new day,
the weather,
the East
and
a love's heart.


©DWE102013

I could do Haiku,
for as long as, it took, the
crash of tank to tin.

Yellow, slow, red, stop,
black car bent out of shape by,
a Safari from behind.

I have often said,
"better to be casual,
than casualty."

Poetry does not,
heal soft tissue injury,
each in time, heals all.

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


©DWE122013

sun in my eyes, standing there,
on the platform,
as her train pulled away,  
hoping a cloud storm,
would rain hard,
as to stay coping with forms
of sunsets flashing
red hues of warning,
with each passing window
burned the optic nerve,
into my brain,
with each passing window,
pain welled up and exhaling
as the last car of the last train
carried all my sadness in the
eddies and backwash
in a breath of air,
gravity is a strange thing
when you fall for someone
and they leave,
you are drawn in, by the vaccum,
and may not catch yourself,
or have the will to stop,
from the four foot drop to the tracks,

thank goodness
my grandparents and
my parents put
that harness on,
that they had for me...and (my brother)
in words
"All the love
from horizon
   to horizon"

The curled up grey bristle could be called a beard,
His loud vociferous dialogue with a light pole. Weird.
His clothes had holes and ***** coat was smeared.

I think he twitched more than he talked,
I could not help myself as I gawked,
then just as suddenly, away he walked.

I walked around to the road side windows,
there he stamped his feet, doing the flamenco?
Never mind you weren't there, this is innuendo!

Once again he weaved his way away. There he was gone.

All the pattern pieces were made with individual care,
Woven together, the journey through life women share,
But there remained some loose ends, unused threads.

They were the ones that did not get used,
Not part of the pattern, not fused, they refused,
To be set aside, they bided their time, knowing...

Just as the women had been brought together over a dire need,
With prayer, they assembled the quilt pieces knitted without greed,
No gossip filled the air, a sense of urgency to complete the work.

Each piece was attached to another, using the left-over threads,
The many became one community, tied together with the short threads,
The rejects now held the whole quilt together, instead,
Of being discarded.

It takes all in a community, to make one quilt, one banner, one voice,
One future, from patterned pieces to a hand full of loose threads.

Age, ages, what ages you?
Time, times, what troubles you?

Space, spaces on a blank page.
Face, faces, from rapture to rage.

If you can throw words like dark looks,
Put on paper and fill notebooks, emotion filled and colourful!

Writing is sorting your thoughts, like psychotherapy,
Without the couch or the cost, can you afford a puppy?

Fifty-two poems in fifty-two weeks, mostly direct,
a few tongue and cheek, through the life I trekked.

Look, looks at a mirrored image fractured,
Distance, distances, relationships manufactured.

Dimension, dimensions, superficial to beyond 3-D,
Life, lives, filled please until full, honest vulnerability?

Born in a prairie town, at the Grace
of God and Hospital as fall had already
given over to winter.

Falling flakes, landing, sticking here north of North,
South of the Pole, South of the North West Territories.
North of the rest of Alberta, mostly.

I was not born with a witty tongue or ink flowing freely.
For schools and teachers removed most if not all,
so it seemed.  So, if you are a writer, write!

The well maybe deep, dry, unused
                                      and abused, even forgotten and in disrepair.

So if, NO!
     so when you can decide to write again,
     you will and tell all, those nay slayers,
     teachers who shape you so that you have
     no tools to cope with life, tell them all
     that the flood of words about spring out
     of you, some body best build, yet another
     ark.

Now where was I?
I'll get back to you with the other part,
one day, right now trying to restart.
My heart.


©DWE092013

two dolls walked into a craft fair, dressed the same,
it was fun, it was the best, they made a good day better,
just by being there and maybe some others stared,
at the makeup and glitter, and that they dressed with flair,
maybe the pastel shade did not go over well,
but their dresses matched shades and **** ballooning,
they took a risk,
and I found a smile,
on my face, made me glad they were in this place.
Never limit
independent self expression,
just 'cuz you can't,
or instead of being
confident and beautiful, they could rant, and rant
but these two looked rant resistant,
they had the seed pods of joy,
and stardust on their faces,
and went it, with them when they,
tiptoed into the spaces and stalls
of merchants, we did not know
we were not at a craft fair, but a Ball,
and invited by these two princesses,
lovely in their excesses of joy - I saw joy today,
she has a twin, but I did not quite catch her name.


©DWE112013

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



©DWE012014

lines like these
not necessarily logical,
nor biological,
could be the edge,
that you hedge,
your fund,
you bet,
places with names,
that explain history,
but add to the mystery,
of crossing,

naive before the
millenial age,
turned fully two,
if I don't know you
I won't trust you know who,
borders,
now armed and ready,
steady lads steady,
barbarians at every gate,
then silence the critics,
if asked politely, peace?

fingers following a raised edge,
contours, that sweep from
mountaing tops, that have
never been seen by theses eyes,
shadowed valley, holds surprising
refresment and all this so far away,
along the ridge line
slow to descend,
until we see that this beauty
borders on brightest city of hope,
borders on the mystery,
borders without ends,
of desire.

the taste in the air
                is unfair
the reason is lost
       at what cost
I will write and
          write
till late into the night, even as my sight dims and my neck bones, ache to feel the soft pillow
of an easy night
no battle, no plight,
and I will lay
beside what I
delight in
and as she rests
I hear her breath
and hope that she will say, "tell me a story, please..."
then I would
tell her of a lover
and the battle of
untold cost
for the love, of a queen
I would tell her about
a knight who could tame
dragons, without raising a
sword, I would tell her about
a place far away, where we
found a treasure together
in stormy weather and the
odds were us and against us as well
and under a knell we found
what we were on this quest for
a pair of joined hearts.
To be shared and beat the  same rhythm
as years go by when one laughs the other
may cry, never to be alone or far
from home, sharing breath, speaking
silence, the eyes say it all...
...I love you.


©DWE112013

this is short and sweet,
things have soured,
was in the ocean,
found and trusted a raft,
was I daft,
now been cut adrift,
raft is rotten top to bottom
to the core of the heartwood.
there is a rift in
my naive trust
of circling sharks
of pirate people
who disarm you
with kind words
then throw nets
trap the free
flight our birded wing.

She flies no more.
Broken wings,
can't be restored,
Bullies sometimes
dress in suits and ties
and where brotherly
and sisterly disguises.

So sad

Each rising sun,
A promise,
Each passing moment,
A hair's width,
                           Each breadth of a breath,
Exhalation or,
Inhalation,
Pause to recognize joy,
                                    JOY,
Signs of the seasons,
Coming or leaving,
A season of believing,
A reason of lifelong passion,
                                      fashioned,
After
Christ,
Are we there yet?
The journey is not easy,
The Winds not light or breezy,
Attest to the spirit Fire,
Earth not meant to be home
But the elements;
Of faith, make you whole,
Of love, embrace brokenness and hold them,
Of charity, it is better to give, and give, and
Of hope, until ...
And then the greatest of these, until, is Love.

Pairs well with steak, prime rib and spaghetti
bolognese, my cab-sav drank with no regret,

my dog has more likes on my instagram
@elverum51, is where it is at where I am

chances are dark chocolate will stain these lips,
as I slowly enjoy the limited sweetness, tongue trips

on slippery letters that form words bathed in wine,
I don't work tomorrow I will be just just LIKE fine,

same thing different day on wordpress,
I don't twitter enough for a wordsmith

I am sure there is a video on youtube,
for me dude, to solve everything I rue,

do you?

Need some time killers, murderers more LIKE
Can I interest you in Pinterest, Stumbleupon,

and their ilk?

LIKE me so I can love myself,
take my self-esteem off a shelf

freshly pressed and fine
that reminds me....wine!

How is this social, if I cannot prepare a meal at my meagre table,
Days are gone when my humility is thrilled you visit me, a fable

uncommon courtesy can be found by a common man LIKE me,

@iceintheattic mentioned me in a comment: @elverum51
Always too kind to the bones, kinder than the wind to
the trees - thank you @elverum51

I need SMT
for my SMA

don't message, don't check my status, don't even phone
just show up knock on my door, that is all that matters.

I did not run away from home or family or my present past,
I knew I had to leave, stagnating me was where I once and remained at last,
So I left, my home town, an acting out clown, needing to find maturity.

I joined the service of Queen and Country, only to learn that I was a failure,
To my dreams of absurdity, made decisions and choices hoping to find a saviour.
Only as an immature man can do, yet moving forward, aging as we all do, each day.

That changed and with more, than care that I became self-aware, not of my limits,
but there were others, differences too that I did learn and experience hints of fitness
possibilities, alone I would fester in my own skin, it was because I had wanted to win.

A career of eleven long years traded in for love and a 3 year marriage, in fact,
A Saviour found by the lost, faith found, He covered the cost, a propitiatory act.
Leaving a Gain, moving with a repeat Nomadic cycle, chasing work to find a Home.

Three hundred thirty nine months later, almost a year of months, we have been wed,
The memories are many and not the same but we grow much closer together instead,
You bring colour, and vital vibrancy to our life, do I bring you reason or rhyme?

I will keep this short and sweet and cut to the chase,  next to you I see life
differently, even when I look in a mirror at my face, through trials and strife,
and purpose, I am His to serve, my rough edges are highlighted by lasting joy.

What would you say if I asked you to run away,
                                                       from all of this?
Would you think I'm crazy or something amiss?
Come with me run with me have fun and play, okay?
We could just pack up and leave the big town in
                                                              ­     our dust!
You with your stuff me with mine, we'll be fine,
                 and yes we can pack some clothes and
other things too,
                you know that quote "to thine own self
                                                            ­        be true."

How can we be truer than true, than me with you?
          I watch you create from as close as I can,
but getting it together, is it part of the Masters' plan?

I mean...we have been two for so many years and
you have insomnia and fears and anxieties, but
each one I have caught in a jar, and released into
the wild, where it can no longer do no harm.

So let us find some place wild and you will be free
to be who you really are with no need to wear that
mask you wear for morning or noon or night,
or when some one calls, and you decide to talk instead
of not answering, and then you pay the price
as the call was not free after all, your insides front
the toll.

Or a chance meeting exacts an exchange rate that
you can not afford.

And when each day exhausts you and can't
unwind
but in the bed we find you staring and reading
until
your eyes finally close and then the day
escapes
through your skin, "every doubt, every mistake,"
every band you use to hold it all in, snaps!
at once and over and over again.

Some times it takes minutes and others nights
it is hours, even if you have had a shower to wash
your misgivings down the drain, yet the strain
claws at you until you give in give up and rest.

It draws no blood and leaves no scars,
so no one can see the battle from far
away
but that is where you want them to stay
but not really,
they can come close if they understand
                                  and don't demand,
       just let you be "as this too shall pass,"
         my gentle damsel, my gentle lass.

Run in your white nightgown through
the meadow of flowers bright and I
will stand guard by your side, this and
                              every night.
                            Till daylight.

Even when you can't stop.


©DWE082013

Living a stellar life is easy,
grab some boredom and hang on,
gripping the life out of it.

Being an active parent of three kids,
all growed up, and mostly on their own,
well not quite, some day... a change.

What is there left to discover,
reacquaint myself with my lover,
pour my soul into my muse.

So turn myself inside out,
upside down, and cut my
teeth doing verse
don't rehearse,
one day I'll edit,

but that shadow of doubt,
but that shadow of fear,
creeps in to the corner of
the room, is it the edit or
the boogeyman, but
I'll continue to cut my teeth
as to chew through this
I need a whole set.


©DWE092013

one dog spies another dog and begins to
fuss and growl while pulling,
               himself taller, with the leash now as straight
              as a stick. Two other small dogs hardly
notice him or each other as both make eye contact
with their owners; as one walks north and the other
                                                           ­               south.

one dog meets another dog on the sidewalk,
while owners
talk
                  dogs circle the wagons on
                   leashes on an ever decreasing circle, the tangle of
words
                   is emphasized in the tangle of leashes.

They part ways, these aren't strays, next encounter is more
civil,
            one owner drops the leash of his loved pet and the cars
             **** by oblivious to the animal detente which has just been
                initiated, as they stand side by side and nose to the others' tail,
a peaceful
                    quiet greeting, as equals.  Accepted into the pack.

I watched as I was (s)trolling, wondering what my dog would make of this
trio of dog friends she hasn't even met yet... she would be made to sit
from a safe distance and then the wilful wire fox terrier of mine
would lunge
like she
was in the
Canadian tundra
at an annual
sledge pulling
contest...
with me the only
weight
holding her back!  

So if we greeted one another like dogs,
.
.
.
no not that way...
what were you thinking?
Greet one another accepting the
the worst, to better appreciate the better,
and then work toward making the
encounter, the relationship, the future, the best!

she lies at my feet,
I am the Alpha and
I am the protector
of the pack, this ten
year old pup, does not
like deep rumbles,
loud motorcycles,
or the idiots lighting
fire crackers,
fire works,
jerks.

But she lies at
my feet and has
stopped shaking
enough to sleep,
I don't mind being
the Alpha,
but I like it
better she feels
part of the pack.

Started as a DEBate, oh wait
Wasn't going so well, I could tell
Needed a mirACLE.  This debacle.

There was the brandishing of threats, overheated bets,
Words and gestures exchanged, faces promised to be,"rearranged"
Physical constraint, did taint the purity and value, we became estranged

Crime and punishment, was the lament
"capital", thought one side, with pride
MERCY was preferred, as a key word.

By the others, "Sisters and brothers of

Law 11",  the assignment was to DEBATE the lives and fate
of the criminal few who did the deed, do we accede?
It almost got out of control, peace took a hit on the atoll.

The teacher knew as animosity grew, there might about to
be a major crime which would mean to call out the law,
He called it "A draw" and "we'll let Parliament decide!"

In the end no one got hurt, save their pride, the teacher
himself said "it was a miracle, that the debate, did not
descend into a debacle".  But to this day, there are some,
not in our class or the court of public opinion, but where
it really matters, think that this scatters to the four winds
justice.


DWE 2013-04-03

when words spill like tears onto a page,
ink stains run and ruin the exchange,
of well, expression and emotion,
instead it is all awash in the ocean,

too much,
held inside,
for too long,
that when
it starts to
break out,
after breaking
the heart,

there is a broken heart to heal,
there are no kings horses or kings men,
for the pauper is not worthy of,
to have repair of the heart,
that was halved and halved,
then diced roughly,
and scattered on the dusty
wind
         ... wind that wails,
that it cannot mend the heart,
         ... wind that sails,
and cannot carry the parts to a place to mend,
so the
pauper
can once
again,
run to
his beauty,
though
she sees
him not,
stand beside
her in the
square, knowing
that she is not even aware,
that he would
not let one hair fall to harm,

but
then the master
at arms
saw his look
and took
his sword and chased
he, the pauper
to embarrassment
but
not of riches,
cut loose his
britches,
with one flick
of his sword tip,
pauper tripped,
and it stung, landed
in the fresh, fresh dung.

He ran away
and is running still,
with out any of his
heart parts,
the hardest part,
was knowing,
she saw his holey
undergarments
showing all, to be
the first and
last thing
she saw of him,
as he ran very f***t.

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

the cost of msinformation

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

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

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

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



©DWE012014

"Hit me"a violent gesture,
                  an act of pleasure,
a gambler's term,
A Seed of the Worm,
Wooden heart as well,
after all who is responsible for,
Hello's and goodbye's
Halo's and no-reply emails,
as it costs more at the pace of snail,
what do you pay, what fair market price,
for that part of you,
                                    that was preserved by sacrifice,
it has beauty no human eye has seen,
it is ageless,
                     but is it more than junk jewelry, worn
when you are worn out,
                    but what about the tom foolery, torn
in strips, down to your marrow, but
R e m e m b e r
He loves you and keeps His eye on the sparrow,
and if that don't mean Jack,
then we are back to you and to Him.
Oceans and Time, but no black pearl,
set sail, hit the open water, life is off your stern,
the bow may cut, where the wind blows...
there are the storms of life but,
"I know the master of the wind...."

You talk trash like a doorman,
who treats others like doormats,
thinking you have that right, cause,
you fired first!

did you get lost on your way to a poetry
slam, and so you have no where to compete?

as self appointed (shr)editor,
you stir the *** and leave the room,
leaving your P.I.E.D. in plain sight,
just waiting for it to go off.

do you unto others as you would have do unto you,
somehow you forgot it is true, and I am sorry,
but no worry, I have even liked some of your
real
poetry,

What Was I Thinking?,

Observe life and report in rhyme or prose,
But rhyme with hurtful slime, uglier than my
ugliest of toes, might be poetry but stirs woe in me,
dress it up in classic forms,
who let you create a standard of norms?

take us on fanciful journeys, tell us of loves lost
and loves won, but instead you
load your keyboard with angry
words, waiting for the sound you like,
the sound of your own voice, PULL!

to achieve release...

who died and left you in charge,
or are you sitting sad and alone,
on one of the google barges?

cute trick to hide in hash tags,
not very original, gotta hand it
to you,............................................... you are the best dressed word
bully around. linguistically pure,
of that I am sure, for no human,
would c\ut a/nother's .............................artistic creation
down, unless perfection was in the D.N.A.

what did the others word-
hunters go on vacation and
you got stuck taking turns?
What a way to waste a holiday?
So be a good gourmand, and
get back to excessive feasting,
on food, and
not people's
works.

KTWK

Poetry may not do it justice.

Their brown feathered heads bob,
their feet dig, clumps, grab and rob,
clods and sods, while tearing Earth.

Their heads twist downward and eyes
peer at what was unearthed and prized.

They were scratching out a living, peck
eking out an existence, even though peck,
they were paid in chicken feed, peck, peck.

They were the chickens of the loafing shed!

He worked with glass then later in front of the glory hole,
several hours a day and many, many years of hours total
over two and a half decades, annealing like his glass.

He pulled the sweetness from each piece with furnace fire, air and motion
staying level-headed while the raw molten ocean gathered on the honey dipper
of super-heated soft and borosilica masses were built from inside out, from
the crucible of the masters imagination.

Each year, all glass masterpieces all,
but three it averaged
would not make it to the market, fall or
fractured, shattered,
not a thing to be discouraged.

Cooling, heating a tricky thing,
Light blue pieces in the pan disassembled by natural forces,

so unlike their dreams, which have become tangible,
at 1100 degrees C, just don't touch the beauty, quite yet

this is the glass blowing reality at loafing shed

street walked on every day,
traffic in four lanes go both ways,
is there a place of peace and rest
or is tweeking happily
at a city bus stop of glass and silver grey
the best we can expect, with a cop and partner
                                       at a bus stop nearby, dealing with an angry young man but
she is dressed in camoflage she has more moves than a basketball
team while her man, her protector, garbed in matching clothes,
holds his head before it implodes, again
while she undulates and bends her spine,
and each vertebrae releases the next
      while her face remains perplexed.

                                             Just as is, mine. as it is only 12:17, just after noon.

Take the world at face value, the mist hangs heavy,
there is no sunshine on this misty grey day,
the mist is so heavy feels like rain anyway,
how did she get here with him,
betcha the bus driver won't let them on again,
so my mind wanders
                                 where in their lives did decisions and choices bring them to this point,
and why with all my missteps and listening to those voices in my head that I end up anointed
with a job that pays,
with a wife that stays, by my side,
with kids that give back to society,
with a grand-daughter who says "hi"
to everyone under the sun, under the mist,
while I under my breath,
I heave sighs, and "why Lord, whys?"
and a place I can vent AND A PLACE I CAN VENT,
when there is nothing I can to do help them
but pray.



©DWE102013