time spent, not wasted,
      out of doors tasted
     some experiences priceless,
are better
away from anything wireless
on any sunny day,
a light breeze plays,
with the leaves,
all for one and one for all
it is a free-for-fall until ... you
take a wee one for a walk
in the woods, on a path,
over a bridge and along
a stream.

What a dreamy day it was,
the crunch of leaves under-
foot, the oooohs and aaaaahs,
and various descriptors,
in a language I long forgot,
that of a fifteen month old
pink coated naturalist,
who points with fingers
                   or her fist,
who squats down to
study the million leaves
in reach, looking for the
one that needs the most help
          or a kiss to feel better,
God, You sure make beautiful
weather and a passing grade on granddaughters!
(said with tongue and cheek as she can touch more leaves
than I can take away....)

Up hill and down, by the creek and away,
up by the hairy animals that make her say,
woof-woof in mockery as they guard
                                  the yard
with the chain ink fence
then finally we turn for home
where every pole and tree within
in reach has to be touched like
it has the magical powers of a garden gnome
(let me guess, you have never heard that before)

the wind and rush of traffic at our
back as we spent the walk, not wasting
any time, for she will never be
this
young again.                       Nor will I.

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

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

my throat is raw, but I am sick,
my head hammers,
like someone fixing a grader blade,
my heart skips a beat or stops...

for what seems like an eternity,
all because of you.

I have a raw throat as I called your name,
all night into the dark,
walking the streets, hoping you would answer,
and all I got was chased by dogs, yelled at by
people, told by the police if I did not go home
they would escort me, they would even supply jewelry,

all because of you,

The tears I shed, and the resulting hammering in
my head, from crying and clawing at the sky,
to grab some fabric, a hem, in the hope you were nearby,
I looked at every point on the compass, you were not to be found,
I looked into the dark shadows for light and only got lost
and walked further in, I knocked on doors of homes, businesses
and churches, got kicked for my troubles
now my lurch has turned into a limp.

When there was no where else to turn,
No other place to go,
When there was no where else to search,
all because of, you,
I looked inside,
And I found You.

Waiting by my heart(h).


©DWE092013

there is war
there is a war,
for hearts and minds,
            found in minefields,

there is chaos,
there is a chaotic trend,
to steal your peace, your sleep,
              until the end, yes the end.

adding swear words,
would not add to what this
does say about the world, for ... wait listen, do you
hear IT, running down the drain,
a cleansing rain,
let me run outside,
with a towel and board shorts,
rip across the parking lot, jumping in puddles
until the people from their windows shake their
heads and mumble,
that somebody ought to call the police,
but no one does, meaning no one will,
for they want me to suffer and fall ill,
a consequence
of the quenching drench,
that I took, as my flipper feet, ran slapping
the asphalt, to the end, the end where I
looked over the edge, and saw there is more,
where that crazyness came from,
there is more.  I will behave if I can just reach out and touch....

Young countries grow, old
Time spills out and unfolds,
Liberty, Freedom, A Place that
                               has it's own dream,
Songs sang, bring tears,
Anthems, passed fears,
                                          subside,
Take pride America,
For every American,
Who has a home, who has a neighbour,
who has a defender, offering peace,
whose young children hold old hands,
whose women and men, continue again, and again and again,
to make it, starts with that dream,
watered with tears, and fed with more than food stamps,
even with so many accents they
all say in one breath,
"thank you for the opportunity"
to serve, to be free, to have the will
from the Baja to Presque Isle,
from Bellingham to Florida, Puerto Rico,
when hopes follow the sun's rise bright,
"Oh say can you see by dawn's early light"

there will be no sounds,
the road is lonely tonight,
travelers will stay off the
asphalt ways, the blackest
                           of nights
                                       will not be pierced
                     by headlights
animal eyes will not be bright
spots appearing to float lightly
to escape, in the darkness,
no engine noises will echo in the trees,
and cause mothers to gather their young
and tell them in animal voices why
no one is allowed to go out after dark
        even for a family walk to the park,
        across the treeless way
            where they can play
       with garbage cans' contents,
       but rather stay in and be content,
       with the gathering of fur with breathing
      in the still air, restful sounds and a
       peace to be shared with care and oh,
      but there will be darkness that hearkens
      sleep with dreams of play, teeth flashing,
      rough fur rising along the spine,
                  just don't cross that line,
                                               and leave the nest alone tonight,
                                   for even the darkness has teeth that bite.


©DWE112013

If I write a poem about ***,
will you still have respect
for me in the morning?

If sext text, intersects,
a censorship quest, who
then sinks the relationship?

Image burned into your mind
pointed, yet you are not blind
and can you still see, the point
or are you seeing the last image
burnt?

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.

Blossoms, beaten down and stems broken,
Signs of a colourful spring taken lightly, a token,
It is like winter got hands and feet, shredded,
the only symbol of its' leaving, the dreaded
first flowers of Spring.

Dark clouds on every horizon, selfish discoloured ground, that thirsts
for only water from snow and rain, all the water, even tears, that burst
from eyes won't be enough to quench or thaw the frozen earth,
which grapples with the promise of every year, each season will re-birth,
in its' place and Time.

This year or next year the weather may not be as we all expect,
frankly the weather outside, already has been wrecked,
life has internal storms too, that rip and pull, that demand more,
stand tall, face into the wind, brace yourself against the roar,
you are stronger Now.

napowrimo2016
Challenge: write a poem using at least 10 dictionary terms

no wood carver
marks or remarks
here, no sinking
prose with nautical
terms, no rhymes
that use ropes to climb mountains higher,
these are all and only dreams to me
I will use as it
uses me, a
poetic dictionary.
Please starting read out loud, naked in front of a mirror, what follows after, now!


Oulipo, acronym,
there are no slim
chances at Norms,
Shall we play a game,
with words and no one
gets hurt.

And the peace of
Pastoral settings
Over shadowed
love, I mean Love,
by your chief complaint.

I am but a man, thick
and thin, who touches
only Sentence Sounds
with his tongue.

But you wait on your
Heroic Couplet,
And find me not the qualified culprit.

Pick your poets then, go back way back when,
some Poets are Fugitives, short lived in Nashville,
Harlem had a Renaissance,
inclusive, read South to North, and I read and I read sustained by the Sestina,
some red wine, oh did I spill, let me cleanup while you mouth the Prose and let me, tempt you, to Rhyme, as I **** your toes.

I am a Poet after all, and the Echo verse proves me perverse in the unseemly way I overtly finish seams, a long lines that follow curves of hips and softnes of inflection, still the distance between Poetry and bliss is obscene. Please let me Muse you...?
I wait.

A, mall of, all things called, America
some of my favorites things in the USA,
are found in Minnesota,
some of my favorite people too,
they have a Lutheran background like me
or not,
they are Norwegian in heritage,
or not
woe be gone,
a lake of the lack of despair,
Minnesota has lakes
hundreds thousands,
some very cool things go on there
that squelch despair,
crank the volume of human warmth,
they have Clouds too,
and choirs of kids that sing in a Mall, of America
to celebrate the life of one their own,
who fought a battle but not alone,
although he knew
yes he knew, few would pay a higher cost
once the battle was over and not at a loss
but a gain,
a gain in full measure,
that he may not be, for sure there to enjoy.
Up...Up...Up

He could sing,
Songs did bring,
Stirring to my soul.

Played the two eight
track tapes, until late,
with headphones,
surrounded but alone.

He could lay out lyrics,
a bard, a poet, a musician
that rasied peoples spirits.
                                              Like "The Eagle and The Hawk"

That voice still echoes.

Played many instruments,
like they were extensions
of himself, fine implements.

Never I thought,
Would I see him,
                           sing
In a big concert hall.
               Or hoping, finding out that, "Country Roads Take Me Home"

I was right.

But was I ever part wrong.

That voice still echoes.

Summer in Prince George,
He was coming to town.
A concert series across the land,
not in an arena but
                    an outdoor bandstand!

There sat my hero, less than fifty feet away,
His fragile humanity, let the "Sunshine on My Shoulders",
Through times of my youth.

I don't remember the songs in order,
he did some favorites and some new,
he played his twelve string and the six,
that night was amazing so much so is sticks.

The resonating vibrato,
The notes pitch perfect,
The...times when I am down,
Then I listen to his music and it reminds me of my home, my youth, far away.

That night looking east, I could almost see the "Rocky Mountain(s) High"  

His life changed direction,
maybe some misdirection,
He was different,
Or maybe I became indifferent,
His passing was tragic,
But nothing...
will ever erase the magic of that night,

under the stars,

out in the open

to where the singer and songs carried far,

by that voice, his voice that still echoes.

walk a route familiar you can close your eyes,
circular routes are better there are less surprises,
some say "life is circular",
some say "spend it perpendicular,
as once your horizontal, your dead."

Now what was this about,
you ask yourself, "no doubt?"
Doubt, no, more like certainty,
the dog walks the route and
knows each sign post, bush and
tree root.

She just stops to freshen them,
walks it dark of night or before
the light of day, and she never
gets lost, she nose the route
with a hand at the end
of a three foot leash.

The quirks she has about her
self-imposed back scratches,
the way she puts her paws on
two legs as if to say,with a wink
"I have a joke to tell, it is kinda
of doggy humour, I'll tell you
when we
get OUTSIDE."

she rests heavier these days, must be fall
and limps from time to time, from hard play
she is getting old too fast, but you don't see
it in her pace or
in her bright eyes
or her furry face.

She not a dog to sound the alarm,
will bark for the door bell,
at twenty two pounds
she will not take down an attacker,
there is heart,
there is spirit,
if there was a
fight, with an
outsider, inside
her home, I know
she would join the
fray,
as she knows no quit.


©DWE102013

Body heavy with fatigue,
Hours and hours of waking
wasting away the time.

Diluted life experiences,
only one sense or another
tested, tried, true?

Is that an anchor that holds
me in this place, and no one
to weigh it as it cannot be

lifted by one

such as I.

How dare I dream
of travels in this
vessel, poorly
maintained and
leaking sea water,
in and my dreams
sink further to
the deeps.

Leaving me,
leaving me,
to host barnacles, rife
with life like a reef,
my hope stolen by
a thief, a face that
hid behind two hands.
give me a second or
a minute to recognize
the crook, but spare
me an hour and I
will know who for certain
robbed me.



IT WAS TIME!


©DWE072013

What do you give to
get what you get? Sweat?
Or are those tears, falling with
gravity at the depravity,
that dragged you down to
where it was, waiting,
laying innocently and
you just stumbled upon
it?  Next thing you know
you are not a social
darling, but rejected
like a starling, by the
larger scavengers and
now you need therapy
and social mediation,
Stand up, say your name,
admit your addiction,
isn't anything private
anymore,...
but alas I ramble,
I don't mean to
sound off, some days
I am just off...aways.
Don't text me I don't
own a
cell phone
or the night,
don't copy and
paste, instead roll
a pencil or pen, in
your hands, take
paper and patience,
please!? I know you
can get through this,
I know you can get
down to do this,
Free the verse!
Free the verse!
Free...you
(slumping now
blood sugar
dropping fast,
and how...)
You use your words
to paint images
in black and white,              t o g e t h e r,
letters colour others'
imagination, don't
give up or give in,
do what you were
called to do, anything,
any thing else is a sin,
then the darkness, we all
share IT will cry;
"I win,
I win,
I..."
stop it in those track
marks made, your
porcelain skin and
heart of gold, eyes
of jade, I will never
be closer to you
then when you write,
what you write,
c'mon start, if you
don't we then are          a  p  a  r  t
only to keep hoping,
looking to see,
that light,
keep looking
promise...?
I will too.
until then I am here.








l

I am distressed,
not like a piece of
furniture, treated to
look,
a certain way.

Appreciated, for its' age, or materials,
maybe the design details, like spirals,
in the corners, where the pieces neatly
meet together.

I am distressed, because the time I need,
I don't have, the money I have isn't
enough to buy time to do what
it is I need to get done
sooner than later,
alligator.

I am still road worthy
like a rusty bridge I heard
about, all my rust is intact,
ensuring that traffic, on my back,
will still be able to use me,
for years to come.

I am still distressed,
this did not help,
plug your ears
while I yelp,
like a lost dog,
not needing
food or water,
just time to
find my self.

who I am,
is not what I do,
I am not old,
but I am old enough,
                                  to know better, whoever she/he/it is,
what I do,
is using my senses,
I am not unkind
but I am that kinda shy type,
                                                not a wall flower, but bring in the poeple and you won't find me,
you can read in silence,
you can read aloud,
you can cho[p and mince
words or absorb it all like a sponge,

maybe one day, someday,
I will tell you who I am, no I am not famous, I am not Epic,
I doubt most truths and the ones I don't, I am still trying to
stand
under
are you sure you read that right?

Humour has helped me survive to everyone else's bane,
dysthymia is to be a temporary curse, so far four decades,
does not seem in the temporal, to me,
my glass has a crack and it is always have empty for what I
don't have, I make up in humour, not jokes (they are for the mean)

but enough of me, for this is about poetry,
how IT saves little bits of sanity, watch the woe in me,
(I use that line alot you see)
why so transparent, why so vulnerable,
this is just scratching the surface,
but enough of me,
for this is about empty gardens with rusty gates,
barn with no roof and an appetite to sate.
for if a person is a goof, sure there are few who relate,
"for you will see more foolish things than these" to
paraphrase a fool before the Lord, someone whose heart was adored,
for it was always after God.

There is much in a life the strife, the pain, soap and hot water
does not take away or wash it down the drain, or the trouble river
which has a bridge built on pillars of, naivete and emotions, in that river,
with the water riding high showing portholes of watery eyes in tear ducts,
that run freely, because they were born free, we are all prejudiced by birth
until we become self-aware and accept what value all humans are worth,
at par.


©DWE022014

in the heat, not Arizona hot,
I sit or stand and I cling to myself,
not by timidity but humidity,
sky blue and polarized hue,
the asphalt, black absorbing my cool,
until I climb into the shower,
and have the steam take the
impurities away.

in the heat, not Death Valley hot,
I move in the heat still feeling the air
spill the oxygen on to the sidewalk cooker,
grass green, wilting under the molten ball
green radiator liquid bursts from cars,
reflected light blinds first and burns skin
water droplets steam, take all the impurities,
away, lifting me up

and away

©DWE062013

Wires criss cross,
electricity enclosed,
never touch, fencing in,
the sky, the clouds, and where birds alight and touch,
Branches interweave and lace, oxygenation exposed,
roots bury deep,
as the shallow earth is
a deep canvas,
always waiting on the painter of the Light.


From the sky to the dirt tinted ground,
winged fowl to the rodents who bound,
or scurry, as coyotes celebrate a ****, calling
the moon to break the clouds like bread,
with two unseen hands that reach down.



The oceans sounds are the cars that roll
by and the air crests and curls landing
against the beaches made of trees and
hedges, and sitting listening still is the wind
wanting a turn to play coyote and howl, showing teeth
wanting a turn to play rodent tossing bushes about,
wanting to play birds that dance and dance aloft below the clouds while diving to feed off of the heat of the Day, to rise way above to see the pastoral patchwork, Earth below.

darkly entering, crying what seems,
like a millions drops in one tear,
like non-stop festering,
on any of her wounds,
no, I have swallowed
a bitterness pill and
drank down a glass
of spite,
while she hangs on
weakly turning pages
to find that happy
ending, in a
Greek tragedy,
this isn't the circus,
it is bailing out the
leaky boat with
drinking
straws.

I rest enough to
catch my breath,
she catches a
tiger with a
too long tail,
and every scratch,
is infected with
the weight of the
world, she gets no rest,
give her a brake,
don't touch
her spoons, 'cuz
she won't make
IT
through
the day,
and what then
about tomorrow,
if she is not there
to let the sun rise,
and the sunshine in,
how will I know
that
we are all right.

hour
traffic stalled,
an adrenaline
******
can't feel the thrill with hands on the wheel,
tired of a persuasive
touch,
that means so much,
       ...eats so much of a lifetime,
that hurries home,
that hurries hard,
that furries can't stop,
just make movement go slower,
foot off the gas pedal, time ticks by,
don't gossip or meddle, drop a call,
out of touch, in the affairs of man,
                               drop the cell phone,
feel the length of the distraction,
tick...tock...tick...tock,
it has been ages,
since the road rage,
was trapped, in the cage,
of a Cadillac dream,
with fingers, texting at
the speed of light,
and the blur, again,
can be seen, and the whir,
of the engine becomes a roar,
motor and human
flesh enmesh,
and an
hour of
the rush,
peaks.

How can they drain a poem a day, written in ink, destilled emotion,
How can they strain to do poems that take a month to read,
                                                       that is a lot of ink to bleed.
Is it possible to write, adding colour to leaves and sheaves of
words,
hanging them on dried and dead winter branches, STAY!,
with where my imagination rests frozen,
out there in the open,
                        hoping, looking, seeking
the friction of distraction to warm me up,
so my imagination moves,
it needs to move,
or I become frozen,
where there is an ill wind,
where there is a chill wind,
which hardens my heart,
and drys up the ink,
which looks like
my
own
blood
without
Purpose or
without
Prose

P and P


©DWE122013

It is what good friends do,
Their actions say "I love You",
While with their words
Come with comfort too.

Good friends can be human or
animal, old and young from
curb-side philosopher to a "Carl Jung",
they feel pain too when you are stung.

There is nothing better when some stranger,
saves you from danger or some youngster
has blessed you with a gift of a sweet song, or
a dog or cat takes a moment to rescue you.

They are a good friend, to you and to those who
love you, so model what they do, for all the
community around you, need a good friend too.

Remember life bites all of us in our turn, it is
not the teeth marks or tissues scarred, we see
while together, but how well you live life until, even
your wrinkles
have smiles.

tears in the shape of raindrops,
fell landing on the cars rooftops,
sounding like asteroid pellets,
just trying to punch through darkness,
to
get
some
movement,
away from the automatic
duck and run,
hail and lightening are fun,
unless there is fear,
like is found in Tornado Alley,
but we have not had a serious
storm here all winter, not that
one is needed, people don't know
how to drive in winter anymore,
let alone when, the lines are
blurred invisible smudges that
puddles and wet asphalt, hide slowly
don't blame the driver just his speed,
remember his life schedule makes his need,
to get where he is going more important,
than the lives that may get in the way.
Even in  a cross walk.

It is not like a feeding frenzy,
In the bay boy, by the dock with youbread
by the loaf.

Just add seagulls
and a boat.

It is not like a gang fight, between
The Crows and The Gull,
at a MacDonald's entrance,
with some discarded
contra-
band,
in a Marked and torn paper bag.

Three are always
clad in black and
one dressed in grey..... or white.

It is not like any of that,
It is like standing in a silent room,
There is no clapping, nor thunderous Boom,
of approval, a the speed of sound, and of light,
the white is blinding, the emptiness binding,
on all sides.  Suffocate my self-esteem from miles and miles away,
if Social Media Therapy, is all I got
something has to change, that isn't LIKE me.

Take your bullets, take your dope
and get out of town,
all you represent is crime,
living life large in pantomime
going through the motions
until you get stopped,
by a bullet or a cop,
matters not to me,
and just so you know
and hear it in clear,
bullets do not care
how tough you appear
you can bleed out through
a hole the size of your baby
finger,
a cautionary tale as recent
gun violence where I live
no innocents have been
hurt yet, but none
of you are marksmen
with a pistol!  One miss
is all it will take, wake UP
and smell, the tea, we
don't need you here,
a lot of you seem to need
the hospital facilities,
let see those take tax
dollars.... pay up.

Outter wear, of gray,
everywhere for everyday,
ram clouds uniform.

walk one foot in front of the other,
not your normal gait,
the sobriety test pace,
just to see the looks on peoples faces,
at shoulder height,
put your hands out to the side,
make sure the cyclists ride
in their lane with the traffic, not where we who, walk the walkway
touch your nose with alternating fingers,
touch the sky with hands raised,
pull the invisible bell cord,
                      you know the ding-dinger,
now stop perfectly still close your eyes and listen and smell,
is your life richer
are you more at peace,
what did you make
creatively
that the Maker marked your place in destiny
throwing words down on a page,
just hurts some words
throwing life down on a page
bring life to those words,
are your ready to live up to what you write,
or maybe you are writing a new life,
as a form of therapy, be honest, what is inside,
that kicks your pride, across a busy bullied road,
of people who act like road rage is a right
whether or not they are in a car,
oh
wait
you don't have to stand still
anymore,
sorry I left you
back there,
it is dark now,
hear me call, come this way
you won't fall
but hurry and don't be late,
that parcel of words close to your
heart needs to be shared,
I won't dare you,
that is not what those so close to the edge do.
But here is my hand if and when...



©DWE012014

I would like to watch you wrestle,
with your sheets so white.
I would like to watch you
wrestle. I would like to wrestle
with you, stand above
as a train trestle, noisy tracks
above your bed

pick you up and throw you, show
you my classic move on white
sheets in the dark, full moon casting
doubt that you will resist my
sleeper hold, afraid that
I might leave forgetting, my mask
and championship belt with notches,
for you to remember me; bye, bye,
but then in your delirium
you insult my mum and
I return to the fray, tangling
you in the sheets and warming
all the pillows coldest sides
as I do my
spinning
whirling dervish move
at the head of your bed, I strip
the bed of all its dressing,
so if and when I go you will
have to make it on your own
you are standing there breathing heavy
as I turn to gloat away you simply fall
upon the naked bed breathless

I take one last leap into the air
your eyes open wide and we connect
in that moment, I know you know
I am about to land a hammer elbow &
painfully direct.

It is late and I have a date with the sunrise,
Lay down now, pillow soft, closing my eyes,
Oh, we will cross worm word paths and surprise!

Poems will spill from us, as we journey,
under sun or stars or on our aging knees,
Each day we share our joy or misery, equally.

Be kind to yourself, dust off your shelf,
that you have sat, like some sombre elf,
holding your passion inside the flesh itself.

Passionate embrace with the moment of inspiration,
****** with keys or pencil or ink that run with creation,
Go Poet! this is your age to write out your frustration.

Write about love, wield that one with care,
Write about life, encourage those to not despair,
Write with less, fewer words to say more is rare.

Minutes from now the Eve will become the Day,
Christmas yes, gifts of hands, gifts of food, away
from your beds, to embrace your family, for the
gifts will wait, but in this moment of embrace,
All Else Waits,
All Else Waits,
For that moment to pass, when you find where
You belong,
You have longed,
To fill the emptiness, but now newfound peace,
Is the brightest star beside the greatest gift,
Of love lifted, shared, to each an equal portion,
                                      Not by some magic potion,
From One, the desire to share with those who have not.
Until they do,
May All Else Wait.
Stars,
Desert wind.
Thread thinning and wearing,
Like nerve endings,
Store window dressing glaring,
"Over here look at me
You have no glitter and no glam,
Patch the holes in the fabric of your coat,
why not start with your heart",
Broken by a fall from grace,
don't listen, Don't hurry, don't worry,
We Love You
signed the human race


©DWE122013

sounds my lips around go,
found poetry roadside show,
her mouth had teeth to
bite the air, spout foul
language without a care,
while her dark hair tossed
with her head-felt shouts,
where buses stop,
but not for her,
and she would not stop
her assault on cars that
drove by, leg kicks in the air
high,
while pole dancing at
the bust stop sign, her
mind assaulted and her
body attacked, all that
was out of her reach,
while she was out of her
mind.

She does not always have
teeth, she is not always
standing and moving
like she did today, in the
chill of a January 1 air,
she acted like she cared,
that the world neglected
her,
that the world angered
her,
that the world had treated
her,
wrong and not what she
saw,
what we saw
she needed, help.
But don't hold out your
hand, offer to help her,
today she has her teeth
in and she will bite.

blue skies overhead,
sunsets red,
bodes well,
for my  -----day,
I don't look my age,
I don't feel my age,
She says I don't act my age,
but she isn't smiling
when she knows
"tomorrow is only a day away"
and it is my -----day,
age is giving in
as I catch up,
years blend memories,
and they are not soothing
                    or smoothies
either,
but
but,
the best is yet to be,
where my dreams be-
come reality, that is
not on TV, and words
and stories and poetry
will flow,
and hopefully not
smell like it is from
the toxic waste from
years of unrequited
                  dreams,
tainted with the
paint of only black and white,
and the sun sets are red
with fair weather ahead,
hoist the mains'll
and let the seas and the
wind,
be entrusted with safe
journey of this slightly
rusted hull,
and don't mind the barnacles,
they are small ones after all.
Yea, but the dream, ... "thar she blows"


©DWE102013

nay, have I the resources nor regrets,
to drop tears, since we have never met,
my rutted dial,
into the foul winds have faced.

many hours my fingers have paced,
                                  upon the keys, when
should I be found upon my knees,
my eyes may as well be dim,
chances of meeting you, slim,
oh but for wonders of tech, and oddities,
have I not caught a social media disease,
if I have want to be anywhere but here,
it is with thee there.

whether coasts west or east or overseas,
York the New and Land of Port,
or some isle somewhere with a dialect so rich,
eight by eight so to speak,
or near the heart of the where I live,
or land on some place in Village Central
you all see right through me, my riddles,
my rhymes, my prose sometimes,

is off the cuff with no shirt sleeves,
tis a rant that is not to rave about,
playing child's games,
some say shame shame,
in this adult world that fills me with Awe
and Wonder, tortured by questions to
which may not have any answer.

yet I celebrate,
each waking hour,
each breath in and especially out,
and when rest takes me low,
my dour moods, make it easy to pout,
yet.

Yet,
I will celebrate,
with music, though sounding like
tin cans and strings, with a few pebbles
thrown in,  I will not sing,
I will celebrate,
with movement but not dance,
for the two flat feet, that slap
like flippers make quite a flap,
I will not dance,
I will celebrate,
with no instrument,
my fingers and my ears, bent and deaf,
are tuned to different spheres,
that are both flat, fingers
lifted too many cold bridge parts,
while the ears heard too many
explosions, and rifle reports, bang, bang
So what do I celebrate...?

Each waking day,
and the dark of night,
every day of work,
until I take my leave,
each sight, eyes see,
about which to write,
not old but older,
a hardy fool and more bolder,
willing to waste money, no contest,
just foolish fortitude,
yet let the celebration begin,
there is no code for when
you get old, for I see myself as young,
another year comes close to closing,
another day births my hope,
my apprenticeship,
may time pass slow,
so I may learn quick,
so celebrate with me one day next
week, don't write me off yet, for
I have no stories in print.