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

When I close my eyes,
                                      what do I see,
from the darkness comes your face, and
trees reaching out reaching up, then
the last words I read in some Book somewhere,
the weight
of
them takes me to my knees,
where I find you waiting,
in the coolness, and all this time I have
acted and thought I was alone.

Does my life have to empty out and lay on the
ground for me to realize how precious, i t  i s
how fast it goes by, how little time we are given...
eyes heavy am I falling down to the ground
then to dreaming.

A young child on a swing,
sees a bird with a broken wing,
runs to get a shoe box, some grassy bedding,
calling for his mother, while crying,

please be okay, please okay, please

he cups his hands carefully carrying
the bird, pecking, into the box now nesting,
quietly he walks while his hands are bleeding,
calling for his mother while crying,

it will be okay, it will be okay

Up the stairs,
puts the box
down with care,
opening the door,
entering with his
treasure, quietly
sleeping,
but he can't find his mother
anywhere,
suddenly the box gets heavier,
as a
cat jumps
on, the box
in his hands
strikes him strange
as they don't own
a cat...
imagine that.

mom make it okay,
mom make the cat go away,
mom why didn't you stay...
mom?


©DWE072013

Aches get real old
                         Sold a bill of goods,
five and dime, cold
                          Rolled coins into a tube, into a fist,
A flurry of flesh dolled,
                            A toll on burning bridges that LOVE built,
My revealing stainless pole dance
                Upon the vocal shoals, that cut me off from feeling real,
Ended up a blackened coal sheep
               Of the family role model (let that creep into)
                         Your soul

   My
Heart
Was
Washed
Away
By
Some
One
Else's
Tears

Run a hand along the arc and wooden edge and a splinter
leaves the grain
sharp, is the pain
marked by a drop of blood.

Pedalling fast two feet, two circular wheels
no hands, straight faced delivery,
no guts, no glory,  youth and temerity,
gravel bits where rubber meets the road.

Trembling hand, no two, follow softly,
the rolling of the satin surface, accepting,
pressing for more, hands directing hands
where to press in to the curve, yearning
becomes burning, so much to this learning
                                                        ­     curves.

The dog, she sleeps,
the fish, he keeps
                           me within reach of the fishbowl,
three pellets twice a day and the Beta does not have
to lay a beating down, on my weary and worn crown,
of hair requiring a cut real soon, I'd do it my self but
then I'd look like a baboon, so don't ape me on
                                                  or it might spawn,
ill advised humour, from my son's, an Aveda
professional hair stylist, point of view,
"don't go out in public like that" and "tell them it wasn't me"
and "stop using a fishbowl to cut your hair for free"

walking goes better with one foot in front of the other,
left, right, left, right or right, left, right, left it is about
the cadence after all.

breathing goes better by blowing out to make room,
bad air out, fresh air in, bad air out, fresh air in, bad air out
it is about sequence and consequence, do you believe?

living takes your breath away at times,
walking is not always possible when you are on your knees,
gripped by disease, missing limbs but still embrace life,
frozen in a catatonic state not wanting to move for fear
for fear, for fear grips mens prostate, and
takes women's rooted relationships away
glean what life means from the women, men
when you have a job and no place to live,
when you have friends and they have a couch to give,
for a week or two, and the lessons you have learned
from the life you have lived, that has broken you
busted you in two, your ideals don't match up with success,
what a truism of altruism, give it all away and you will get,
patience now it has not happened yet...and you wonder if it
ever will.

Stay away from bureaucracy, become an entrepeneur,
gain a skill that will always put food on the table,
run with your ideas when you are able, and remember
there is no finish line, you just run the race.

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

Thunderous rain and,
bright jagged shafts of lighted
energy draining.

Shakes uncontrolled,
dog pants walks hears  internal
rebellion not play.


©DWE092013

The lazy river, large,
filled with
water that carried my
memories of youth, and
a friend of my past,
both downstream,
flowing away, flowing
finding the easiest way,
to go to the lowest point,
so much liquid,
so many years,
some failures,
some fears,
Childhood, has those
but now,
       now what do I have?

What does anyone have?
Use your talents,
Use your gifts,
Before time is dead,
walked on like a too
traveled path, warm or cold
to where you
find your past.

Lest the swollen
river, calls and you
listen, leaving you
only to believe that
what you look for
is downstream.

Use your talents,
Use your gifts,
Be swift for
night falls into the
river,
it may catch you
as it drops by.
Dragging down
the future, in the
present tension,
until at last
you only can
live searching
for the past.

Unable to
tell the stories,
or enjoy the glories,
of the gifts you shared
of the talents you carved
into my memories,
of the time we spent
under the canvas of night
dotted white with God's Artistry,
until that day,
when my phone rang,
and they said you were gone,
                        you were gone,
And i touched the cold with my
my hand, my lips and my warm tears
knowing you had already gone
and did fly away,
                               oh glory.


©DWE082013

Clouds close off the sky as droplets fall from high
Traffic doesn't slow down as my foot falls pound
Wind lifts dried dead leaves, trees wave goodbye
Timing is right as raindrops stop before the ground
Roadway is still wet, spots cover my "four eyes"  
No pain in the knees easy pace arms move up and down
Sadness has caught me, running even at my shoulder
Sweating from the exertion the warmth is turning colder

It was black, just black
          before the attack
                                  by everything I feared
                                   my lips in the mirror
trembled and quivered
as snakes found their
                                  way into my mind,
                                   out my ears and into
my home, the spiders
climbed on the outside
                                 of my frame, no need to
                                   bite or spin a web,
I had woven my own trap,
  my floor became ladders
                                         and I was thirty three
                                         feet above anything real,
there was no one to watch
     but alone I saw all eyes
                                        were turned on me,
                                         I started to cry and drown
in my tears but then the
worst happened and I frowned
                                                   as I was comforted by a clown
                                                   who put his hand on my shoulder
             and said "don't worry, you'll be a year
older next time, there will be much more to fear."
Like Clowns...

oh fall is here all the real flowers begin to disappear,
I know what I will do, if it is okay with you,
I will find some fake greenery
borrow a live
stem or two, or three or four
or what the heck a whole bunch more
all real one's from my neighbours garden patch,
and then I will mix and match and call
it mine, put it on display, no one will know
what could they say,
and I will sing under my breath,
"it is a free world after all,
and my imagination is so small"
but I sure know how to borrow!


©DWE102013

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.

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.

it starts with one
sometimes,
no it does not stop, unfinished,
then another is
added,
that is now two, colours or media
background
three takes some time and becomes four then
five has some texture
or a hint of glint, ummmm, six
or is it the other
way around,
finally the focal
point
is placed, the same process, not just for show,
but the mystery
my friends,
lies in the layers,
(and in my prayers,)
for the artist,
life is a test,
if you miss it,
okay,
or interpret it
off and away,
she will stand
             under.
masks
help
her seem
normal
to the
madding
crowd,
layers she has
but is there
how many, try to count
till you can
find who
she is, so
meek and so
mild,
created creative
one of and not
the only, God's
child.

Roll with the punches,... but what if they come in bunches?
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag,... and smile, smile, smile?
When life throws you a curve ball,... hit it out of the park?
When life gets tough the tough,... get going?

Oh I have all of that, can I have some sprinkles on top, please?

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.

you know who I mean,
words so powerful words so lean,
                                            strung together
                                  with a keen, clean lines of spoken verse.
what is the worse that could happen, bordering on the perverse,
that I could decide, with selfish pride to
end this ride and do no more poetry, 'cuz
I can't do it like that, that I did not have a childhood
set of memories that
taught me values, that I can remember,
see?,
that
way I have an excuse instead of saying EXCUSE ME,
and then not have the dignity to say to him in all humility,
thank you for what you do, for it makes me know I can
write poetry to, to right the ships
so lives will float on the surface, as words to raise the anchors then
and only then sail with the winds of hope,
and the right amount of ballast from the sands of time.
Thank you for doing it different and
teaching me I can do it different too.

if one day,

I am away,

worry not.

if in two or

three days,

there are

no words,

no write,

I am all right.

if a week

becomes

two and s t r e t c h e s

the ache…

to a month

or two in

you.

I have gone

across

the Rainbow Bridge,

to the Other side,

with no regrets…

save not knowing

you, as one of this

Warriors conquests.

You have a dream, we all have dreams, dreams are needed not just wanted,
career changes, leaving for the good, what to do, thoughts of what if leave me haunted,
new directions a fresh start recharge the batteries and jump start the heart,
old dream dashed, no where to turn, no where to go, have I the heart to restart.

April Fools day, stepping out and up into the clouds of rain and night falling,
no room in the shelter,
hollow spot for our tent,
all the rain you know where it went,
next night the tornado train went
up the valley, questions were we supposed to go, on, what was our calling?

Sights to see, did we find something to refresh our minds,
nice people, amazing landscapes, (tunnels of rhododendrons)
did we leave anything behind, (except wishes for complete success)
and did we gain beyond the pain of heavy packs, and the daily hiking grind,
but we did not go all the way North to Maine but we did go beyond,
the empty path of the rest of that Long Trail remains forever out of reach,
until we hold hands, remembering,
knowing that it may be considered incomplete,
together, no regrets, no need to repeat.


©DWE072013

Do you wake up each day, with your eyes open, then be thankful,
not that you can see, but that there is another day for you.
Then another and another day ... A life, whether alone, so alone,
or shared with sisters and brothers, grab it with both hands.
Grab it so you have its attention saying, not "look at me,"
but exclaiming "that everyday is a new and exciting adventure."

Mind there is pain,
That even bones weary of,
Even in love,
That will not fade,
In time, please,
Resist being jaded,
There is release,
Not in the mundane,
We all need, once a day,
Some  in  play,
All  in  time,
Even  in  love,
A shimmering,
Tear-stained smile.

Not in sadness, but in laughter,
that is harder than the trials in this life,
Not coerced or forced, natural and
naked with a contagious pitch, striving.
Not only for a moment, but for all Time,
real Play, as for the core there is Love.

It is not your face we need but your heart
shaped words, it is not that you write of love,
but you write with it.

It is not that we only are satisfied with seeing
only your hand in the quietude of, and still,
for a moment, it is not
we only think you have one, but two and
the other is holding the camera, so still.

It is not that poetry is done easily, it is that scrapping of
the dross from the surface, let's us glimpse what is beneath,
it is not pure,
it may be molten,
it is not sure,
it is far from frozen.

Oh that dross isn't a loss it is the ugly, happy, sad, crazy, lazy, beautiful,
maddening, inspiring, the list is endless, no need to defend this, this dross never
goes away from the impure state, but leaves an essence in the write.

In time, it is not
for us to judge,
but with a friendly nudge,
and a hand shake,
so that that face unseen
is close enough to greet,
and that smile to be seen
how sweet,

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.

solo
so low,
some do,
well, ...alone.
Not for sake alone,
go to the meaning of life.
take what you earn and share,
take what you own and wear,
there is no time to spare,
give freely as you have received,
give freely and do not deceive,
blame is not a game,
to be played with so much passion,
                                as to fashion,
fingers pointing in all directions,
away from the center, get some back bone,

of all the nerve...
if life is a maze,
spending it, amazed or amazing?
how to say it with OUT using the words,
the beginning of life is...,
the meaning of life is...,
the gloaming of life...,
through and through,
are connected one strand,
A.N.D-D.N.A,
through and through,
one nerve felt by
everyone under the sun,
so to the past,
so to the present,
so will the future,
need ...

Colour is not the point,
like beams of light that
                     do anoint
the hour which I lay flat
and wait for rest, or at
which point in the dark
                                      do I wrest it from a faerie light
or must I wrestle with
a bottle, pills to cause my ills to slip away and let the
pillow absorb my day, my worries, my strain,
where the engine,
has no off switch,
this engine sits on
top of me not purring
not whirring but
running rough shod
through me, I will not
admit to being sleepless, for by the time I write this,
you will all be in the land,
that I am jealous of, see?

Oh colour?
Which pill will I take,
I have different shades
for different days, and Hades,
waits for me as well, for one
of these times I may take too
many, but I am sparse would
not want to be left without any,
so those gates stay shuttered
as I wrap up and shudder,
through another night
where the next days, and days
dawn and I fawn over
my appearance, eyes with
circles dark, pale image stark
in a mirror, to the point, the clown
smiles back at me and asks
to be happy or not to be sad?,
I need sleep so pass a whole bowlful,
of sleep that all of you have too much of,
                              and push and shove
me
with
your
bed time stories,
nursery rhymes,
and lullabies,
in poetry and I will read what I need
                         to let go and let sleep
steep me overnight, when I will wake
                 up and pour into another day,
the literary love you have shown this poets way.

After each sunrise to sunset,
is a blink of a bright eye,

Before each moonrise to moonset
is a blink of a night eye,

each night that, there is no moon
                 to rise
                  or set
darkness buries deep, in dark hearts,
never has a day come without the sun,
                to rise
                 or set,
which would be, the darkest, darkness yet.

Do you
feel fear, rise
or do you know
about glory's light,
where is your hope, set
                                     yes, Glory's Light!

sign that says stop
intersect forebode,
to wait until clear,
the air,
the fear,
the sky,
eyes, of those tears,
but what if becomes
cannot stop,
throwing pieces
off like they don't
belong and won't
stick around long
enough to be
reattached to rusted
vestige that used to
be human,
now rust stains
down the face,
empty carcass
after the fracas,
of living like there
was no tomorrow,
came
true.


©DWE102013

The heaviness of my head, my eye-lids too, push me to nap,
The heaviness of my heart, drives my mind to do a recap
The heaviness of my heart, catches me daily in a rusted trap.

I put my head down on a pillow soft, needing peace and quiet,
My eyes close, I get none or less, I say "ringmaster stop the 3 ring riot!"
My eyes close, I get none or less, but heart pumps and pounds in private.

I do not have a positive thought, as everyday is, a battle fought.
Captured, imprisoned by my choice,  wheezing, throat tied in a knot
Captured, imprisoned by my choice, so this body; my cell, my lot?

Find some good, something right, don't be lukewarm in this fight,
For fresh air, for fresh thoughts, 'tis better to run away, choose flight?
For fresh air, for fresh thoughts, for my life - hit erase and then rewrite...

The pool of sweat I lie in, soaks my pillow and my hair,
Oh when will the day come that I will not choose to care,
About the wrong stuff, about going against the grain, beware...

Waking,
But wait, it was all a dream, life is fine, nightmarish nap leave me be.  
Eyes open once again.

I stand because I cannot sit by.
I cannot stand to watch what I look at.
I watch and cannot see what is really there.
See?
I stare at my fantasy without reality.  Events unfold and stories told, through
characters merely imagined, to keep that part of me from wintering through everyday
of my life, like a single dried-up and curled-in leaf still attached to a nearly empty tree.
Feel?
That cold creeping closer and in as age frosts my rough-hewn surface, an exterior not
even my mother could love, anymore, anymore.  The veins and arteries act as they have
been treated, neglected and broken down, they leak and it is more than, just slightly salty water,
drip, drip...drip.
Hear?
Am I listening to life around me, those voices are more than noises and sounds, they are filled with
words, which echo and rebound that taste of meanings that I must really take care to understand.  It is
not all about me, as I am not talking about the voices, the all-important voices, in my head.
Taste? Smell?
Oh Comfort, to find comfort from with-in rather than with-out, when none other will, fill that palate we all share and the air we all share, that I  breathe.  My blindness has a cure, my insensitivity can be repaired, and my hearing could pass any test, but I must get past the stench of my selfish failures and the textured memories of the stale-dated repast.

Sleep I come, wait for me to drift.
Let me drift and gently land as far
away from my insane day, the gift
of escape.

Sleep I need to escape I plead; no, not
to fall again and startle awake, crying out
and draw the unwanted immersion, caught  
in the net of  the bete noire.

Softly, sweetly sleep we are falling off the edge
and waving to the conscious world,  off the ledge
as my eyelids flutter, while right, awake, and wrong
all stutter behind my eyes.

I can still feel the beast and name it Insomnia,
pulling at my nerves, stimulating tension where,
it is not welcome, pull me deeper sleep, let us
find that soft lit pit.

I desire so...to drift.

No not the dark cave with the bright lights of
the beast Insomnia, not again or again, the fall that I
awake from just before I in a landing where sleep awaits,
and have mercy,
of the early 3:47 am, sitting straight up in bed,
as I though I had heard a noise.

Please quiet my mind and let me drift...

"It is 5:19 in the morning... on Wednesday the 24th of April and
here is your traffic update...."

body of water
liquid corpse
enclose a copse
of undersea
trees...

some standstill to
blend in, some wave
in a tai chi motion
some see weeds
some seaweed,

like fabric it wraps
taking shapes
by dressing
in designer
clothes,
ideas that float
enclosed
to the top
but not out of popularity
but all the
waves from
the deep,
that lift
the body
in the body
of water to float,
           to surface.

Stalking flies like they
were treasured prizes, was the feline.

Following the perp without being overt,
          weaving fleeing, rookie eyes.


©DWE092013

Continue...

The sky broken up by steel lines, are they still there?
The peace shattered and shattered and shattered, and
                                                                   no glass falls.
            Tears, droplets red, as well as, instead.

Take away the senses leaves a dry taste in the mouth.
The weak are the insensitive, and numb and seen it all
                                                                                 before.
       Robocop gets beat up by the Transformers.

No not the ones attached to the poles attached to those wires,
but the ones attached to arms and legs and make arms and
                                                                                  the mouth,
                                           MOVE!

While soft shoe, dancing across the house floor without looking down,
          so if there is a trip and stumble don't let your face grow a frown,
                                                                                                   permanent
                     not like a one act clown embezzling emotions.


From the crowd.
For the future.
Stitch the hole, with a suture
twenty hundred pounds of laundry,
washed twelve loads of  linens in the
wash-house, now all is quiet as a mouse,
all are stained
all are pained
all too many
down the drain
when will we ever
learn
when will we ever
learn

I know it is not a solution, but lets start giving everyone a gun
and stop making bullets

echoes
land                                 moving
           somewhere
tied                                  to
              ­                                     morning mist.

morning,
                         she's
string


             that
  

                    nothing
is          two
                   bottles

of linen

               But, whiskey-----

By the time you read these dots and dashes,
Most parts of the world will have those splashes,
of colour
that excite me and ignite a change
of a season,
for this reason the weather rearranges,
our calendars,
outdoor events move inside, lightening flashes,
go before thunderous sounds and crashes.

Uprooting and harvest, closure and clothing
changes, rain boots and umbrellas do the thing,
to keep us somewhat drier,
jacket on in the chill of morning,
jacket off and begin,
the humid commute home, people warming
and sit by the home fire,
with their feet up, yet summer mourning...
                                                     ­                  .
                                                               ­        .
                                                               ­        falls
                                             on the deaf ears of relentless change...

wanting for to write a simple rhyme
with rhythms that, dance and move
me like butterflies and honey bees
work, the stamen and pollen pistil
until wings be still as, the night air,
day of travail has gone bye bye.

The school sign that stands
alone,
surrounded by grass,
has been painted,
the champions yellow-gold
colour
and with purple, fit for a
coronation,
yet winter has made, it
look old and dusted in brown powder,
while rain washed-lines
run down, stained with rust.

The old woman at the bus stop,
was dressed beautifully, when
she looked at me, and saw an
unshaven
split, wild boar, beard, she
stepped back in distrust.

My lonely "Good Morning"
echoed,
with my heavy sounding,
foot falls under the shelter
of the empty, new bus stop,
near the school's weathered sign.

I ran the gauntlet
at a walk, groups of students,
come by slowly, filling
the sidewalk, full.

Their faces shine with contempt for me,
as I walk to the shoulder-cold, side of
the road as
they talk,
they chatter,
making what they have
to say matter more,
when others try to interject.

Few, even, attempt to make space,
they don't share well or anymore,
unless,
with their thumbs to text.

The four eyes I have, and the
brown long low duck-bill brimmed
hat point down an empty sidewalk,
my worn boots, and my
footfalls echoes,
are now lost,
in the trees and the
rush of morning traffic.

I look toward where I work,
my breath sharply catches,
as I fight,
back the panic
of another day
away,
surrounded but
alone,
away from home.

The Trail Creek,
could not hold
the flow of
a million million
drops of rain.

The bank let loose and a Gulch became a river,
basements of homes and stores became indoor pools but
not one resident was close to foolish enough to go in and swim.

The streets became
a river of
a muddy coffee
coloured toxic feared
enemy, that had
no weakness but
time.

An apartment building fell as the Columbia River swelled,
eroded and took the ransom till it flowed down stream and
was rumoured to have crashed into a transom of the old bridge.

So many memories swept away down stream, many more, could
not resist to power of the water to remove and ruin, words and images,
by force, and in time, dirt and sediment remained everywhere, after the flood.

Tears replaced rain,
in time water,
all of it,
was drained away,
peoples lives strained.

To a ten
year old boy
this was big!
And as the
Columbia was growing
larger each day
parks disappeared as
the danger neared
I sang, "rain,
rain, go away
we have had
enough, there is
no where to play.


The flood of
nineteen sixty-nine,
was a vivid a
disaster you will,
ever find, but still
the City survives.

If you are not a dad, you have a father and have a Father,
But for those who do not have a father, you have a Father,
A Father whose Spirit fills your lungs like air.
Breathe in and hold Him so close.  Exhale and breathe in, again.
So comfort will fill you from the inside out.
He has a Son, you have a brother, do you know Him,
or of Him?
He has washed
you from the
outside in,
taken it all
away.  

We camped, I remember camping,
mom and dad would sit in the front
seat sharing a drink in a can,
"dusty gravel roads can bring out
a thirst in a man."  Sunglasses hid
their eyes from the glaring summer sun,
station wagon packed in the back,
tent trailer with a hard top towed behind,
windows rolled down to condition the air
temperature and the rush went through
our crew cut hair, Goldie a Sheltie dog,
hung out the window until the wind got
to fast to see blurred images going by
like memories, no clean lines to define,
what was my childhood.

Thanks dad and mom for camping.