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

Not the year, but still a number
After thirty days feel numb...er,
sixteen sixty seven,
average words in one day,
times
thirty days, a month of
writing
November,
National
in other words
NaNoWriMo,
cousin of
Na PoWri Mo, in April
twins
of different mothers of intervention.

Abandon me to my room,
let me bleed words to my doom,
a story of fantasy,
don't have to leave the country,                          
to escape from my mundane,
                               crypt of chaos,
it may be the death of me,
but not until I write
fifty thousand plus words, see?

Nov 1 2013 to Nov 30 2013

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

good night little one,
you have been busy today,
good dreams little one,
you have laughed and played,
good rest little one,
you know you are loved,
the words you say
speak for themselves,
your laughter is so clean and clear
I want to hear you laugh some more,
read on with me until with your
own voice, you can make the sounds
and we then will rejoice together,
grow little one grow for you,
warrior princess fought an old
foe that needed to be vanquished,
and you soothed the savage beast
(grandpa(foe) and his dog(beast) )
rest for the evening after you have
partook at the supper feast,
for tomorrow,
you will have more growing to do, than today
you will understand the world one day sooner,
and we will
                   read,
                   and play ball,
                   oh I can't list them all,
                   we will build and drop towers right where they stand
and all will love you more,
as your hopes and dreams and possibilities
will wait out side your door,
discovery to your left
and awe to your right
cuteness factor ten,
lamp of learning
              burning bright.
Now shhhh, goodnight.


©DWE102013

Black shoes too big for her feet,
Feet dragging to keep the high heels on,
On the edge of the curb she slowly,
Slowly walks to display her legs black  stockings,
Stockings, exposed thighs, short shorts,
Shorts black, she is dressed in all black,
Black garter belts wave at all who she can see,
See how she clutches her purse under her coat,
Coat hood caped on her head,  black sunglasses,
Sunglasses half way down the bridge of her nose,
Nose slightly bent, let trails of smoke out,
Out in the cold air, cars rush by, gaping jacket open,
Open to getting into a warm vehicle out of the cold,
Cold legs, cold wind, no warmth,
Warmth
of any human kindness,
lost to public blindness,
to what she needs,
Turning her head, hooded dark brown coat draped,
She may have looked like a Sith lord to some,

To someone,
she may have been a Jedi  knight, this
daylight walk was at the end of her night
shift
shift
your thoughts,
what if this street edge walker
were a mother and daughter too,
not related to me or to you,
you hope for her...

The stub or her smoke gave her one last puff,
and
she
was
gone.

not sure where she went,
home or does she change
and roam all day,
awaiting for the change that
night brings to this aging waif.

When she sleeps
             and where,
I pray she is safe.

If life is a passing fancy and you just want to reach, maybe touch and be moved,
be a leaf, there maybe, however, a fall in your future,
If life is something you can not let go of, you need hold on tightly, get *****, go deep,
be a root bundle, water, rocks and mostly darkness, is what you see,
If life is to be experienced, sometimes vulnerable, in any weather, give back more than you take,
be a tree, the whole tree, seeds, leaves, branches, bark, roots and inside you are a sap,
but the world will be a better place for it and you will see the forest
as a tree.

I read eulogies from time to time
to pass the time, I find in some rejected newspaper.
The language is foreign, for I am
alive and in two hundred or so words I am to know,
who this person was and that
they were loved or respected or validated in two
dimensions plus words and a
picture, when not so long ago they were three
dimensions that filled voids in
other peoples lives, striving to make the world
around them a better place,
battled hard in a war, and fell its only victim.

Swallow the bitter pill,
there ain't no better place,
than where you are right
now, with words written
as plain as the pain on
your face, so listen and
I will try to take you to
a better place maybe I
will transport you to
a euphoric utopia but
that will take opiates,
for my words will just
make you dizzy, Gillespie,
get off that computer and
go to bed, and then you
will dream dreams of us
meeting instead, where I
will be humble and you
will be dapper unless you
are a girl then you will
be "a beautiful rendition of the Mona Lisa"
pray what is behind that
smile and how do your
whites stay so pearly and
your hair, so light and curly,
like the clouds over head,
with a background of blue
sky that holds that daystar,
and reflects off the water in
the duck pond and blinds
my eyes and makes the tear
oft fall, salty on my sleeve,
as I hold one up to wipe
a tear, I feel your hanky
brush my eye lash and I blush with unabashed charm,
but if we were manly men
walking under the trees,
along a pathway of asphalt,
walking sticks pressed into palms
of hands, not those topical trees,
along side us grass, dotted with Canada geese,
oh do watch your step dear
boy, or you might grease your
soul, which would be a helluva
a way to let this perfect day
slip away and take us from
this better place.

It matters not who I am with, for when I am with you, whom ever you are,
I am away from here, therefore found in a better place.



©DWE122013

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.

I feel that chill on morning and nights air,
Walking the dog with out a care
It freshens me
as I capture air and turn it into breath
Who would think that becoming fall,
Like an answer to the court bailiffs call,
was summers reprieve,
not for dealing, or stealing but loitering,
unless you like that sort of thing.

How do you do?
I am here for you.

Simple for me to say,
I am a container of dismay

After Thursday.

What is good poetry,
what is a good poet,
(s)he is a teller of stories in verse,
s(he) makes music out of sounds,
(s)he explores tension and boundaries,
s(he) undresses your sensibilities,
(s)he has a heart tapped into broken vessels,
s(he) can cry while in the midst of a write,
(s)he writes poetry for others, almost always from the self
s(he) can write love with a thousand different metaphors,
           but chooses not so to do.
(s)he loves language, maybe more than self, has as many
      books as dust on the shelf.
s(he) is a quiet observer, with no remorse for putting into
          words what the sky says to the child, what the man
          hears from the Earth, what a woman knows about
           birth and the pains of life as well, that no man would
          survive and too the wisdom found as one walks along
          the garden path.
(s)he knows that poetry is readily available, simply by being
     vulnerable and sometimes obtuse.

Lift a hand held flag,
Raise a cheer and brag,
how?  You're Canadian eh?

Cause no rift, don't drag
down, or braise your neighbour,
sorry, you're Canadian you say?

Stand for the Anthem,
languages not an issue,
tearing up? Grab a tissue.

Our heritage maybe scarred,
but no country has faired better,
we all learn from our miss takes,
remember every place,
can you name every lake,
walk through every mountain pass,
or thank God for those who have
gone on before, matter's not the race.

History is man's foolishness,
this country has a tale to tell,
of men and women, of sacrifice.

The present is about change,
one of hardest things and strange,
that no one knows how to do it right.

But every one has an opinion.
Sometimes the pinions, small,
are the most important, is all.

The future,
sutures to the
present and
the past, to the wind
change is fast,
courage Canada,
this day is your
birthday,
a day like any other,
and you will not
let anyone down,
                                    after all you are Canadian.

If I had an addiction it would be to chocolate dark,
What a laugh, what a lark.
I cannot be out of my mind, in any state!

If I had an addiction it would be to wine red,
What a joy, tannin's tasted, straight to my head,
I cannot say my life like a bottle emptied, was a waste!

If I had an addiction it would be to the written word,
Not what I have inked, typed, read or heard,
I cannot put on paper, with what the Bible fills me, till I am sate!

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

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

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

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

©DWE092013

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

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

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

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

headset taking orders.

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

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

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

lagniappe of chocolate stashed,

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

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

after all
this year
has brought
I ought
to have
found a
nugget of
valued wisdom,
but it
is simply
this easy,
write, write,
care not
what is
your method
or verse,
or essay,
or even
if you
must rehearse
and purse
your lips
and kiss
your prose
good night!
just write,
write, write
and things
will work
out well
and life
will be
all right!
After...all

signed the
naive but
prolific one.

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!

Not Dark,
Not Light,
                 midnight
Not Friend,
Not Foe,
                after...?

every move that is made, she must shadow,
her place in the pack
is to guard the back
                                 of the Alpha,
it matters not her insides are older
than she is, she is loyal, she 'tis,
until
she can
be no more,
true to the bond,
that is beyond,
                        the human.


©DWE102013

have ten thousand hours come and gone,
                 master?
can time go faster??
have feet taken ten thousand strides or walked
              ten thousand missteps?
                                  no regrets
is there ten times one thousand miles of ink
           in these dusty notebooks?
       constant flipping pages with
                           darting looks at each page seeking to add it all up.

read ten thousand books
to write one story, surreal ratio
live a thousand days time ten
doing one thing very well
with out your head to swell
and you will be a master,
not by your own admission
     not of your own volition
only to begin your mission
to give back what you have
                          learned, that a talent is a gift only, once it is given freely away while shared.

©DWE102013

Silent city night,
Shattered by an elbow,
On a car key fob.

a few minutes ago,
I wrote a poem like I have not before,
On my tablet with touch screen, touched
the wrong part now never to be seen, titled
A Lifetime,
no rock is small enough to crawl under,
no lightening bright enough to dull the thunder,
of You Fool!

Here is what I remember:

There were drops of tears,
like a waterfall, suddenly appeared,
decades to here,
wading it is clear, through Canadian geese crap,
may as well been typing with my ugly toes,
my fingers just deleted another rant,
with my failures, to just walk away,
from hope - less criticism equals math formulae,
matters not, the words would not win your time,
it would be better, a picture in pantomime,
on your doorstep, for what remains of A Lifetime.

Now sleep falls, please lightly,
take me deep, and not politely,
wrest from me, my will,
to stay far away, i beg, i pray,
meet me as i am.

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

Not about nations,
Not a melting ***,
Not multicultural,
Not about people,
    About a person.

All colour can be found in,
The absence of light akin,
to the black, the dark and the fear,
yes, the dark and
the fear.

Not just any dark, but the darkest.

They are separate
yet
found together,
Add wind and foul weather
and the
light just lets you see
the storm coming,
to play with your mind...a field of play?

So where is this going?
It is dark so you tell me.
There is light where you
are, but not around here,
not in this body,
even the thumbs
are black and have their
own pulse,
racing to leave for the light,
in the absence of,
where all colour is black.

Lose track of a loved one and you fear the worst,
the dark thoughts like water find the easiest path.
                                                           ­                            .
                                                               ­                        .
                                                               ­                        ....down,

All colour is black and the absence
of light is the dark, different roots
same result, especially in the corner
of a dark mind where the space is
painted with a fresh coat of black.

Just oozing,
sick of losing,
by fading lighter,
less black, less dark,
.......................leaves room for hope, more or less...

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

daily life so pristine lived,
walked and got flecks of dirt on the shoes
rain drops on the pants,
glasses need cleaning,
seeing clearly, the
drunk against a fence leaning,
know where he has been,
by the trail of empties,
now filled with his emptiness,
he does not speak,

the words pouring around inside his head,
are too drunk to, so he shuts his mouth instead,
waiting for the sparks to fly from another's
broadside swipe to ignite the fire of anger
seething and waves, that will wash, from
him
taking everything
dear and near to him
far away to safety,
while strangers
are in danger,
of the bottlerocket he has become, and he won't remember,
or know how to stop,
until he is found empty,
at the bus stop,
or in the corner,
or with blood staining everything,
so that he doesn't,
know if it is his,
until he does a physical inventory, then
shards of light, poke at his eyes
every noise annoys,
his ears, and drive six inch spikes
into his head to find his pea sized sober brain,
his mouth tastes
like he ****** on work socks instead
of cigarettes,
his stomach growls with distrust as
he ended the night
fended for himself,

as he finds he is in
the same city,
the same county,
the same state,
the same country,
called Alone.



©DWE022014

A doer not a talker,
A finder's keepers,
not a stalker,
first he is A Man,
gentle in his MANnerisms,
but not the knuckles or
his calloused hands.

He does not stand out
in his field, he is too busy
working to increase the yield,
not make best use of fifteen
minutes, OF Few men can
this be said, his hat still fits
his crew cut hairy head.

when he opens his mouth
to speak, his thoughts take
shape and become Words,
not charged with emotion,
not angered or raging,
not with some rite of self-
righteous indignation.
He speaks his peace,
and sits his ***, on the
nearest thing he can find,
he has a sound body and
a sound mind, when she
decides and marries him she
will find, treasure. Rare.

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

if you measure with a tool or a spoon,
the recipe or what you build may be a boon
of consistency, insistently...a hope

if you measure twice a reward thrice
may appear, increase in joy's result
and fear to disappear... a relief

health and mind will be renewed,
if only for the moment as, the darkness
takes a cloudy hold once more...a measure

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.

This may not be,
the last thing I write,
or
the last thing I see.

"I loved her and
                            I never knew her"

This will be the last
                            thing I say,
this will be said on my
                            dying out of the fray,

unless
          many
                   years
before
I seize the day.  Seize...
the moment.

Get out and away from,
the reality of unreal TV.
Get out of that ****** spot,
where you always rest.

Use less and leave more, by
taking action with care.
Re-defined purpose of all that
you possess, outside and in.

Give away and choose need, over
waste and want.
Think twice of what you buy or
buy into, be sure.

Cycle and cycle again, until it is gone
more or less.
Plant seeds of visible hope, beyond
your horizon.

Out and down, is garbage out from garbage within...
get moving!
Out-of-doors invest time, b r e a t h e
be inspired.

Inspire others, most of all, learn
to give, accepting self, in and of community,
their love too.

I could write about many things, imagined or real,
I could tell you of a Dear Darrell letter, not a big deal,
But that was ages ago and much time has and is in the past

I would describe a sunset or sunrise and if I did it right, it might bring tears to our eyes,
I could tell you of my granddaughter and the joy she is in all of our lives, eh?,  no surprise,
But that would be assuming many things about our hearts and my writing, in the least or last.

All I really want to do is inspire you to do what you do best,
Recognize that you are talented and a gift, loved and blessed,
Put down in words, get out and from under the load,  the ugly, you have surpassed!

The gift you are, open
With your hand, Pen
words forever and ever, and then...
Young poet write
or slam
the world needs to hear what has
been put on your heart, so share,
and when your spent, recharge,
gather peace...repose.

If it takes what time I have
Left, to kiss every scar, hop-
ing only, to make them bet-
ter, let me do that in a
sunny place where rays
of heat that wash over
you, fall

From the heaven's
that, you too, fell from.

Coffee Shop after Club 16 Fitness**

listening people assaying the content
of the messages, against the background of noises
                                like layers,voices upon voices,

but there is one voice, holding court with herself,
staring through the floor at my feet, finding oneself,
                                                        ­                            I would hope,
among the chorus in the coffee shop,
among the chorus in her conversation,
under her white and blue striped scarf,
her wrinkles cause twinkles at the corners of her very sad eyes,
if she had stopped talking even for a second, I would have been surprised.
The erosion of her has begun her cheeks have permanent fissures where
the tears and rivulets have run for ages.

Her small frame and skirt fill the chair,
as it seems there are others there,
she is so lonely and alone, her skin
tone fits the surroundings well,
how long she will talk, time will tell.

I wasn't rude and did not eavesdrop or interrupt,
                    I am sure that would have meant an abrupt
halt to her flow, of prayer for ones like me, a by product,
of my own invention, as she resembled Mother Theresa,
with her conviction of non-stop prayer, from her chair.




©DWE122013

She walked a
slow march,
feet in blocks
of, heavy booted,
cinder.  It was like
she was stepping
on the bottom
and drowning
in her own life,
no air bubbles,
coming to the surface,
for anyone
looking for
signs of life.

But know, one was.

                                                           ­                 The gray wet mass,
                                                           ­                  in the gutter,
                                                         ­                    the dog and I about
                                                           ­                   to walk by the
                                                             ­                 road ****,
                                                           ­                   the injured rabbit
                                                                ­              raised a head
                                                            ­                  front legs tried to
                                                                ­              drag itself in the
                                                             ­                 pouring rain across
                                                          ­                    the very boulevard
                                                       ­                       that taught hard
                                                            ­                  the lesson, in the
                                                                ­              early morning rain.
                                                           ­                   
                                                                ­              The spine was snapped.
                                                        ­                      The beauty and the ugly
                                                            ­                  was showing through,
                                                        ­                      pale white foot bones,
                                                          ­                    where fur once was.
                                                            ­                  
                                                                ­              I had a towel and held her
                                                             ­                 close, my dog was beside,
                                                         ­                     herself to get near, to the
                                                             ­                 gray wet mass, with eyes
                                                            ­                  wide with trust, not fear,
                                                           ­                   sorry friend rabbit,
                                                         ­                     where are Pooh,
                                                           ­                                        Piglet,
                                                         ­                                          Tigger,
                                                         ­                                           Owl,
                 ­                                                                 ­                  Eyore,
                                        ­                                      as I am no match for
                                                             ­                 Christopher Robin,
                                                          ­                    and your injuries are
                                                             ­                 too real, so rest a while,
                                                          ­                    I am right here, when
                                                            ­                  you are able or want
                                                                ­              to go,
                                                                ­              let me know,
                                                                ­                       or show,
                                                           ­                                           me where
                                                           ­                   rabbits go to eat the grass
                                                           ­                   that is always green,
                                                          ­                                  and always grows.

                                                         ­                                                                 ­                
                                                                ­                                                                 ­           Her fingers unsteady
                                                        ­                                                                 ­                   till she grips the
                                                                ­                                                                 ­           pencil crayon
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 lightly with a heavy
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                heart, does the colour
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 flow both ways, onto
                                                            ­                                                                 ­               the paper and into
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                her face, her smile,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                  in a way nobody
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                  knows ,
                                                               ­                                                                 ­             in a way nobody
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                  sees,
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                 unless you look
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                beyond the mask.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                                
                ­                                                                 ­                                                         The Picture?
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                     
                                  ­                                                                 ­                                           It is a ribbon, and
                                                                ­                                                                 ­             vine with thorns a
                                                               ­                                                                 ­              rugged cross, four  
                                                                ­                                                                 ­             yellow roses too.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                                             
                   ­                                                                 ­                                                          There are few,
                                                                ­                                                                 ­             too few things
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                   that speak of true
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                 friendship than
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                 yellow roses.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                                                 
                                                                ­                                                                 ­             There are few
                                                                ­                                                                 ­             too few friends,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­                     who remain.
                                                         ­                                                                 ­                     Yellow roses
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                    all around, petals
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                     sprinkled on the
                                                             ­                                                                 ­                  ground as she
                                                                ­                                                                 ­               details the green,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                     leaves, the brown
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                    as rugged as the
                                                             ­                                                                 ­                  rocky earth,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                     so she would never
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                be alone, there
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                     is no friend,
                                                         ­                                                                 ­                       none truer on
                          a wet stormy Sunday morning where three strays, all let me know, how to love.

The hard voices from soft people.
The soft rumble from hard vehicles.
Watered down by the rain.

Ruffled leaves, the dead remnant out of the horizontal, sticking.
The wind bends the barren tall trees out of vertical, time is ticking.
By.

Curled like a baby safe from harm,
He carry's his shoes up in his arms,

yet his short cropped hair and uncovered head
are soaked by the rain and he stops to give a shake,

after he points his finger and speaks to the apparition,
as drugs drift through his blood, and find his nerve
endings.

But his soaking socks wet from the sidewalk awash slap
in the the rain, are what attract the eye from across
the boulevard, one hund-
red one feet or more

away

it is plain,
he is having a bad day, which seems normal for him, for even the
telephone pole talks back, some insane day beginning.

To another long night.