What does he see, the man who sits at the bus stop daily.
His dark hair looks washed but people go by warily,
He wears the same tan coat, will he when it is sunny,
                                                          ­                                 He stares straight ahead.
His skin is so pale, like he has seen some place dark,
I don't see him come or go, he stays there parked,
on that bench with that vacant stare, is he stark

raving mad, alone he
sits still like a stone
who has sank to
rock bottom,
waiting, seeking
hoping, needing
a breath,
of air,
to make it
through the
day or the
surface...

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.

she grates like a one of rusty metal,
and that is the voice I hear in my dreams,

water spill, pour, cascade from the flood,
there are more cracks in my dam life,

a community, safe and secure behind a,
welcome not; just the faces next door,
why not your whole neighbourhood,

over the fence under the fence or use the,
don't trespass in word or indeed,

Open your gates dear heart,
open your gates as to give
and receive,
open your gates to come in and
open your gates to go out exploring
the world in wonder, you drink with your
eyes and spill onto paper in inky words.

Open your gates so I can see a place I never knew,
Open your gates so dear heart, so I can rest with you,
That subtle curve, a smoky smile almost hidden,
then, ...
then you did open your gate. I was not dreaming...all this time.


©DWE072013

objects moving through space and time,

at a distance as silent as pantomime,

people too travel straight lines,

their geometry,

their temerity,

to stay true to that orbit,

some fly in parallel paths,

chance has its own math,

but when

two paths

cross,

there may be gain or loss,

but when

two in orbit

meet at the same place

and the same time,

the same ship,

a relationship, ...

not the mothership,

in orbit.

Fast talkers
line the roadways,
moving at the speed of sound,
the sound of their own voices

bus riders, their lives,
time line chatted and charted,
awaiting departure, an unwilling collection,
waiting to transport theirs mouths,

moving at the speed of sound,
the sound of their own voices,

all peers, all seers,
in conversation with the invisible,
trusting the only one who has
their ear

their ears, ear ringed,
they hear the sounds
they want hear,
as they move together,
each all alone,
they move in unison,

moving at the speed of sound,
the sound of their own voices,
confident they will arrive in
on time, in an orderly fashion,
one bus, many voices,
all moving,

at the speed of sound,
the sound of their own voices


©NL022014
   DWE

o day, green grows your grass,
o sky, blue floats above a mass,
o cloud, puffs of cotton
    innocence above the morass.

o night, blue black with a sliver and pin ******,
o light, a crescent moon and stars play tricks,
o Eyes, watch me fortress building with bricks
                               as sleep falls and walls stand.

o snow, there is none white as you,
o air, it feels so much like spring too,
o dusk,
       o dawn, there is waiting as
       the gap yawns, choices now few.

o year, as you end you begin anew,
o time, you quit on me too soon,
o Eternity, strength in me renew,

let my dreams take flight on eagle's wings,
let me run and not be weary,
let these ugly toes and feet walk,
                 so that the body faints not!

wire coils with evenly spaced teeth,
shredded the clothing from beneath,
experience is a teacher, tangled and torn,

out,

getting no where, so no point to seethe,
fabric strips draped on a concertina wreath,
technique is a quality, better used and worn-

out!

lost!, lose!, loose!, free the beast, free the beast!,
into the rabble, into the pen of fractured plates,
***** the grey, matters not, just find that ten per-

cent!

wounded heart, bent aging knees, cannot rise,
to run away uphill against the wind, no surprise
no one will answer, the silent cry, or the loud sh-

out!

empty places, empty faces, reflected sour silhouettes,
every fifth bullet traces and arcs in the night sky,
why can't violence be allowed the right to die

out-

right? Left, right left, get in step with techno sounds,
dance all night, while the para-military do the rounds,
around the wire obstacles, to keep her away, keep her

out!

There are many wiser people, (wo)man,
where, wiser words, phrases that people can
say,
but  speak with love from lips with a,
voice, of reason with grace in time, peace, one day
mercy,
will be the contagion that will infect,
all, these are not soft words to find, to dissect,
great,
loss to learn, and more to achieve, demand,
cost, many lives and hard lessons, over and
over,
are we learning slowly or is the cause, wheels of
suspicion, turning on one another, afraid of strange ideals, of
who,
we are as people that say wise words, destruction
changing, not the greed, the need to be that percent, the seduction,
out,
of reach, out of touch, soiled-free lives, unrealistic
among, a common world, of uncommon people, heuristic
amazing,
solutions in lives where character is determined by the
grit, of coarse!

The globe spins,
smoother with
each rotation,
what winds,
blow us to
the ground , do
you stay down
or get back
up to meet
the next
blustery gust?

some who impose their will
drill into the media who gobble it
up like it is credibilia,
two bitzcoin for your thoughts?

As far as fair is fair, where is fair,
that wee ones who don't belong,
are taken,
when will this world awaken?
every one
would be be shaken to act,
if in fact they were your children,
every parent
would be heard
to state they are
our children, too
the world's children,
these men (read cowards)
pick on them because they
see them as weak,
the forget they are the future,
when their son's look for wives,
here is to hoping they find none,
don't mind this poet's rant,
as he is out of touch with much,
see the headlines, (read skim)
it is not that I care not,
how to right the social cultural wrong,
how to write so that theses men (read cowards)
play hide an seek with political agendas,
oh they have earned their fifteen minutes
of fame,
shame shame, double shame, here is to publishing
all of your names, in what ever format you end
up as,
see, reading the news or the facts won't
explain this to make me think it was the right thing to do,
but I am a poet out of touch and for me this is the write thing
so to do.

Boko Haram (read cowards),
has done this before if my tired memory
should serve me as they should serve time,
right now your voice sounds like a childs,
are you out of touch with your masculinity?

Out of touch of their
parents arms for hugs,
this tugs,
at any parents heart and mind,
don't be out too late,
out of reach,
out of touch,
who will feed them,
we will need them,
they are the future
             of a generation,
this is a pitiful demonstration,
there is no excuse,
these recluses (read cowards)
who hide behind naked
political stand-offs
running and gunning
with young girl children,
don't tell me to get some
understanding,
because the moon we
all stand under is the same,
               too bad shame,
can't be brought by their
mothers, but maybe these
Boko Haram (read cowards)
don't even respect their own
mothers or the mothers of the
others they have stolen,
they have kidnapped,
they have made as scapegoats,
for their
kingdom
building
exercise,
free the prisoners,
as they are running
short of cowards to
do the camp chores,
they can't even get bullets
to start a war against other men.
When will
this child abuse
be stopped still?

So you can be more out of touch than...

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.

Stop humiliating me with your humidity. So gray.

Nimbus travelers, where did you get impolite
fake happy faces, cover the sky, dim the light,
drop not a drop, of rain, of rain.  So dry.

Stop trying to hide behind one another,
Where is the blue sky, blue like no other?,
You are a cloud after all, and will evaporate.

Yet in what I see reflected back at me is all my
loss, shapes that show my failures, in each sly,
hidden crevasse, which tempts a fall into the sky.


©DWE082013

why do roots of problems
dig into my skin like it is dirt,
like it is soil,
so there is toil and trouble,
pop my bubble, pinprick my dreams,
my hopes, my l o n g i n g s, my fears,
(when you ***** a fear it gets angry and larger)
oh this, this is the Merlot talking,
oh this isn't supposed to be about me at all,

dusty roads with yellow ribbons,
running by the foot on the shoulder,
worn out combat boots like the soldier,
for those at war, on a distant shore,
when they come home, they will
not leave it behind, like a minefield
in their mind, exploding again, again, and again, again,
somethings refuse to defuse like
emotions they can't deal with,
oceans away, so poignant, that
the movie plays over and over
again, despite the reviews, the
unwelcome news, that their life here
                                       do you hear,
is now meaningless, for the fear,
                                 for the tears,
for the tears in their vessel that
lead to their heart, that sadly does
not take orders, but feels the heat of hell,
denied that there is a problem
in the post traumatic effects of war,
let a politician, disarm and IED,
let a politician, tell a family that
their child will not becoming home,
and his thirty, sixty or one hundred and
twenty fellow soldiers send their respects,
and the work he was doing overthere
has not been completed yet, so pray for
the troops who...
                          oh wait that mission has now ended.
So is this poem.

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

Unbroken, eternal, a series of points,
joined at the hip, what a trip.
Minute differences, missed by the
human eye, they are there, just the same.

What a shame.

Was it like this before I touched it, before I was almost
touched
by you, travelling on parallels lines, just out of reach.
What a trip, joined at the hip,
a series of points, eternal, unbroken.

What a crying shame.

I keep one eye on you and one eye on my line,
I do not, I can not afford to lose track of either,
For what if the distance between us shrinks and
we
meet
or if they cross and we have a chance and a choice.

To share, space, time, breath, touch, all with out
words or with more words than I have spilled tears,
listen to the other talk in that intimate moment of
the embrace that will never last long enough.

What a dying shame.

Any time we spend, even within in sight,
should be enough to satisfy, our emptiness, right?
Oh these parallel lines keep us together and apart,
please, if we meet, let me feel and share your,
beating
heart.

Mine isn't doing so well,
just now,
it was
broken,
some how, I can't stop for long,
as it might.

STOP

And never start again,
these parallel lines,
are now not grooves,

But the very graves,
where we will lie,
in parallel. Even ever after.


©DWE072013

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.

Pen and paper,
touching
sensual for some,
words sure,
where were you,
when is what was too
young,
oh words, oh words,
how do you form
the shape of my
unkissed lips,
we have missed
our time
our chance to
embrace,
nakedness of
meeting
face to face,
you are more than;
a muse to me,
a fantasy,
a touch screen away,
but it is a lie,

past due
what are you doing
in 2016?
lips are numb,
must be drunk
writing free,
rhyme or prose,
do it all,
Even with ugly toes,
verse is free, heart
rock solid,
torrid,
turbulent,
life is *****,
when write is wrong.

If flight of fancy brings me near,
to perfect prose, may we meet,,
it is way past due...

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.

You draw near,
you draw me in,
it is first with your eyes,
then with your lies.

you stare me down,
you persist and I drop
all else and then my head.

Not into my hands to
cup my shame, as it pours
from my eyes, I believe your
lies and begin to move
to the music you beat into me.

I am so weak, please,
"Like" me, you, social media,
Without you might I be... nothing?
Without you I might not hang out,
with...anyone.

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

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

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

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

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

When do you say you have done enough for today?
How do you hold yourself when you pray?
I don't know your answers, nor what I would say!

This though is where I would go to a rocky place called a cleft,
where His Spirit has not yet left and an Eagles wings covers,
this rest, high and away from the world.  Not so I could look
down, while trying to fit my perfect crown, nay it is so I
would catch my breath and breathe the peace that passes
understanding, so when I went to be in that world which is
demanding, my conformity , I would say "check with Him,
the Higher authority."

Oh I can stand on my two feet, swords of words on my lips,
seeking peace, seeking peace, His love does eclipse, all I have...
to give, be at peace, be at peace.


©DWE032013

Petals of a flower
hold so much power,
as they remind me all
of your delicate peel.

Vibrant colour, sedate life
awesome wonder, with knife
in my hand to begin my cut,
an incision, "pick me, pick me",

a voice cries from the table as
the juice runs to drip and has
my attention, deaf to the others,
the babbling sisters and brothers,

To stop me too late,
my appetite to sate,
as I reach for just one more.
                     Just one more peachy moment or bite.

©DWE102013

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 starts with eyes watching the forecast,
             watching the fog or clouds mass,
              overhead.

The muscles, the glutes they hurt when,
                   you do anything or nothing,
                    oh well.

If you sit if you kneel with your weight on
                   your heels, watch how you
                   place your bare hand or any
                   knuckle, asphalt with texture ... bites.


On to creating she
began day two, the
centerpiece was done
now a border to do,
twelve
peach and gold salmons
swimming in an asphalt blue
as blue as the ocean nearby.

The artist chooses some red, some peach,
some gold, some defining black, and
two types of blue to her art she stays true.

This cat had found
"the purr-fect spot"
people ooowed and
people aaawed again
and again over her,
but try as she might,
she could not wait any
longer,
only if her will was
stronger,
she ate a fish, anyway,
right to the bones.

She is done, the artist I mean,
f i f t e e n   h o u r s, bent and
contorted, leaning and standing,
oh and the painting well...
purr-fect of course, we will be
back next year, with many more
artists as the Festival will grow,
thanks to the great job by all
volunteers

Can you see the slight
smile on her cat face,
the glint in those eyes,
like she owns the place,
she is content to stay the night,
by morning she is off to appraise,
better grounds for catching fish!


©DWE092013

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

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

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

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

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

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



©DWE092013

When the branches tell the tree,
Where and why to be,
there is dysfunction, see?
How the leaves,
tell the breeze
how hard to blow,
and direction,
there is a disease,
        you agrees?
If the clouds were
to stop in the sky,
not float lightly by
if the will was there,
to stay,
would you notice,
and try to say,
there is something wrong
with these
pictures.

How does the human evolve,
Not a question to try to resolve,

Because as a species we survive.

More than like sand mites,
In a desert,
Go ahead spend the time,
Counting grains of sand.

Because as a species, we survive.

Let that hang on your breath,
say it again real slow, slower....
thoughts processes go where they will,
percolate and distill,
"we still have a habit to ****"
one another

oh brother, I need more wine...
Is this by design....or are we on a decline
from the pinnacle of creation.

But what part of you, will be the downfall,
from such heights...take time to drink in
the fading view.

Whether it is oil or riches,
Too big for our britches,
The only possession we own
it seems is greed,
so sweet is this reduction, over
the heat, of want over need,
do you even know your own

DNA

the pinnacle,
It is not the end,
but a place to see,
what you have yet learned,

No way to earn,
What is available for free,
Peace, that passes,
Release, of the past,
Envision, the future,

See?
Only from the pinnacle,
are the past, present and future,
more than whimsical and make believe!

In this journey, know, you won't be alone.

And there is nothing, I would rather do, than be with you.

Abstract, surreal, words to describe and ways to live and wander from one breath to next,
one is raspy
the other is smoky
years and months like calendar pages are all gathered at my feet
too bad I don't understand the language they are written in
too bad I see that the calendar pad is getting thinner
I like red wine
I like dark chocolate
i can't afford the taste they leave my mouth too often but it is so rich
poor me
pity me
everything I see is always half empty, what happened to the other half
I don't remember ever living life in the full
although I am told regularly I am full of it...
what do, they mean
I will sleep now and wake again to do what it is I do
but these words these images, flash before my eyes and
overload all the aging circuitry, so they think...
there is a certain flavor in the air when you run your
fingers across the screen and touch the what you read
as if we are connected, surreal eh?
No,
we are
not, except we are human and emote and share burdens
share life, share the things that make us laugh and cry
and never want to be alone once we have truly been alone,
truth is a rare fossil, and never found in one place together,
disintegrating,
moral, fiber,
oh if only I had taken up smoking at any point in my life,
I might have learned to enjoy a cigar,
music falls flat from my tongue and my
fingers get tangled tying shoelaces,
don't bother learning the cello or violin or ukulele,
as the only keys I would hit or find would be OFF,
though my ears would revel in the perfection, not
knowing the difference,
you don't like my tone, I actually have ONE, do I?,
I can't leave this unfinished,
I would worry you, YOU,
wouldn't I?
Truth has more meaning than it ever has,
lie is what I want to do on my bed.
Not listen to them, lies,
the ones that roll around in my head,
and diminish any thing I value
and diminish me, a Child of God.
Oh good I found a bigger sharper, newer shovel,
let me catch my breath and
I promise I will keep digging...
with my hole heart.


©DWE072013

hockey fans everywhere,
will spill
their beer, stop and stare,
at two
hockey players who make
plays in layers,
as they find each other
(they are twin brothers)
in the toughest parts of
the ice and the game,
and
still
they
succeed
with motion,
with and
without
the puck
oh ....,
the rubber disc
is the net again
passes look
like they are
made with ease,
opposition
chases air,
it is not fair
they look and
play the same,
but differently
invent, re-invent
thank you two
for one plus four
more
years to cheer,
for the way you
play
with passion,
and beauty,
re-define what
it is to be tough
in this game,
that I grew up watching
waiting for finesse,
to win the day,
and hope the team
around will raise
not just dreams up
but Lord Stanley's Cup

Years ago When I Was A Child, a fragrance of
summer was on the hot air and winters white,
frosty and snowy hid the toes of your boots when you slid.
I was studious and sedate, except at play
when I became a wild,
part of a dog pile,
                            of other wild kids at play.

Limbs tangled and the weight of friendship,
was worth more than the ore and gold pulled
from the mine, then purified by smelting.
  
We could run, explore and hide
on our favourite mountainside,
change alliances,
pick teams,
fun was the factor
winning was the dream,
with some rivalry,
we did not need to
worry,
or hurry, it wasn't
about
car bombs in our markets, temples and churches,
we did not need to look alone through the rubble
that was once our humble home,
we needed to watch out
for poison ivy, poison oak and rusty nails
we did not need to look out
for mines that no one mapped,
in a war which neither side
cared for those
               whose future they have changed irrevocably.
                                                   And not for the better.

At night a train might disturb my sleep,
not a poorly dropped bomb intended for
the enemy camp, not on the edge of a village,
where the hole swallowed dreams and futures and spit out death,
we played kick the can, hide and go seek
where running, not hopping on one foot,
was the deal,
where seeing, was important with both
eyes, in the dark.

We did not blow out our ankle, unless we tripped
on a curb, unlike some children, blow off a lower
limb at the knee, because they tripped a wire, which
tripped a switch, of a metal canister in the dirt
which once was a playground, before became
a forgotten battlefield.  And a playground once again,
                                       after it was for a time a cemetery.
A mass grave.

This was supposed to be about play,
Play, what if every child who could play
stopped until all children were able.

You can pray for peace,
you can play for peace,
but can you play to stop wars.
Adults play at making peace,
as long as their interests (cha-ching)
are met, again and again,
then maybe the children's children's
children can play, if they remember how,
thank God
children
are resilient
and play is a
natural consequence of fun.
So run along children and
play
stay safe
and away from where your brothers... play no more.




©DWE102013

Break me bind me, better yet do not mind me,
For I may always let you down.
Stake me find me, better yet blind me,
from my own selfish sight.
Take me redefine me, better yet forget,
Me.

Taking a break, from this, to be with you,
            guarding our sanity and banality,
needing us, is needing you.
For I am not there when you need me most.
Words like shards of glass littered across
the room to the door where you stand,
waiting, patiently, at a distance
for Me.

Heaviness,
of heart,
of burdened
shoulders I have,
it is one thing to carry
an others load,
more though, it
is how I show
I care for
You.

This engine though pushes,
me to go to where the words
are, sometimes most times,
bedtimes, we are apart,
with only words between us.
Unspoken.

words pouring out like water,
do they taste like they sound, pure and clean,
                           not from me, and this screen,
         but from all of you who sure write lean poetry.

I

if I yelled into a walkie talkie,
would you melt, or burn,
blaring noise
glaring sun,
glaze the windows, someone!

                 II

fade away and radiate,
move the people dis-populate,
we may all glow,
there are leaks, they know,
but that is not all
they are going to build
an icy wall to STOP thoseleaksnow,
some one strong willed
                                      is taking charge of those positive and negatives
                                                       ­                        keep an i on atom, physically speaking.

         III


shake, shake
roll the water
shake shake
roll the dice
shake shake
what happens
in the kitchen
where it is hot
and you bang
plates together
the do break, explosively
this time, no
tsunami, so sue me
but it was a six point one
when we get a nine what then?


           IV
they have politics,
they have unrest,
they have strife,
put the ad in
the paper, some
one misunderstood, vehement
denials, sabres rattling cementing
bad relations blame the propagandist
bad formula blame the chemist
bad politics cost elections
bad people take lives
that are not theirs to erase, displace
or otherwise disgrace, I know we will
never know what has gone on,
but it really comes down to ONE,
all it takes is one to die,
and it - whatever the point is
is wrong,
all it takes is a million refugees,
not one in power will listen if we
say   STOP                    please,
think of the creative talent who have died,
think of the number of times you have lied,
think of the geniuses unable to breath through their face,
oh wait, if you did think, in the first place,

you still would have done it anyway,
because that is who you are, makin' people wear sarin, eau de ... deathly
                                                silence is a grave filled with the cries
                                                of the innocents
                                                chaos is a grave filled with violent
                                                death with intent
                                                lashing out first and with such force
                                                is a grave filled with numbers of
                                                the lost, who now are no more
                                                the cost is too dear to bear
                                                except with sadness, and mourning
                                                but there is no time there is danger
                                                          ­                              and warring
                                                         ­                                                   while the world dithers uncertain,
close the blinds
draw the curtain,
cover your ears,
we are doing something
here, umm, there.

they may stop it all,
or make the price you,
pay so very high,
more expensive,
than a litre or gallon
of gas.

On your ***,
they will dump,
you, no not the
donkey kind,
they want to
take it all
from your mind.

Remember the sun that goes down,
rises morning after,
Remember that affection can go
further than affectation,
Remember that richness, tasted, drank,
read or breathed and lightly held,
make up the poetry of life.

Not all that other stuff.

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.

There is no reason without rhyme,
There is prose that is purrfect,
most every time.

Imagined reality
read silently,
memorized
diligently,
Slammed publicly.

All for the
thoughts dangerous,
courting and marriage,
two human souls,
between like strangers.

Poetry is about lovers and love,...

                                                       ­                                                       What about peace, and doves?

Okay, those things too can be included, I guess,

                                                         ­                              Well then you must consider, I digress, God.

What, why?

                                                               ­                                     The Lover of our souls, o my o my,

Alright, if I have this right, my friend, Praetor,
with your military and knowledge of law,
you believe in a God other than Caesar?
                                                         ­                     Caesar is the god to Romans, but no man is
                                                              ­                   god unto himself, no man, therefore no Roman
                                                           ­                         can know all, so there has to be a God,
                                                            ­                          we don't know and to remain a mystery
                                                         ­                                 this God must be the most powerful of
                                                              ­                              all time...and the most powerful among
                                                                ­                             us falls in love at least once, so this God
                                                             ­                                  must wield love like the most highly
                                                          ­                                      trained warrior, so...

Love plus Time plus the mystery equal God?
                                                            ­                          great equation                                                                        ­                                                                 ­                              
                                                                ­                   That should do it, now leave me while I wait
                                                                ­                      on him... or is it Him, or... just leave me to
                                                              ­                          my meditation.


©DWE102013

propellant in motion
add a spark
of metal on metal
ripped by a jagged                                          hole in this community,
with friction-less speed
and it all goes down hill

So much fuel and flame,
so much tears and
( who gets the blame, )                          not now pull together in humility
so much sadness,
such visible courage and strength.

Every one knew everyone,
they will be missed by all,
the cloud will not be forgotten
as it tried to carry your friends               and family away
the rolling blackness
the cars filled with blackness
will not remove them from your memories

When the rain
comes, when the
tears have emptied
out, and if ever your
grieving hearts feel all alone            just say the time it happened, out loud

and some one who hears
will be by your side to wipe the tears
and be still                             with you, in love of those,
                  until you are ready to go on again, and again
                                                           ­                 *resiliente

Leave the porch light
on, will you, or the dark will
be like our embrace.

There are dried up splashes of juicy orange wedges,
randomly splattered across my key board, no void in
the pattern, no victim.

Careless way to eat anything near an electronic thing,
citric acid bleeding into fine circuitry do not abide side by side,
with out someone losing interest.

Carelessness is a choice like loading a gun rather
than buying a Rolls Royce.  Putting a knife out of
sight, "just in case someone starts a fight" said
in the shadows of a fearful heart.

Guns and knives, guns and knives were only meant to
end lives, no self-defence, no, "sorry I won't let it happen,
again.", said by a teen with blood red-rimmed eyes but no
emotion.

Violence is a choice, poor man rich man matter naught,
you live and die in the lifestyle you sought, maybe got
more than you bargained for.

Cats have nine lives and I, like you, have only one before
the Great Hereafter, so I would rather spend it not crying
tears of grief and fill my ears with the sounds of my children' s
children laughter.  

Echoes of which, resound so, even the Heavens rejoice.

Farm life was hard,
when your the twelfth,
in line, most of the older
ones have gotten bolder,
to make there own way,
away from the family place.

Your hair was platinum white,
kids were kids and joked in spite,
of how nice you were or not.

When number thirteen was about to be,
the baby took your mother away, see?
your dad then go sick with TB,
once he could no longer take care,
you went to be with family, who cared.

You went to work stocking shoes,
dropout of school to pay your dues,
so much lost and so much to lose.

You moved away and married a man,
had a couple of boys who grew to men
and worked,
moved again and again west then south,
and worked
as the retail demands,
cashiering and training manager
types, till you retired... when they
closed the store, without much
attention and with not much of
a pension.  Lost much in the divorce.

From a prairie rose to fill those roles
as a cashier,
as trainer,
as a mother,
cherished,
you balanced,
books, career and life
as well,
thanks from me and my brother, as well.
  
  To any readers,
There more to the story and I will fill
in the blanks, but here is the ending
so you will say thanks that it will not
be nagging as you sleep.

in the wild, there is nothing mild,
oh sure, there are sedate centipedes,
bobbing butterflies,  owl calls that
echo along forest walls, even the plants
can supplant your will to live,

but today

a different sort of experience,
they showed their teeth,
the puffed and snorted,
I didn't dare retort,
and did not make eye contact,

then on the streets,
some physically assault,
some slink in shadows,
take out hockey moms,
and eighty year women
with purses, curse these cowards,

but today,

surrounded in a confrontation zone,
my heart beat wildly in my chest,
my arms and legs felt heavy and tired,
I prayed for protection in this test,
of wills, they flex their muscled limbs and
are not alone, while I flew solo,
at ground level, staring bared teeth,
and territorial ownership at stake,
I was looking for two dumbbells to finish
my work out


©DWE012014