there is noise,
is it in your house,
is it in your room
is it in your head
is it in your tomb...
grave thoughts or
      stirrings...
there is a noise,
is it on your sonar,
is it on your media,
is it on your wall,
does it all feed you?
is it magically delicious,
     or are you starving...

stir the emotions,
starve for attention,
get the tension,
or waiting for your pension
write your journal,
or live your life
MAYBE
live your journal
and write your life,

there is no one else who is able.

There is no poetry,
                                that does not taste, sweet as the human spirit.
There is no poetry,
                                that does not dig and root at life, as if fearless.

There is no poetry,
                                that can move me, to not like music.
There is no poetry,
                                that can move me, to not want to dance.
There is no poetry,
                                that stops me, from the music I dance to,
there is no poetry,
                                that silences the music in me, that makes
                                me move in my seat at a
                                local coffee shop (okay, it may be the caffeine),
there is no poetry,
                               in plain view as when I skip down the
                               grocery store aisles.

There is no poetry,
                               only shared human kindness that restores a shaken soul.
There is no poetry,
                               that can say love better than an act of unconditional love.

There is no poetry,
                               that has not already been said,
                               that has not already been lived,
                               that has already been lost,
                                                                           like the one, you are about to create and write and share.
                                                                                                    So that others may live your experiences.



©DWE092013

there were seasons when all was restful,
every change was seen with a smile,
like some secret shared between me and God,
and so appreciated, with awe.

there was a summer when all was warm,
the embers in the fire pit, cracked and popped,
they floated high and for a brief moment,
joined the stars above our heads.

there were weeks when all went well,
purpose was found and fulfilled,
activities were sought and enjoyed,
school was a time of learning and
yearning to explore.

Then, I woke up.



©DWE102013

he leaned back, like the rail was built just for him,
he had a crew cut, a scar on his chin, he was tall, slim,
his voice was like gravel, rolling in a can
he smoked from, once a boy, to now a man,

he offered his comforts and promises to the one who walked
beside, as there was a deal going down and whole promises talked,
younger man slowed his stride, not to leave his purchasing party
behind, his language was not descriptive, as it was blunt, smartly

he was not dressed, but he wanted money for the goods,
he asked the shorter man to wait there, right where he stood,
"Hand me the money and I will be back, right away,
or you can walk with me, over and back all the way",

the older, shorter man walk steady and slow, not very good
with english, but in a show of good faith, in this neighbourhood,
that was not his, he moving forward, a hand in his pocket,
he looked straight ahead no longer making eye contact,

curious stopping to watch them move toward some homes behind
the school park, the sun was setting it soon would be dark,  finding
his way once the deal was had, might be hard in low light, what if
it went bad, what if it was a set up, what if he got hurt, a scuffle, a tiff,

Buyer beware, there was a deal to be had,
The guy your in business with is angry and mad,
Buyer beware you may be in for trouble,
Your trust may be broken like a bubble,

At the point of a knife blade,
With pointed words of hate,
You look like karma, guides your fate,
Your voice was soft, your eyes kind, what was their bait?

there will be no poetry tonight,
the sky is clear and if'n there be a moon
                    there will be light.

the traffic plays a base note tune,
the frost lands softly, a delight,
nothing sinks faster than a frozen balloon.

there will be light,
that shines into the lives of ruin,
gathered in packs, of two or three this night.

the tears that fall on this freezing night, collect in a heated spoon,
there will be a night light,
whereever the homeless sleep, entrances, streetlights of even the new moon,

there will be light,
snow by Sunday a boon,
for the ski hills and plowmen who,
have not made any money to go to Cancun,

but there will be no poetry tonight,
the dog is ill and there is no clue in,
the stars as to what is wrong, but there will be light.



©DWE012014

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.

Creeps the stench into the room,
Through an open door, our doom,

Oily sticky sour smell,
Ain't Heaven must be hell,

Large grow-op cannot be far,
Perhaps a skunk versus a car?

Peace and quiet taken for a oneway ride,
As there is now a stink, high on Eventide,

It has come in.

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

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

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

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

take the time,
don't look at a watch
make the time
get creative
save the time
memorize it all
shave the time
on personal bests

tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock
and lest we forget the digital age
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

time has treated me well
time for the freak show
time is on my side
time to go
timeless
time
less than
was had before
less than needed to explore
islands of possibilities beyond

these
borders

Twisted dying pine branches rusted with death
a few green needles remain lying to the tree
with what is known to be true about the self.

Old mangy dog wandering the street, kicked
out by the owner who could only afford to feed it
table scraps but not the final trip to the vet, to release
the self.

Aging body with a faster aging mind slowly trying
to cope with the passing of time, no one to visit where
he sits and stares, not knowing if anyone cares while
he no longer recognizes the self.

she and he sit with their phones texting one another
in hushed tones about their needs while their wants
haunt them and the miles between, while in the swirl
of information and tech they have began to lose
their selves; apart but at the same time, together.


©DWE072013

Seren-dip-me-pity,               (she was self-accepting failure,  bad luck wannabe, wears black and sniffles)
the ardent opposite
of Seren-dip-i-ty,       (she was an accidental discovery, no recovery needed, awe, found objects, in the     
                                                                                    moment)
they are part of the
seven sisters Seren,

wherein lies the rub
Saran-wrap, was third           (caught up on herself, clean and air tight, fresh as the day, tough like teflon)
in line, (changed the spelling of the family name - to be sooner alphabetically)
Seren-ate,                         (she sings she dances, she eats, she sings some more, she waits for applause)
does not speak or gesticulate
unless she performs in song.
Seren-ade, used to sing well           (jealous, performance orientated, sometime for love, lately for money)
as well but when the other came
along and did it better she got bitter
and moved in to retail sales        (lemonADE, pomADE, calvacADE of arcADEs, you get it,                                                                  ­                                                      everything ­became a parADE)
And as for the twins who
are always fighting Seren-ity    (lacks calmness, lacks peace, wants a piece of you, uneven temper)
Seren-e                                         (more easy to be obscene, like evening air with a heavy chill, not bright).

The seven sisters of Seren,
who were always preparing
for a fight to the right to
the next beau to knock
on the door, but soon they
all stopped calling,
they were
no longer falling,
over one another,
as the Seren-ities
were now old biddies,
no longer remained a
worth-while dowry, befitting
sitting silently as the seven
sisters of Seren squabbled
soiling the solitude of the soul.

Stuttering, sputtering, spewing words while noses were growing longer
than the grey shark that lay dead on the subway car floor, no stronger
words were uttered than a Brooklynese "phoque"  and then silence as
the stench of death and black humour.

The red bull can and a **** life, too many cigarettes, he didn't listen to
his wife, and she was no where to be found anywhere around the sub-
way walls and brick, mortar, concrete and rails with one like a taser.

SHOCKING!

Said the press, the greater subway transit authority has better things
to do, and I agree so a short poem about this will be all this brings
to the surface of a stolen idea, NYC has the dead shark, a but and
a can, while in Russia, wild dogs travel free, in those subway cars.  

cuz if it ain't safe for sharks it ain't safe for no one while in
Russia every transit traveler may pet and be near a dog, and give and receive
love.

I am sorry to announce that due to intermittent
thick cloud cover,
(I am so a lover
of meteor showers) our viewing is cancelled,
no wait is that
a clearing in the sky the deep blue colour and
are those stars
not near but afar, nope, just some plane, making
for Bellingham or Blaine, might
as well be Spain.

Shower me with flowers. (no thorns please)
Shower me with (dark)chocolate.
Shower me with meteors.
                                           No not me personally.
What lights their tales
What makes their beards
  Flame...to warm my heart
I know the physics, astro-too
Does it affect me, like it affects you
Just one hour of a meteor shower
I'll be good for another year of power,
like one super hero (or ONE with a super lot of zeroes, after)
We can hold an after meteor party at my place and
your all invited and I will put your names on the
guest list, now we can't now we won't there is no
shower here this night
clouds shield my sight
they are like a blight
on the fruit
that I toiled
for a year,
readied my
sleep cycle,
pruned back
tree tops to
see the horizon,
set up lines
of sight to
track their
paths this night
across the heavens
but now I will
go to bed,
if you show
up to a dark
house, I am
sorry in advance
as I said sadly at
the start the
show is cancelled
and for my part
I will try again
tomorrow night!

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

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

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

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

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

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


©DWE092013

And not enough stars.

The streets are like arteries behind your eyes,
they can now see all.

Young geeks familiar with computer speak, sit in rooms
of control and the troll to make traffic better, with the
help and dreams, sky high and sky eyes, I feel more secure.
maybe...

Do you need attention,
what is your intention,
on main street thoroughfare,
tell'em all watching life ain't fair
rage at the sky above
with gestures, not love
sirens buzzing your direction
show your best side, get bolder get braver
no pictures, you didn't sign the waiver

The squeaky wheel gets greased,
the noisy person gets appeased.

Don't ask, don't tell, take swig from the keg
Do first, no consequence, then for forgiveness beg.

If you did no wrong  
Or you did know wrong,
from right, go ahead play along.
They might donate a defence fund.

This story is so far gone, the centre has been lost.
At a tragic cost. Sad.
The attention is now shifted, into the wind,
So tack, tack, tack, attack, is all you can find
to do. Sadder

Boys will be boys, in a world which desperately needs men of H umble,
                                                          ­                                                             I ntegrity,
                                                       ­                                                                S obriety,
                                                                ­                                                       C ourage,
                                                         ­                                                              R esponsibility,
                                                                ­                                                       O bedient,
                                                        ­                                                               S erious,
                                                         ­                                                              S trong.
Men of Character.

Was that a squeak I heard?
Or a scrape
of your chair
as you stood?

A pair of daffodils on a single stem,
Had fallen from the bunch, their
shared stalk too short, it really wasn't
much of a flower anyway, but
instead of throwing it down
on the ground
or away...

I found a hole
in the dirt
Between
grass and the curb
And I placed it, on a lark,
for a laugh, but time has passed
3 weeks and the pair are alive, and doing well.

Only a stem, no roots, cold, moist dirt
showed me that even a flower was worth
second chance!

So, if a flower proves this, then all of LIFE;
deserves a dance and a full measure of grace.

she sat with her back to the brick column
holding up a vestibule, she found useful
as a public sorting place for the private
contents, of her camel coloured purse, remarkably ****-
tered as her "****** life", her short term
fix, IT, took a carefully cared for, crack pipe.

Running late was I, and eye contact was made
and I quietly but firmly said to the seated glazed eyes look-
ing up at me, "might be best if you leave."

next day kilometres away, early morning bank
deposit, and a coffee run, me and the dog, out
for fun "car rides" bring her much delight, a voice
from behind said "mister, mister you gotta help me!,
I'm, not an addict, and last night I could not get home,
rode transit for free out to here from Kitsilano but,"
she breathed, "in the it cost me a ticket for one
hundred and seventy five dollars, when I got caught"

I looked at her, seeing her hair dishevelled and a face full
of what, despair...? "so what do you want from me?"  
She
ran on with her mouth, playing with her top, the sentence was
run on and wouldn't stop.  "I made some bad choices, came here to meet my EX, found him with a girl having ***, and I need ten or twenty,
bucks to get me home, the transit cop said he would not let me back on and would still be working until three A.M., stranding me, until this morning see?!"

We
went back and forth, verbally,
"transit does not cost that
much, stop asking me for
money!", and she fired
back,
"my math is bad,
the money would be
nice and do your Karma
good, I am a big  believer
in that", finally I left her
with a small handful of
small change and watched her walk
away, got in my car, got my coffee, got  going home...

but as I drove by her, she was standing back to the hedge,
calm had returned as she waited, her hair was in place,
I saw something I failed to observe during our dialogue....

under her arm was
that camel coloured
purse...two women
suddenly became one

Take each memory
Tell one close to you,
The Story
The tongue will muscle the details
Don't muzzle the truth, or it all fails,

Travel in time isn't for the massess,
The past is the past but by telling it now
The Story passes
the test of time, and makes it to the future
wounds might not be healed, but sutured,

history local or global or private were and are
sustained by the verbal record, a spoken treasure,
Like a DeLorean car,
words tied to synaspses, flash pictures, smells and action,
make movies for some, tales for others, that did not sanction,

the telling of the story,
minute paper pieces,
microscopic chemical reactions
recaptures
laughs,
tears of joy, many of sadness,
and the events, surrounded by the madness
of the days,
so if this the case save Time Travel to books and fiction,
or quiz history and historians, and was the truth told
after all, forever after, but lean in close and whisper in
my ear, I will listen through your tears, take me Travelling,...

One Day.

green, on the forest floor, moves
bit map shades, stay low, fool the eye,
as if the trees have roots to prove,
that all the while they were in touch
with the ground
with the ground,
the moss crawls as spores fly free,
ferns cover all with dignity,
Devils Club, only found in the lowest
of spots, taller than most men, with broad leaves
and thorns that leave nasty, red dots,
and a needle and void that fills with...
                  pushing them out, quite a fuss,
                  and some pain.

Same pain by a slightly different name,
Oplopanax horridus, or the Devils Walking Stick
has broad leaves above your head shade from the
sun and thorns on every surface
that break and stick and bury as you hurry
and brush by, slip on a mossy log and your
hand jets out for support, your face
                            contorts
to the magnitude of pain as it is plain,
these needles will stick in you and you
don't belong under the under brush.

©DWE102013

I got up,
at five ninteen,
the day was mean,
it was wet,
the puddles had
      puddles,
I was befuddled,
if it was worth the walk,
then I looked down at my
feet, and she looked up at
me, and I could see, she
did not care for rain,
but staying home
              was insane,
and would not do,
she had to do number one
              and number two,
boots,
with hooded jacket,
umbrella,
leash,
me in my hat,
her in her reflective vest,
out we went to test,
not only our resolve,
but with water,
        did we disolve,
the pace was quick,
the rain was wet,
so was the road,
make me croak,
     call me toad,
as we went past the
hospital, three
paramedics walk quick
to the senior mental
health unit,
it was not unique,
I had seen that before,
looked at the door,
nothing to be seen,
walked on until,
I heard a yell, like a scream,
turned over my shoulder,
what did I spy,
an older guy,
barefeet, hospital pants,
no shirt to speak of,
doing an angry dance,
pointing in my direction,
I turned and walked away,
muttering, I was heard
to say,
"where are those hospital
staff, when you need them"
rounded the corner with haste,
if he chased after me and
we came face to face,
I wandered through the scenarios,
as I did frequent shoulder,
like passing traffic in a car you know,
but he was a no show,
                                    so this was not
what in could have been, it was an unevent,
kept my morning wet and pristine,
and the tip of my umbrella,
                             would only stay, water wet.

I lay on my back as a bird, wings spread, flew over head,
wide wing span, I was an eagle above the bedspread,
I did not know if I was dreaming or adrift,
Was music playing and off the bed did I lift?
Tired but restless unable to move or wake,
It was an eagle, flying high for my sake,  
there was music that was playing in the conscious
world, a song that drove me deep to dream.

I knew now what it took to be alive,
Let loose the lyrics, propel me to drive,
My flight over the Earth's trees, rocks and all,
Gliding, there was no thought that I would fall,
As I had become, the hawk, that was carried aloft,
As I glided on the wind, which felt oh so soft,
There was confidence now that made me strong,
It would stay with me forever, the eagle and the hawk.

In the jungle, green and lush,
a familiar cry breaks the hush,
A sound,
Of foot falls that trample dry leaves,
Low figures strutting amongst the trees.

Then a feral cat on the prowl, for a meal,
shadowed, perched looking for a life to steal,
listens, looks, waits without a sound,
closer...closer...measuring the distance in a bound.

And it had been so long since she had hunted,
had a good feed, at the memory she grunted,
the flurry of feathers and a beak, in her face,
caused
her to recoil, reeling backwards in disgrace.

The rooster stepped to where she had been,
perching crowed loudly and just looked mean,
A speckled hen emerged, from the shrubbery
                                            clucking with timidity,
the orphan cat skulked away in the humidity.

The rooster with white wings, black back, red comb topped head,
crowed loudly again, the rooster announced, their rights instead,
they would rather chase on foot and protect their hens,
as they are the wild chickens of Maui, without coops or pens!!

Oh it is fall,
it is near fall,
the next street corner has fall all over it,
the crisp brown leaves, carpet the ground.

Silken threads,
with drops of dew,
fill the spaces, attached too even, the imagination,
there is no vacancy at all, but arachnid fascination.

They are everywhere


©DWE092013

a painter who faced a canvas, placed random paint in preset places,
his minds eye knew where and what to express, unlike the rest of us,
                                         he became famous although some fuss,
over
the
item
called art,
some birds today must have been perched at the mall, on a wall
over the parking lot with alot of of silver and white, cars in stalls,
my car
was there
while I was
at the gym
but
did
not become
their canvas, which
we will call "A study of white and tan on silver and glass"
from front to back, they left a perfect clean capital C
of sheen of silver and glass, as to say they have group accuracy,
but as to counting the spots of white or tan, some white rings,
with centers that demand your attention in a different tone of tan,
imagine if this car was the car you did own,
with my math there was one hundred and forty two spots
of bird poo,
they got their orders, and it was okay, it was bombs away,
the spotted car now sat the only target of a flock of birds,
they did a number 2, they did a thesis on feces, poor car.

And forgot they were people too,
so when one guy stood up said "stop"
they blamed their numb brains,
those numbskulls.

Choose your fuel carefully you fool,
actions speak louder than words and
everyone who is anyone, listened,
was it 29 to 1, how odd?

There is no excuse, only shame,
admit your fault accept the blame,
and move on.  Oh the one,

He is a hero, but I don't think
he will ever be the same,
but we know who to blame,
all this for a game in a hockey rink.

Oh puck.

Nothing.
                                                        ­                             I am lying,
Lying.
Chilled Sweaty Feet.                                              Gross.
Being Gross and
the other too.
                                                       Won't say it twice
                                                        out­ of respect for you.
Rude people.
                                                    It is not they lack social graces,
                                                     it is they don't like other faces,
                                                     than their own.
Everything.
                                                ­    I am lying again, all the time.
Generalizations
Selfishness.
Feelings of
impending doom,
life for me may end
by noon, tomorrow.
                                         I am on the clock, tick, tock
                                         There is more sand in the bottom
                                          of the hour glass, no way to turn
                                          it over and no refills allowed.
Yesterday.
Helplessness.
Haters.
                       ­            Do I sound like I drink
                                   from a bitter cup?
Waiting...               oh...My time...is up.

days or days of words,
leave me like a flock of birds
one by one.        find a place,
                        to come to rest,
and take me there, let me be,
but not alone,

i am so alone,
eyes observe with every breath,
every step, down streets filled,
my arms by my sides, hang tired
reaching for
the spectres,

relationships,
empty boats,
float by, no rope have i to throw,
nor harbour safe
or sage place to anchor, there be,
distractions like rocks, waiting for me,
YOU,

lay alike in wait, wish I, you would,
find me, for your softness,
would rip me bow to stern,
empty all the words i did yearn
to spill on paper, cover a screen,
with worlds,

in ink stained blood, of my own hand,
my write hand, type set for all to see,
when i am free,
and believe,

that dragonflies, win staring contests,
the story is important to tell, and will be read,
humbly God gifts us,
and we each in our turn,
not deserving or have earned,

finding, sharing, enough to care,
to give what you have,
trusting, rusting away,
from the inside out,

rain drops pelt the ground
from the sky make a sentence,
fill a cup with a paragraph,
throw myself to the ground,
soak them up as i roll around,
run inside and wring out
every drop on pages scattered
across the floor and watch
for words to appear, that
i will know what i am like,
                         really like,
so the lies i live will flee,
to the shadows and leave me,
so
you will
know that the one you love,
is a writer of stories,
a teller of tales,
not a scribe but a scribbler,
who places people and places,
and colours and conflict,
and lives and love
and cups of coffee black.

Thirty days hath November,
have i the will to write fifty
thousand and ninety-nine words,
from my heart,
from, my hands,
to tell a story.
Give God the glory,
i will, in thanks.

Lying beside her,
I wish she didn't smell of
fish, dog needs a bath.

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

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

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

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

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


©DWE022014

This is for you,
Not for the things you have done,
Not for battles lost or battles won,
This is for you,
For whom you are,
I know, sometimes she disappears,
Or you lose track, but she comes back,
This is for your bubble,
The place that is safe,
To do art, to enjoy life, to find that PEACE, sorry peace,
That passes, not life tests, instead
The peace that passes all understanding,
This is for you, it may not help when you are tired,
It may not make the sleepless nights go away,
This is for you, I understand the physical pain,
But we will hope, I will continue to pray, you will continue to gracefully dance,
               a brush and paint and mixed media, all art, for others eyes to see,
                                                            ­                                 so beautiful, yet for therapy,
To share your happy,
And for your own heart.

I don't think we were ever meant to retire,
                         I truly believe with the desire
To create beauty, until....eternity rises,
Like that slow moving elevator at the doctor's office.


©DWE012014

the voice that sings loudest,
is often found in the back,
                                            of my mind,
somewhere behind my pillow,
as I am weeping under a willow,
                                                       in some state called Dream.

Dream the state that was founded on free roaming,
                                                        ­    free water,
                                                          ­  free travel,
to and from Consciousness (another state, Con founded)
                                                        ­   free chills,
                                                         ­  free thrills,
                                                        ­    free falls,
                                                          ­  free to be,
                                                            f­ree or not
                                                            f­ree to be
                      (remove the last three frees)
Tumbling forward,
tumbling down,
surreal clown,
without makeup,
standing over me
with scissors and paper,
while cutting out
little dogs and little cats,
letting them rain
down on me,
down on me,

somebody wake me please,
I am allergic to,
paper.


©DWE092013

fingerprint lines
catch and drag lightly
across, petals soft,

the flower may not mind,
it is blind, to your touch,
yet you may remember,

scent the fragrance,
from the moments,
skin to skin embrace?

the encounter may,
taste like honey,
the sweetness remains
long after,

the sound you sing,
the pitch you bring,
to give the petal new life,
exhale deeply from your heart.

In the cold of my car I shivered,
as the engine ran,
                     I sat still hoping to
dispense with the chill,
                 but my will said, 'accept it you are a wimp and an old cold one at that"
I was wearing my hat and my coat with light gloves,
                                                                ­        I loves to wear, they separate my fingers
            from the cold,
knitted grey and bold,
        they let me hold,
objects of metal like keys to hearts,  objects of stone like me very own heart,
                    objects of desire, that I keep secret until something transpires
                                                      ­               which warms better than fires,
on a dark and lonely night under the stars bright, wait was that my tire?
Oh where did I wonder off too,
                              as I was in thought, now lost,
   my wit, not sharp as the nail in my tire, the cost,
on a dark night in November, as six speeding police cars swoop past me,
on an urgent mission to stop a crime, their sirens wail as I am a
counterintuitive pantomime against the noise that assails me while
I am changing
a tire but remain the same,
metal tire rod tool in my hand, stone cold heart beating, against my ribs,
as I labor in disbelief that where I live is across from where I stand,
and with all technology you have to get on your hands and knees to
change a tire, I sneeze, I am not sure which is worse,
                                         my situation or these verse,
which decorate the night, not like stars,
as when spoken aloud every other word is profane,
while two homeless push there wares by me and laugh
                                                           ­     with disdain.
For in these transactions they have more street cred than I,
  and I would give them a bitcoin of my thoughts, but they
are two and I am one, alone and without a cell phone, and
this poem rolling around like lug nuts in a hubcap, as frost
creeps closer than the creeps who wish to reap of my misfortune.

Of which I now have some, that I can mix with theirs and then
I notice their bloodthirsty stares, so I begin to recite this poetry
and expound on the woe in me and send them packing covering their
ears with out attacking my hapless now three wheeled car.

When I was done I was nuttier than those lugs,
"good news" it was too cold for bugs,
and with good conscience you, from this, can unplug.


©DWE112013

this story has more holes in it than
can be counted on one hand, which a man
can be counted as lucky, if he has more than a right one,
this story has a beginning and an end,
climaxes many times, rather than a few,
this story is beyond genre,
this story is not out of print,
some are getting it I see the glint
in your eyes, after all this is the inter-
net, more than fishers of men
but this story is not that story,
I know an almost doctor name Lori
she would examine this story,
for change,
for content,
for the cheif complaint,
this story is old and getting older
by the seconds, and has not had any firsts yet,
this story is a more than the riddle written here,
this story will not end anytime soon,
for if it did this piece would stop...like this...



©DWE022014

Wrestling with knots, not knowing how,
the fatalist sees it as a victory for
the anaconda, that constricts me now,
the pessimist sees it as a loss so why fight,
the boa constrictor as it closes the hold,
shallow breathing increased panic as I stare
into the face of the optimist, who smiles at me.
and says "well there is always heaven",
I know he means well
but he can go to sweltering places far below,
and I ask myself how do I do this to myself?,
why do I stall and hold my breath,
when thinking things through and no answer
not one answer volunteers, show of hands?
                              no tears fall, those wells are all run dry,
                              not that tears or laughter or the yawning void of my,...
                              my lips are turning blue, not my favorite colour,
                               but it does match my eyes...

there are those, three hours ahead or more,
and those, who are three hours behind plus more
and those three hours, make a difference to me, time
zones, clocks ticking passing time while you sleep on a Friday
night, or eat your dinner with great delight both without me, to
keep you company and bring laughter, to aid digestion and amuse,
rather than confuse, the dinner guests, at the behest of
my peers, eat your food while it is hot,
get your rest or sleep while I write.


©DWE102013

Essential Happiness

laughter, hope,
                peace
                beneath,
                the sunshine,
dance barefoot on grass,
to give to a child.


Simple Pleasures

kiss lightly
        more ecstatic
find comfort
        together
        which
          is
rainbows and peaches
      bluebird moments
             enjoy wonder.


Dare

some believe
           in possibility
some feel,
          know,
            have trust,
          they
                dare do share,
                from no  thing,
only the whisper of a soul.




©DWE122013

I enjoy light as it streams
through the trees.
I stand when I can,  in the light
as it streams
through the trees.
Spider webs turn, jewel
like, high up in the branches
They have their own dance
to even the slightest breeze!

There is something about the warmth
in the light,
I stand in, as it streams
through the trees.
The boughs wave not to me,
like I would like to think,
but in praise to their Creator.
The wind is their conductor.

I am comforted in His Presence
by the warmth
in the light as it streams,
through the trees.
My hands come together,
open as my ladle, to hold all
the joy, the warmth I experience,
in that moment as it streams.
through the trees,

I find more than peace,
there is fresh life,
in His presence,
from the warmth,
of the light,
as it streams,
through the trees.

Dip your ladle into the
coolness of the shade,
from your place in the light.
There is fresh life
in the light,
as it streams,
through the trees.

Take and share, with others,
leave behind, what you don't need,
go on child...it is there,
through the trees.

the people where work goes on,
have their faces strapped to their computers,
while the thumbs have texting down to a science,
gravity
speed of light
a thumb in motion tends to stay a thumb,
the people where the commute takes place,
get bus(ted), and are in the sky train(ing)
for hours every year while others have car(diac)
arrests for texting while driving or is it driving while
testing the limits of the laws of physics and hand eye
coordination a  n   d    d  i  d    y   o   u   s   ee  a   s  l  o  w    
down
in
the
reaction ...
................... crash,
the people that live in houses and so many paths
wear out the carpet, wear out the floor, hardwood
or laminate, but their thumbs never wear out,
they just grow new ones or more thumbs,

I saw a movie once recently about the end of the
world, and there were certain people who had no
thumbs,...before the world collapsed I am sure this
became the punishment for texting and operating
a vehicle stupidly.

crossing paths, crossing lives, each has at least one cross
to bear, it is bare, but all these lives, from a look,
from a lighted window, to a parked car, a man walking his dog,
to the person you meet in transit, on foot,
do you see their eyes,
is there pain in diguise?
do you even notice
or is it just another lotus
flower in the swamp
called life
called strife,
news said it was a knife,
cutting the strands attached
to each one of us,
not the fibre we are made of
but the life we weave with
all these fibres weft and warped
make society,
but all these unmarked footsteps,
tire tracks, electonic waves, invisible,
so when you wander,
make sure you wonder,
about all the people
on all these paths
and therefore sonder
in awe, go in peace



©DWE022014

Year of New
Pass Through
Year of Old

Been told
New and old
A continuum

Human logic
Makes the object
Divided pieces

What a species
Presents a thesis
Each part is an end unto itself, forgetting about the whole.

Of Time
and(y)
Of Space
and(y)
Of Love
and(y)
Of Energy
and(y)
Of Poetry