Sun bleached sheaf
SCHOOL's OUT scrawled
in pencil, as if an uncertain
secret message of summer,
FOUND!



©DWE072013

have some sympathy, or empathy,
or not,
muster up the natural energy, up the barometic
pressure, see?
who cares...
oh, have a great day, okay a good day
spend it out and about in your neighbourhood,
or just have a day,
if you feel that way,
but not to strongly
don't take me wrongly,
I care, not what you think
of me,
you think of me?
                      de-light-ful,
                       midnight nears,
I don't care to go to bed,
I will take a rock for a pillow intsead,
matters not,
could care less
doing NaPoWriMo on Word Press
again this year,
but I know you have let gravity go
embraced apathy by the toe,
and it won't holler so you
won't let go, so this is it,
I end it here, apathetically yours...

Nothing can move me to poetry today,
the pieces kept coming and the juggler
had a terrible time choosing and it was
not poetic,
nor ballet,
the wrong shoes were on the wrong feet,
the keyboard bruises these tired fingers,
that were grabbing and clutching and
holding onto nothing,
that was mine,
feeling hips and muscles that have,
bent and pulled like pork without
that satisfaction,
cause I try,
and I try,
and I try,
but the day is over and we were left,
or we left,
all behind, unable to do more,
as the clock kept ticking,
and our coats and skin kept wicking
rain from the sky,
we left them in chaos,
we left them in a hurry,
this was no theory,
necks and backs and vertebrae,
could all swear that we had carried
the weight of their world,
my two sons and I, in April
which is good for many things...

Thirty days, “oh, says”

the poet perplexed, eyes

crossed, April too.

She looked at me through humidity,
Of this coffee shop,
Outside
August rains poured down the drains,
To jazz strains, easily
making the steamy room,
more intimate,
playing in the background,
while my mind skipped to others places,
while my eyes stared at her lips,
they moved and said, I am sure they said "I love you"
"Pardon"
As I fell lightly from my reverie,
She said, "I said, "dollar forty two," your a little short, your card is empty",
Like my cup, like my hopes,
feeling in my pockets for change and a change of luck,
Finding one but not the other,
Just then the sun broke open the cloudy sky,
That is why I don't ever want to leave this coffee shop.


©DWE082013



" I don't ever want to leave this coffee shop"

Song -Shape of Love
Artist - Passenger

In from the cold
Go Home I was told,
done with a vocal cool,
tone, I walked away
               the total fool.

The command
was not from
                       up above,
not in peace with
an olive branch and dove.

There was voice...
in the frosty air
  words hung dispassionate
                               there,
right in front of my face.

I walked swiftly, pull my collar
up against the chill at my back.

Opening the door
I took to the stairs,
in spirited haste,
                   bounding up,
Eager...
my fierce intentions
were on my face,
I was keen to leave the
mean spirited world behind ME.

Hungry for you,
every room I looked in,
was empty, but
there were signs,
every where  that
kept me searching for YOU.

You had been here,
the fiery trail was
plain to see, still
warm
to the touch. Moving ME.

Then it... went lukewarm
and then was gone
with it too my
                        ... *ardent love

I will lose myself in time
to write
not right
to throw words on paper
when ideas like vapour
mist the eyes and simplicity
is beauty and independence
is not an open plain or a fence
but state of mind,
where there is no blindness
but awareness
awareness,
that you are part
               in heart
of something much larger
right when, and where your fingers
dance across my page and
on your keyboard,
I so much want to meet
you all
but that is my downfall,
the introvert in me
holds the extrovert at bay,
but it is no safe harbor,
from an ill wind or ill feelings
so I am left reeling
on how,
to meet my own kind.


©DWE112013

Mind and body in one place,
dream of floating high in space,
                                                    lookin­g beyond the horizons,
golden ball, is so unique,
no duality, yet
only you can fill my deepest longing,
even from over there,
distinct warmth,

for these frozen nerves,
numb,
dumb,
to all that is within reach,

it is your individuality,
that draws significance,
because at that first glance,
know my thoughts never had a chance,
but to think on you,
so different
originality, not banality,
for your self,
there is no
one like you.

Yet the miles between all look the same.

With two meanings and a poem about each

I

"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"

Random corner lot with patchy grass
Dual tired pickup owner, cantankerous,
got tired
got wired
got to thinking,
about why his
yard was stinking,
looked out the back
nothing there to attack
looked out the front window,
rising
sun pooched a crescendo,
as it rose,
he stood, cigarette and coffee,
the order of the day,
other hand on the hood,
of his red neck tribute, a Ford truck
but that odor,
that smell,
he felt unwell
spinning, more like reeling,
he had a nauseous feeling,
that some dog was crapping in his yard,
excrement was on the breeze,
silhouetted by the bright yellow ball,
was the last dog to crap in his yard,
he grabbed his shotgun with ease,
pulled the trigger, buried the dog,

No one saw, everyone heard, when the
police showed up not a word was said,
not a witness could be found, as each knew,
in that 'hood, that dog got around,
to every yard in turn, the sign is all
that remains, a warning and a refrain,
this neighbourhood,
may have ****** lawns
do not get caught doing your business at dawn.  


II

"Here Lies, the
Last Dog
To Crap in This Yard"

They both sit a the table to eat a meal,
from where they will look at the dog bed,
by the dog bowls, and then look away,
just as fast,
it is the past
and recent loss,
of their beloved dog Boss,
beautiful boy, who died to soon,
left them alone, together,
such a calm and gentle giant,
one that they had become reliant,
to share
their journeys,
their truck trips,
their walks in the waning sun,
life,
until that terrible day,
when she called to say,
Boss had been hit, saving a toddler
crossing the road, the boy was okay,
but not the dog, "Come Home Quick,
please,"
he did and they rushed the dog to the vet,
it was awful, everyone was a wreck,
and then the vet called them in to the back,
to give the news that Boss was going fast,
he could do nothing to make his life, ...
soon he would take a breath and breathe his last,

they nodded and said "Put him down",
they went and looked him in the eye,
through sobs they said "goodbye"

Days later, they went back, to get the
urn of his ashes, he liked their lawn,
he loved the grasses,
so they decided, then that they would
never leave or sell, but buried him there,
in that spot where the sun first landed,
every summer morn,
summer was the season of Boss,
now they were at a total loss,
as each morning began with mourning.

But Boss will always be nearby.
And the sign above that spot read,
"Here Lies, the  Last Dog  To Crap in This Yard"
For they would never own another.

The tangle of roots and dirt in my eyes,
remove my sight, so how can I a sinful
man
think clearly.

Oh the soul is saved and I savour eternal
life that I find reading my muse, how then
does
happiness escape.

Everyday.

Joy, joy, joy down in my heart.
It is there, I found it. Elusive,
though confound it.

Under the ground,
under the weather,
under control,
who holds the tether?

If each month has thirty pounds
we are at 660 pounds and 540
more to go, this is the weight
of our lives.

Burdened.

Not free to be me,
dancer with flat feet,
not free to be me,
writer with a dry well,
not free to be me,
musician who can
                              not understand
what he sees not.  

Score and scale
score and scale
good for what ails ya.

Take note.

now for the positives...

as night falls,
lay down in the quiet.
as night falls,
the air is heavy
the air is cool,
lay down in the reverie.
as night falls,
my thoughts
cross years, heavy
heart and tears,
so I lay down, dreaming.
as night falls,
need to be grounded,
need to to know your
your life turned out
best or better than the rest ...
so I lay down.
as nights falls,
my mind wanders,
across your smile,
across the times
we once had, snared thoughts
shared moments
but night has fallen,
the shadows hide,
the gap so wide, the distance
from my memory,
to the reality, of how close
we had become, then...
                                                         ­                 what we have lost,
                                                           ­   more than hands reaching,
                                                  searc­hing for one another,...
so as night falls,
so do our echoed
goodbyes, unheard
forever.

See you on the other side.

Atmosphere, the fish bowl, circling here
At most fear, someone watching, from near
by,
Atmosphere, is it failing bit by bit?
At most fear, aloneness, unable to admit,
they are?

A mouse dear, it was a mouse I fear
In this a house of cheer and merriment,
go back my friend, to your hole in the wall
*it is a trap!

one letter at a time, take
one sound, no mime, make
one word, a play on, no mistake
one muse, ha ha,
no refusal, sounds become a litter
of letters in piles of clothing on
a poets floor, imagine not the
sounds of laughter, but of verse
of rhyme of prose as one discovers
the other has toes and the sounds that
ensue, freely leading to a complete poeme.
The alphabet approach.

The last raindrop that hangs onto a branch, a twig
"droplet
let go, or evaporate", which one is the thing,
filter
fall down into the ground or fall up into the air,
                                              steamy but
water always finds the lowest point,
the water table quickly absorbs the fallen,
the sun so hot, sky lifts water up towards the heavens
in sheets
oh,... So looking forward to the last teardrop, eyes
                                                                                   too be
                                                                                     dry,
                                                                                  even for a little while.

Stars sit in the sky,
planets revolve around them
out of sight of the human eye, at this hour.
Earth revolves around the sun, a star with a name,
that brings heat, warmth, fun, daylight, somewhere at this hour.

We speak of the human condition,
more babies are being born than those that die,
is it me or has all the peaceful air, unspoken promise
left the atmosphere and gone to you know where, at this hour.
Tunneling through the ozone is not the way to get, God in His
artistry with Holy Love the world and creation, to save us, at this hour.

Wait.
Wait a minute.

I have stepped over the line, trying to tell you about the Divine.
I am like a sloth at a speed reading contest when it comes to that.
I am like the only Meercat, kicked out of the family group,
can I get a war whoop of agreement?

You all know where I try to stand,
I make it obvious when ever I can.

So when I am away for a few days,
and may not have any technology to
                                                     play
with to stay in touch, miss me please,
cause I already miss all of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Age, ages, what ages you?
Time, times, what troubles you?

Space, spaces on a blank page.
Face, faces, from rapture to rage.

If you can throw words like dark looks,
Put on paper and fill notebooks, emotion filled and colourful!

Writing is sorting your thoughts, like psychotherapy,
Without the couch or the cost, can you afford a puppy?

Fifty-two poems in fifty-two weeks, mostly direct,
a few tongue and cheek, through the life I trekked.

Look, looks at a mirrored image fractured,
Distance, distances, relationships manufactured.

Dimension, dimensions, superficial to beyond 3-D,
Life, lives, filled please until full, honest vulnerability?

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

Just add seagulls
and a boat.

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

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

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

Colonies more like,
little islands, of freedom,
to express, you.

Not Polynesian,
get aways, not tropical
until, hot August nights.

Rolling in like waves,
     make me crave,
gritty sandy lave.

there was a friend, got to the point
at every end, first name, Barb
                     last name, Wire,
she was plain as could be,
not many close friends, you see?
she entertained change,
went a little strange, got different
changed her look and
her first name, still, to her shame,
she did not gain any friends, she would
coil and recoil and actually worked best
under t e n s i o n,
she had a penchant for sharp cutting remarks,
her last name as always was, Wire
oh, sorry to finish
the story, her fetching
new name was,          * Rusty Razor*

Why'er you looking at your screen that way?
Step closer, look closer, Rusty is waiting...

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

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

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

"Beauty just is."

I have an 80's wooden plaque with a picture of an ocean somewhere and waves crashing on the rocks, written on the sky in the photo is the quote, "Beauty just is."
I believe it.  So should you. Whoever you are.  
I could pick apart the picture. But I won't.
                                                          ­          Don't look for ugly.

The quote was given credit to anonymous.  Deservedly so.
Anyone anywhere at anytime can recognize beauty.
This is not a duty, choose to be dutiful in all things beautiful.

There is lacquer over the picture to protect it. The lacquer makes it shine.
I find that part ironic, protecting the beauty from spills, unkind graffiti,
from any ugly thing that might happen to it.

That might mar the beauty.

It is not an easily recognizable coastline,
not a celebrity coastline
or a model coastline
or a physically outstanding coastline,
no archways of rocks
or large rocks
that have stood the test of time and erosion and wind and well, pollution.

"Beauty just is" so accept your beauty.  

I am not talking to your cat or my dog, the aquarium or the stable full of horses, all those animals do not measure life in terms of beauty, only we, humans do.  Animals do not judge anything on the basis of beauty, smell maybe, not necessarily good smells but strong smells, even odours.

Only we humans; also decry, put down,
use the word ugly
and write each other
off,
for not being beautiful.

But "beauty just is", beauty just is. Period.

If you are talking about a piece d'art and
you are going to shell out cash, from your stash,
make sure you buy something significantly important to you and beautiful.

As for another human being...

You have not the right or responsibility to say that someone is not beautiful.
I do not think there is
one person with the wisdom,
alive to recognize what makes
each of us beautiful.

Beauty just is, no parts, no assembly required, accept it, accept one another.

I know there are those that already get it.
I don't want them to read this and sweat it.

They don't need to. I want the bully to read this, out loud.
Beauty JUST IS. You might not get it, yet.
Keep rolling it thru your mind, a beautiful surprise awaits you.
Meditate on it.
Meditate on not the author of the quote, he is anonymous, but the Creator of beauty is not.
Be surprised, as this revelation once understood, will change your perspective on life,  after all you're beautiful too.

Originally done by © DWE 2011-5-11

shake the key prints from fingers at the end of the day,
walk on the sidewalk leaving a trail of all the alphabet used
to get through the day,
rinse and spit, rinse and spit,
wash out the mouth, that said words, combining letters and sounds,
to get a message across,
can't close the eyes for the walk home,
traffic would honk, as I wandered on the road, or the only vehicle that is dangerous is the one you            
                                                 ­                     don't hear.

Breathe breathe, congested inverted air now gone, except at each stop light,
it may seem fresh, it may seem clear, for the dozen minutes to home,
the lungs comb air from the building and air from the pollution,
what is the solution sought?

Leave it all behind, don't let infect, reject, misdirect, what needs to be said.
This is a free read, as well as a freewrite, in spite of all the bureaucracy
that waded beyond knees, so if books are published with poems or prose or
a mother's memoir or a monstrous surreal pieces of fiction, buy them all please,
and send the message needed to be heard... go home, and write so much more.



©DWE012014

having done good,
got to go for great,
hard to lift up, of late,
is it easily understood,

heavy hands lifting weights,
                      while waiting for,
the night to fall,
       the night that keeps falling,
             the need for your calling,
not my name,
       not in shame,
              not in silence,

as the window cracked open,
     the chance meeting, hoping,
as the birds sing the sun,
          to the place of rest,
                          the best yet,
                                               a  vacation

to Lahaina,
to the island of Maui,
when the sand is hot,
                                   the water and deep blue shadows hint of cool    
go running to the water,
snorkel and flippers,
     to take a dip,
                          the best yet.

With the turtles.  The best yet.

Speak of grass,
Speak of roots,
                             Clinging to dirt,
                                                           Like nothing else,
Find  trees,
Find the roots,
                          Clinging to the ***** Earth,
                                                          ­                   Like nothing, else
they might walk, else
they might fly, else
they may bow,
                                     To the Owner of the footstool planet,

See and sight,
Eyes delight,
Awe or wonder,
                         Grab the dirt, feel the grit,
                          Smell the dirt, scent of ages,
                           Listen to the dirt, in the silence ...
                              Taste the dirt, dust to dust,
Dark earth, rich
Dark thoughts, poor,
                                      Cling neither, to the dirt of the Earth,
                                                 Nor, to the soiled thoughts,
Reach to the Sky,
reach for the Heights,
                                         Not the moon not the stars,
                                           Open hand, Open heart,

Beyond and
                       the near.

The little bird landed,
the little tan, brown feathers, and
feet hopped, and beaked head, pecked at specks,
under the outdoor chairs.

I spied with my eye,
the carefree chickadee bird dance,
it may have pranced, while it found food to feed,
outside my window seat.

My chickadee friend would,
move from fleck to chunk, head
turning, quickly with ***** and flit if need be
to find safety, outside the coffee shoppe.

The flock would leave this harvest,
in front of me to the tree branches not too far  
from the cars and coffee drinkers, who smoked and
ate the pastries and the breads, crumbs dropped here
and everywhere, just payment for the dance.

echoes
land                                 moving
           somewhere
tied                                  to
              ­                                     morning mist.

morning,
                         she's
string


             that
  

                    nothing
is          two
                   bottles

of linen

               But, whiskey-----

she sat, back to passers by,
just out of the pouring rain,
wet hair, feet too, both socks soaked,
through and through.



Her short blonde-dyed locks were more like a pointy sponge drying in the wind.

rearranging to find dry things to wear,
blue gauze dress dripping water too,
naked to her underwear, without a care,
she put on her polka dot pajamas,
that were meant for nights you played twister, with her.


But she was so alone.  On concrete steel stairs at a mall
central to the city where being a street person is a
measured percentage of the population,

                                      what frustration,
and with distrust she stared anyone down,
talked in an angry voice, to everybody around.         But there was no one,
who would stop, three over stuffed bags of belongings
while swearing and tossing her
head, longing to be someplace warm,
                                 away from harm.            That got her to this point in time.

Her feet were covered, and maybe warmer,
she packed and repacked all that she had,
and she was mad, like angry,
and on concrete stairs, and on user beware, and on the bottom of the arc
of her life so far,
so far away from the dreams she had as a little girl,
so far away from the hopes that she now only copes,
from one breath to the next breath and smokes a cigarette in between.

Alone, she knows better not to despair, no one would care if she did.

©DWE012014

the blanket of air, caught on the tree tops,
the coyote calls of victory echoed, with
repeated howls and barks, they owned
that moment this night.

Blood was spilled, stomachs filled, the pack
would hunt all night till the sunlight would
make them rest.

the blade had only one purpose in his hand
demand the cash and away he ran, not before
he made a point of piercing any resistance,
leaving piercing cries for help into the night,
lifeblood ran out of one, while
the other ran out, blood pounding
at his temples as his Converse flats
                                      pounded the ground.

Echoing
under the blanket of cold air
trapped in the tree tops,
this night.

suddenly sirens cut into the cold,
the blanketed air with red flashes
and roaring screams, as the coyotes
crossed the road near where the
knife was stuck in a heart heavy
chest, with no air cold or warm.

the coyotes were safe from harm,
the man ran and ran, no knife in
his hand, as the paramedics, worked
hard to save a life right in front of his
children and wife, the call of the blood
was too strong,
the blanket of air got colder
                              got darker
                              got covered in blood.

emotional  eating
to fill the w h o l e
of unfed expectations

that eat away at
the soul, so fully
that it takes anger

to get back on track
hope that is not a train
comin' my way

complacency, or lack of will,
"take a pill"
to get you to the same place

destined for failure
don't let life railroad ya'
work IT out, just a little
each day
age doesn't count
you matter... most.

Sheaves of poetry unread,
more pages untouched,
will they get dusty or rusty,
like forgotten tools in the shed,

the dread,

that having much poetry to read,
to have such a vast need,
and leaving it undone,

incomplete,

many more books beside my bedside,
will to build some shelves and nook
them away so that privately to stay,

alone,

surrounded by the profound thoughts
and words that are not mine, for
then may I learn that the voices,
that speak and applaud inside my
head like thunder and the flashes
of light like cameras at the synapses,
are about learning,

not yearning,

to own what is not used,
to store what can be bought,
to use what is useful,
                                  may it be
                                   for the purpose
                                      it was intended.

Not just fresh paper knives
that cut that fine line in your skin
to let you know and remind you
it is what where you were marked,
                                                    did it foster change?

Literature and prose,
biographies, books of science,
even one checked out from the public library,
mad you say, come and stay,
for a day, in my library...then we'll see who is mad.

Bring with you the want to go, or else your will you won't know.

lines like these
not necessarily logical,
nor biological,
could be the edge,
that you hedge,
your fund,
you bet,
places with names,
that explain history,
but add to the mystery,
of crossing,

naive before the
millenial age,
turned fully two,
if I don't know you
I won't trust you know who,
borders,
now armed and ready,
steady lads steady,
barbarians at every gate,
then silence the critics,
if asked politely, peace?

fingers following a raised edge,
contours, that sweep from
mountaing tops, that have
never been seen by theses eyes,
shadowed valley, holds surprising
refresment and all this so far away,
along the ridge line
slow to descend,
until we see that this beauty
borders on brightest city of hope,
borders on the mystery,
borders without ends,
of desire.

They hide gifts,
They hold thinking,
                  stinking or otherwise,
They help sort, organize, stuff,
                      S.O.S.
for us who need boxes and either
what we own is inside a box, which'is
inside a box we live in but the letters
of the names are scrambled as
they were dropped as I rambled
past the point of no return.

Then there is thinking outside the box.

Compass points that are arrows to Mr. and Ms. Direction,
an insurrection of sorts if your internal compass,
misleads and you wrap your arms to shore up the sides
which look like ribs but act like boxwalls and constrict your
breathing, and you end up
heaving, gasping and reaching for a paper bag,
to even your breathing
           to signal your leaving, anxious for this to end?
                         so I can start grieving for
what I never had,
an imagination, without walls of cardboard.


©DWE112013

I am not meant to be, where I yam, what I yam
Unless life like spinach, is meant to be canned,
A failure by all reports, I have no retort,

Not one, n o response, my previous successes
lead me to believe, that "what have you done
lately" does not deceive, fills the beast, technology,

That leads me to my breaking point,
Rogue wave, out of the deep blue see,
If I were a martyr, that might be true,

But I am nothing more, than a man
with a love for words and I play with
sounds, really adore what they do;

with my mind,
with my heart,
preventing stagnation,
of my imagination.

Ah, the breaking point
not the tip of a coast,
where land ends,
              and bends open water
to new possibilities.

We all have at least one
In our life, in our career, in our day
Weakness, faint of heart,... No Way,

Even the oceans, and their waves,
As those waves come to shore,
On breakwater's and beaches

Break! but do not dull the ocean's roar.

waiting for years it seems
quiet observer,
with grandiose dreams,
bridled fervor,
impatiently as life streams
without a
life preserver,
have my saviours sailed
the other way,
being time, success, and
bank account balance,
when the battle was spiritual
warfare. I was fighting the wrong fight
the wrong enemy, feel good gone bad.
emotionally had,
con anarchist,
picked my name from a list and worked
me over and over till my brittle soul
was lost in finding closure.


©DWE092013

Across
the sky
cloud smears remain

Gauze
in bunches
white and bright

Winged
ones broken
no flying dared

Spirits
strong births
and weddings still

People
parked lives
in garages safe...

other
places need
earth shaking change

from
flightless broken
wings ill repaired

1968
turns out
a 2015 sequel

Cities
both, streets
filled, with rubble.

One
an Earthquake,
other Equality troubles.

I have muddied the waters,
I stirred sentiment and sediment,
The words rushed from my mouth.

The dirt was from the past,
If I was a better man, let it pass...,
I made her cry and long for home.

The tears cleaned lines  down her face,
then mascara followed, more proof of my disgrace,
In her anguish she left my side, her place.

Selfish victories, being right was never so wrong,
I watched her walk and then run away,
I sat frozen and fixed, a broken man without care.

I knew where she was going to go, if she could see,
through the tears, I could hear her raging over the
pounding rain, I was responsible for both of our pain,
I hurt her.

The bus drove up and through the humid widows,
people stared, as the driver said to me, "getting on?"
I just sat and stared too dumb to speak, now numb.

The bus doors closed and with a hiss, drove away,
I turned and looked as the bus sped away,
I saw her in the distance, turn to see if I was still there,
hope in her despair?

The next moments were the worst of my life, she jumped off the curb,
Into the path of the bus, she had timed it so well, she didn't yell,
as she landed with both feet, in the lane,  as the bus safely passed.

Threw her arm and finger in the air,  her despair was now anger, I
could no longer hear her as she continued her rant and crossed the road,
turning her back and leaving me for good, severed ties, it was goodbye.

Some days are like that, you don't stop,
Too bad there are no time management cops,
But are we not, to police that ourselves.

From the degrees of the compass we find our,
interests, which give energy and power,
to our lives, or stay on those dusty shelves.

Catalog and label with modern library code, move over,
Or scan, a bar code on any book, judged by the dust on the cover,
Are you like a book not opened, imagine, delve...

Deeper, kick out the chafe that holds you down, holds you back,
Look and ask why are there strings, to your head, heart, smacks,
of a conspiracy, we know, your joy, your love will not be squelched.

the cracks of sound come with fire,
startles the dog and raises the ire
of the owner of at least this dog
but fear not I will not follow the
noise to where you live and play
well not tomorrow or today,

but the day after, that all may change



©DWE102013

child
watching sports
winter snow on the ground,
excitement all around,
disappointment when there
are no successes for to cheer,
on the field, in summer heat, people
of all sorts, dressed in shorts
and shoes with cleats or on the
court with nets and lines, or teams
which have personalities unto themselves
greater
than
any one
individual,
but it starts with one
one glimmer
one idea
one shimmer
one hope
one heart,
one mind,
one body,
one purpose,
one aspiration
one respiration
                        of many, many, many, many, many more,
one dream
       go ahead and dream, give yourself permission
one goal,
one plan,
one step at a step at a step at a time,
one time
one fall and another and another and
get up
            keep getting up and
                      start by taking licence plate numbers of what is knocking you down,
one word of encouragement
one passion,
one cry
one exertion
one no quit, just do, no try
one race,
one training session after another until you no longer remember
how many,
one rest,
one injury
remember that part about not quitting,
                                            stop sitting, on
one couch
one bed,
unless it is just for rest,
one water,
times eight
maybe a myth to rehydrate
but no good to dehydrate,
one day and multiply and multiply and multiply
one race,
one standard,
one Olympic dream,
One place on the podium
One Gold Medal,
many people have completed
by different paths and routes
from different countries and one truth,
but even teams, that become one
start with one, individual.


©DWE022014

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


©DWE102013