They wave, "Hello" at the slightest breeze,
they are the wild flowers
of the valley, oh the tease,
they have minor powers,
like they are able to please and bring smiles,
to an empty face whose heart has a need,
to know there is something more fragile,
willing to brighten a day
with a splash of this colour
or a spritz of that shade, something
that only a flower has...
a place where love stems from,
a place to hold budding emotions,
and a place at the center of attention,
like your needs, your wants, your heart,
and my sacrifice to be surety forever in
a greeting, in the first meeting, then falling
for you.

©DWE112013

dead soldiers from the night before
stared up from their hiding spot still
in their brown uniforms
the snap of the sheath was lost in the
snap crackle and pop of the dying embers
the blade of the axe tested on a thumbnail
cut a satisfying line to proof the sharpness
you turned with precision and gravel crunched
beneath your feet, eyes searching for the
driest piece to feel the point of the heavy head
your whistling echoed from your lips as
trees dance to your tune in the not so gentle breeze

fleshy hands and oak handle embracing
log victim placed on the sacrificial stump
lined up your trial mark 'practice makes perfect'
the swift swinging arm motion followed by
sound from a sudden swing forced a new echo
through the trees landing with a solid thump
and silence
with more whistling eerily into the silence between
the splitting of each one after another, the red painted
axe head was gleaming with each chop while ready
to work again and again and...

What would you say if I asked you to run away,
                                                       from all of this?
Would you think I'm crazy or something amiss?
Come with me run with me have fun and play, okay?
We could just pack up and leave the big town in
                                                              ­     our dust!
You with your stuff me with mine, we'll be fine,
                 and yes we can pack some clothes and
other things too,
                you know that quote "to thine own self
                                                            ­        be true."

How can we be truer than true, than me with you?
          I watch you create from as close as I can,
but getting it together, is it part of the Masters' plan?

I mean...we have been two for so many years and
you have insomnia and fears and anxieties, but
each one I have caught in a jar, and released into
the wild, where it can no longer do no harm.

So let us find some place wild and you will be free
to be who you really are with no need to wear that
mask you wear for morning or noon or night,
or when some one calls, and you decide to talk instead
of not answering, and then you pay the price
as the call was not free after all, your insides front
the toll.

Or a chance meeting exacts an exchange rate that
you can not afford.

And when each day exhausts you and can't
unwind
but in the bed we find you staring and reading
until
your eyes finally close and then the day
escapes
through your skin, "every doubt, every mistake,"
every band you use to hold it all in, snaps!
at once and over and over again.

Some times it takes minutes and others nights
it is hours, even if you have had a shower to wash
your misgivings down the drain, yet the strain
claws at you until you give in give up and rest.

It draws no blood and leaves no scars,
so no one can see the battle from far
away
but that is where you want them to stay
but not really,
they can come close if they understand
                                  and don't demand,
       just let you be "as this too shall pass,"
         my gentle damsel, my gentle lass.

Run in your white nightgown through
the meadow of flowers bright and I
will stand guard by your side, this and
                              every night.
                            Till daylight.

Even when you can't stop.


©DWE082013

I want to go to places,
where water falls, spilling down
hidden rock faces
while pools of water fill the air
with a heavy mist to lift my cares
high out of reach.

Dip my toes into a clear pond,
submerge  hold my breath beyond,
...
not to test me or to test God,
just stay as long, how odd?
to say so long to, my cares.

Now I know they will find me
returning to easily remind me,
they know where I dreamsleep
they are only cares, they
brought their cousins nightmares.

And all I wanted was a break,
a token of a moment of peace,
not be broken into pieces.

riches? what are those,
I am the owner of the ugly toes,
gain? what is that,
I have lost twenty five pounds,
mostly fat,
peace? of mind
I have turmoil that eats at me so,
to fill that void,
I drink tea,
after a day of coffee and H2O,
I DRINK TEA
so ...
join me in a intercontinental
tea break, everynight at this time,
we can be friends in the sublime
and the surreal,
TEA APPEAL.


©DWE022014

Hide
me quick,
hide,
me fast,
not sure how much longer my freedom
                                                to write
                                                 will last,
they
are after,
my emotions,
they
are after,
my books,
they
are before
me waiting till I fall, tripping over my own feet as I watch out for them
or fall asleep, leaving my door, my mind, my words unlocked,
they will steal them all
if the have their way
they are the Chasers,
they are the (NSA),
they are 1984, 30 years late,
and I am old and slow, but I have 'em
fooled, for I have been
re-tooled...oh and, sorry about the rust.

Battle royal for a bottle of red.
Up the ante, we're going for Chianti!

Grant me kindness, pour a splash on my fettered tongue.
Up the ante, we're going for a thousand cases of Chianti!

Hoist the mains'l, sea dogs, raise the anchor, or you be hung!
Up the ante, the Cap'n is in a wanton need of Chianti!

Another wine won't do?
Up the ante, we know where they harbour the Chianti-shhhh

Wind be fast, my thirst is deep, as the desert is dry!
Up the ante, we're not paying' for the Chianti we're takin"

The ship from stem to stern, you get to clean, when we return, alive!
Up the ante, it is worth all the cases of Chianti, below decks we can hold!

Up the ante, we're putting' out to sea, we have a nose for good Chianti!
For when the Cap'n retires he will drink and
sing this Chianti Chanty at a seaside shanty, all day!

Have I missed any or many?
I name cities and countries,
while somebody somewhere
loads a magazine,
not an e-zine
but a holder of those things with peoples names on them,
not city names
not country names
people
people people
real people
who may or may not have fame
who may or may not be famous
they are like your uncle or your dad,
they are like your aunt or your mom
they are your brother and your sister
from the blood stained shirt tail relations
you never had a chance to meet.

you never had a chance to see their beauty,
        never had a chance to laugh with them,
                   had a glimpse of their genius ripped away before it was discovered,
                           a momentary embrace and see whose tears ran down the face faster as you said goodbye
                           a moment is all it took to be in the wrong place at a time that was beyond their control
                              moments knowing or not knowing just screaming hoping it was helping
                                               know this, they were innocents
                                                       ­   this they did not wish to happen,
                                                         ­         they did not wish to go without saying goodbye,
                                                        ­                   did not know if injured they would live

to those that lived, you are loved
to those that died, you are loved and will be missed
to those who knew them more than any of us, courage, empathy have mine, all of it I just need
to know how to get it out of my heart and my head and some address to send it to, in a tear
                                                            ­                                                                 ­ stained package,

to those who cannot stop crying and need the lights on to sleep or cannot sleep alone without
touching someone,
                                I stand under a moonlit sky I don't believe in magic or the magical
                                                         ­          I am praying for the miraculous or a miracle,
                                                        ­            but none of the words are more than a whisper
                                                         ­           I lift my hands and breath them to the clouds.
                                                         ­           Find the jet stream, much comfort is needed,
                                                         ­           swiftly fly
                                                             ­       softly land
                                                            ­        sure to comfort
                                                         ­           Spirit of God.

Poetry may not do it justice.

Their brown feathered heads bob,
their feet dig, clumps, grab and rob,
clods and sods, while tearing Earth.

Their heads twist downward and eyes
peer at what was unearthed and prized.

They were scratching out a living, peck
eking out an existence, even though peck,
they were paid in chicken feed, peck, peck.

They were the chickens of the loafing shed!

He worked with glass then later in front of the glory hole,
several hours a day and many, many years of hours total
over two and a half decades, annealing like his glass.

He pulled the sweetness from each piece with furnace fire, air and motion
staying level-headed while the raw molten ocean gathered on the honey dipper
of super-heated soft and borosilica masses were built from inside out, from
the crucible of the masters imagination.

Each year, all glass masterpieces all,
but three it averaged
would not make it to the market, fall or
fractured, shattered,
not a thing to be discouraged.

Cooling, heating a tricky thing,
Light blue pieces in the pan disassembled by natural forces,

so unlike their dreams, which have become tangible,
at 1100 degrees C, just don't touch the beauty, quite yet

this is the glass blowing reality at loafing shed

they are birds that fly indoors, fight over popcorn tidbits,
which even cause wars within the small flock of squablers,
metal barn with ibeam trusses, power gate doors that open
and close, to give them entry points and traps them,
just the same,
the people that go to fro from booth to booth
with such smiles and seasonal joy, to buy a present or a toy,
for someone deserving,
a celebration peserving,
a season of giving,
pieces of hard earned living,
for hand made goods,
from passionate hearts,
of city folks and country folks,
anonymous strangers,
sharing
one of
lives adventures,
a fair of craftspeople,
who create and create,
to place smiles on faces,
where maybe there had been none
yet,
seen in the twinkle of a light,
or in the reflection of a silver ball,
and maybe no one hummed with the
piano playing instrumental seasonal favorites,
by players of differing stages of playing skill,
and ages.
what ambience,
what a choice,
please shop local this Christmas,
it will be money and time, well spent.


©DWE112013

insects buzz, noises
that say they own nothing at
all, but only eat

Twain with his wit, to some, was an ear pain
Mark, a pen name, his words to heed, no disdain
Samuel Clemens, the humorist man was a gifted teller of story
Penned, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, innocent boyhood glory.

No point in chasing me for my money,
It found a red tide, isn't that funny,
No point in chasing me for my time,
Spend it all doing prose and rhyme,

No point in getting into my flesh,
I might be confused and think it a test,
No point in cheering me up and on,
It might leave you feeling put upon,

No point in breaking down these unfeeling fortress walls,
You won't find me, getting lost by the sounds, the echoes, along halls,
No point in remembering
landmarks on my skin and the bend of my joints,
You won't know where I have gone,
which one of 360 degree compass points,

Experience the ocean,
Scent the wind,
and throw my ashes there,
for when you find me,

My arms open wide, my hands too,
were painting pictures on the sky,
of me and you,

It will be at the end of my journey,
Failures outnumber successes,
I gave up and gave in.

Peaks rise at either end of the stretched terrain,
Ten sisters' peaks at one end and at the other,
                                                     oh brother,
                                    the tallest peak, alone
the weather changes often as the winds have blown            
down to the hills and undulations shadow the flaws
                                    in the lay of this land, and law
of gravity and time has passed, the weather has marked
with erosion,
cracks of past drought, as well
waste deposits,
surface oil so close to the lone pristine summit,
all there to see when you look down from it,
the whole length from any point of view,
small bushes and one clump of golden brush,
surrounds a valley too,
ah but today is a good day and the light is shining though,
beyond the lone peak there is a prized forest where all the
                                                                trees are numbered.

This forest has deep roots and hide much below the surface.
Some other forest weren't so lucky and suffered blow down
by what some say was a rogue wind.

Robust hills lead to a plain, which can be seen from the lone
peak, the brush and valley, have paired twin ridges running
away and all the way to the foothills of the Ten Sisters' peaks.

Some rocky knobby outcroppings chop the length of the
beautiful ridges almost by half. You may walk this place many times
but you will never really know, this land.

There are deep rumblings and grumblings in the empty caverns
below the surface, on that plain
you can hear life giving liquids rush in buried
passage ways if you listen very quietly.  And there is rumored to
be a not so dormant volcano, with hot
red magma, pumping and thump-thumping in a chambers no so far
from the lone peak under those robust hills.  But oh so old.


©DWE102013

could be bitter,
a bitter pill,
could be an illness
making any one,
at all unwell,
could be angrier than,
a raging bull,
could be many things.

could put it in words,
without a tune,
could paint layers,
in black and white,
could lay on my
bed and howl,
at the moon.

could do or be many things
so I choose those
that Glory brings
to heart and mind,
now to know the difference.
Show
I know,
with
grrrrrrrrr
attitude.

one day,
or a thousand days,
it matters not to me,
one way,
or in any ways
shattered what is perceived,
at play,
or watching a tirade,
more to life than believed,
won't stay
here, travel plans made,
will I be positively received?

Glasses with frames now used to see
Lines on faces not far away, beyond me
And my capability, under fluorescent,
Lights.

These glasses gather spots of rain, doctor
Doctor, there are spots before my sockets
Containing real steel slate blue eyes, go ahead
Whistle if you must.

I will get used to it.

Six foot five in a five foot nine inch frame,
Coached volleyball well without any shame,
Calm demeanor was not required, I was
Tame, not the chair kicking kind.

Did not need glasses then, when oh when is this
Going to end, when either you or the referee,
Whistles.

Mirrored concrete, no details,
Drops of rain, carried in trails,
Of footsteps, of therapy, in a retail
Disguise, while eyes of well dressed
Crows, glint with the glitter of the decor,
Shop for more, shop for more, evermore,
Evermore, for tomorrow it may be gone.


©DWE122013

I will not drop my drapes it is dark outside,
TV will wait, for
body weight is all I, or any of us, ever have to move,
whether one wins or lose your ...groove,
the next twenty minutes, too late tonight,
I will run on the spot
I will pushup, I will run on the spot again,
I will pull back
No...no heart attack
I will run, once one the more, on the spot, you getting bored?
I will do a windmill slide, while staying in the house,
I will run with my knees one at a time to my chest,
I will do a single Leg Hip Raise a whole bunch of times
I will have my legs become like pistons,
******* off the the neighbour downstairs,
Then reversing the urge, I mean Lunge, I will kick my toes to my hands
Then run some more, maybe my neighbour will be pounding on my door
Take a break for as many seconds as I want to grow old (ninety is nice)
Then repeat and hope that supper,
does not want a curtain call

Living a stellar life is easy,
grab some boredom and hang on,
gripping the life out of it.

Being an active parent of three kids,
all growed up, and mostly on their own,
well not quite, some day... a change.

What is there left to discover,
reacquaint myself with my lover,
pour my soul into my muse.

So turn myself inside out,
upside down, and cut my
teeth doing verse
don't rehearse,
one day I'll edit,

but that shadow of doubt,
but that shadow of fear,
creeps in to the corner of
the room, is it the edit or
the boogeyman, but
I'll continue to cut my teeth
as to chew through this
I need a whole set.


©DWE092013

The shimmer of blue changes
As you dragonfly move,
Your cellophane wings
Fragile, yet brings
You to me,
I cannot see the world
As you do, true?

You can see mine
            Just fine.
The sunlight
glints as the
Colour changes
To a different hue.

one moment
Green
The next
Blue

Dancing with you
As you float then soar,
is impossible ...
As you pitch and roll
Leave me entranced
As you exit...

Without saying so much
As goodbye,

Must mean,
You will,
Be back,
Soon.

Please.

the dreadnought,
has at least six guns
           or six strings,
both are heavier than
this poetry, one is larger
in life, than the poet see?
The other has better curves,
oh, enough of that.

One is a metal machine,
the other a classic acoustic dream,
one from war, the other,
well the other you buy from
a store or some garage sale,
one floats on the ocean,
the other for only a little while.

I am no bard,
that is not hard,
to hear,
stand near,
you are my only hope,
oh beyond the canopy
where stars and wars
are witness to my
profanity,
I swear at
this, one day
I'll be good,
no great, not
grate on all
the nerves that
were collected
on my behalf,
as I have none.

So dare to compare
yourself to me and
I will grant you the
victory, because as
there is no one like
you,
good luck finding
another like me,
why did I give
you the nod,
well your more
different than
me and odd, that
you did not
note, your
the boat
and I am
guitar,
your rusting
and I am a
chick magnet.
So go ahead
dare to compare.


©DWE102013

Day discovers night,
takes flight, blackness slowly crawls,
spotted by starlight


©DWE072013

The day does not change
the night does not stain
the light does not pane
of tempered glass break;

the black cloud
talks too loud
as there's a crowd
of everyone proud
of how she is now,

so come on dear
tomorrow appear
like today, no fear,
in thirty days, tears
or no the depression,
will be willed away!

If only IT were that easy,
If only IT did not queasy,
her so, masks fit easily,
slide on and off as easily,
as pills swallowed whole.

Wake dearest, wake,
unrested, get up,
you wrestled with,
alligators twisted,
in bed sheets, sorry,
I was not there, to you,
defend, I have no excuse,
even if sleep won out in
the end.

Darkness, the darkness, your darkness,
waits for me to rest, catches you off-
guard, does not God know, it is hard
on you, ******* us, and makes living
life seem an eternity, of pain, of sor-
row?

These are just black and white letters, not
some checkered flag saying the race is over,
even if the Victory is already, won, will you
place, or finish the run, black cloud over
your eyes blotting out the Son.

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

the aging stump now hollow,
                    not one to follow,
into the vibrant past
  or gift of the present (which is all we really have, even us trees)
           the future, what future?

sewing fresh bark on the outside
                             to look brand new,
overlook, please, the needle mark or two.

dehydrated fuel chips for some others'
                                              kindred fire
     if there is any green left, don't mind a
                                       little if there's smoke.

Logged many hours going nowhere,
roots of evil, to foul the air, and clench
the dirt deep down, gripping every wrong.

To the very fibre of its' being
with out knots for eyes for seeing,
        blind to all that does surround,
except what can be felt in the ground.

All will fail and finally fall,
hope any seedling falls
far from this tree,
there is no sustenance
to be found, in this clay
soil unyielding ground
once thought to be fertile
        not even agile fibrils,
                           remain.

The other trees show their
                         disdain,
reach up and up to the sun
full canopy of green broad leaves
on long strong branches
and block the rays,
**** the chances
of a life, of any life at all.

The gray stump remains
crumbling, a humbling cycle
to the disintegrating end.
To life. evermore.

©DWE082013

She leaves her walker parked right by the white car door, wheels locked
so it does not wander off.  It gives her the support when she might
suddenly need it when she is all alone, a castoff.

Her home is small and all is in it's place, prim and proper.  She
would not have it any other way.  As she has gotten older and
given charity much, even her tea set and tray.

Her spouse had left her, wasn't his fault, his heart, simply got
tired, with no insurance, without family alone she faced fears,
could not keep the home, there were tears.

That was the not so distant past.

She had all she needed now, she was good at keeping neat
and clean, her clothes and a few belongings always within
reach, hung in place, nothing really new.

She slept little these days, noisy traffic driving by, even
rearranged, her bed was not as comfortable as she once
had.  Times had changed.

She started her day with a wash and a walk.  Brush her
white hair. There were the usual neighbours, who didn't
stop to talk to her, inexcusable!

Recent blunt reality.

Though she could not hide in plain sight,
parking her car in an empty parking lot,
every two hours she must move.

Her home a car, her closet a back seat,
the steering wheel a towel rack,
sleeping more upright helped
her breathing but not her
aging back.

Her possessions and food little
are in the trunk; one in a box
and the other on a chunk
of ice, she does not eat
much and pleasant
memories are
less and less.

Alas, make up takes time,
when the light is fine,
her friends don't
know, she does
not know if
she gets
calls or
letters,

Anymore
in these
declining
times.

I could write of many things, I could say it in the right jargon,
But I am doing this for free, so consider it a bargain.

If you spend the years ahead, as determined, when you did this job,
Your dedication to retirement will be, full and completely yours,

You have a home arond which to putter or you could go to a golf course and repair your game,
but Don't change. You have often said, "I am not the man I used to be, or maybe I never was."

If you get bored or lonely just don't file, your tax returns and one of us, is sure to call.
I have learned that when I have a problem, and I must "not hesitate to deal with it."

Whether it be your quiet effective wit or your common sense wisdom,
Or the few words exchanged, I would turn, and see you working hard at the job again.
Dedication, you never punched the clock, you would leave when the day's work was done.
Retiring will pay dividends, you are dedicated to a plan, and you have a plan,right?

Having no list of things for you to do or "how to" occupy your time.
You could take up writing poetry, and I have a spare dictionary on rhyme.
You are at the pinnacle, peak condition, the top of your game, quite a climb,eh?
From now, whether you travel far or travel near, each day, enjoy the view!
I have much enjoyed working beside you, thanks for putting up with me.



©DWE012014

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

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

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

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

I desire so...to drift.

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

Please quiet my mind and let me drift...

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

Lie down and stay she does,
where you want, is where she was,
if it wasn't for her fur you might
              call her a cur.

Say the word bedtime and turn off a light, go to walk away,
she will beat you to your bed, your pillow, for a back-scratch, say,
didn't you just launder those as she make happy noises with her
          mouth open wide, looking up at you from her back.

You know you love her she is your dog at that,
loyal and duty bound to defend you in combat,
so surprise her with a kitten who will become a cat.


©DWE092013

Good dirt,
Bad dirt,
Bag of dirt,
dirt in a bag, avoided dirt bag, almost,
flowers, herbs
and veggies everywhere,
not a clean spot, all is dirtied,
soiled by my touch,
perfect plants in little pots,
re-planted, by gloved hands,
staying dirt free,
not gentlely,
name is Darrell,
not Mary,
don't you dare ask me how does
my garden grow,
for I will say, with dirt
on my face in my hair,
it is too early to tell so;
you can go look for silver bells
and cockle shells and all those pretty maids
in some body else's row,
cause I moved dirt for what it is worth,
for hanging baskets, on every word,
and herbs to flavor, my tongue,
as I stripped those young plants
from their root bound temporary
prisons,
for reasons unknown,
as I did not inherit my mother's green thumbs,
I did not earn any merit badges nor did I join 4 H,
in the days of my youth, now
I grow weary of faltering crops,
it is to easy to stop to ****,
and wet the soil, care for
those things that rise from the dirt,
that were moved, into containers,
with indelicate fingers, gloved,
not loved by any living thing they touched.
Give me dirt,
I can't hurt dirt,
broken stems, ripped leaves,
I grieve for them and that
they may forgive, my clumsy
ways, and be touched by the healing sun's rays.
I understand dirt,
for it is where I came from,
and His breath.

A portion of
truth,
A bucket of
tears,
to dilute.

Amid tears we smile and laugh,
Never have we been closer, than when we have been helping each other,
Now we know how to listen, even though sometimes it is to our own voices,
In the middle of all this, we still hug and kiss and hold hands awkwardly, and in the
Very icy slippery days of winter, she will still reach for my arm offered, for support,
Everyday I wake up I am thankful she is beside me,
Rich has my life been, have you seen her art?,
She is a great mother, as I read recently if she embarrasses them, they have not lived long enough,
Art she does, artist she is, colour to the darkness, her imagination
Reaches beyond the rainbow, somewhere, someday, somehow, you will still finds us together for
Years from the past added to years from now, we will still be having a blast!

you can't use, a diva who loses her voice,
you can't as she, is less than a diva can be,
why are you looking at these words in shock,
sing along
celebrated personage,
are people too, but
you would not know
standing toe to toe,
in a crowd outside,
a concert venue,
around and over you
the adoration flows,
each fan wants a touch,
post on Facebook, Instagram,
Twitter too, fulfills the need,

just know
they don't
let it show,
that divas,
have private,
lives like a cat,
that publicists and
public, use and scratch,
times nine,
it will be fine,
by design,
they will fade,
into the background,
frenetic energy,
Will dissipate,
they will always,
sing, with voices and
songs, written to feed
the times for one day
A diva's petals,
do fall off, gracefully?
gratefully?,
but they will always,
be the voice of freedom,
to dream. the rest...
is music history...

Dear Life
The Continual Condition,
Alive at the Center, and
Into the Wild,
On the Road,
Double Lives

Tortured Wonders
Writing
No Other Book
My Name is Art and I Am,
Bicycle Diaries,
The Book of Myself,

The Book Thief
and 7 Minutes With God.

He walked in like he owned the place,
he knew no one, not by name or face,
shattered the night and the peace,
left it all behind for the police.

He is darker than the night,
what is wrong, he takes as his right,
unnatural, he moved without light,
death his calling card, to spite,

the promise of the morning sun.

The wind will toss its head howling and run fingers
through your uncovered, hair
              you'll discover, there will never be a pulling
but that want, won't go,
until the wind winds down to slow, bringing,
chaos somewhere else,
the whistling through the cracks in your doors and windows,
are catcalls to get you outside,
where the wind will ride you until you are out of breath,
chase the leaves, chase the wind, it will chase you and
                           always win,
but leave you unscathed for the most part unless,
your body, your vessel has cracks which it will fill
then the wind will get inside of you,
and break you down too, or leave you be,
but it is better to fight, the wind than to fight me,
for the winds give up eventually.



©DWE022014

Clenching teeth but giving in involuntarily,
Bending over touching earth rather warily,
Is adverb use in poetry supposed to be sparingly?

Clouded visage, clouded sky, clouded meaning,
Don't look for nuggets or rainbows for gleaning,
I am in pain, is that not plain to read, I am leaning

The fire in the belly is not a positive sign, not by design,
Put SOS up the flag pole in a strong breeze, three ensigns,
Save Our Sanity, I will walk on the wild side, slalom the road signs,

Till the bright lights of headlights silhouette the way...and
I stand real still on ... a single dot dot dot
                                                       dash dash dash
                                                              dot dot don't.

Doubling Down

Two sides to every story,
life would be what, without worry?

The grass is always greener here
rainfall is a fact not a fear,

Go ahead, leap the
barb-wire fence,
getting hung up a consequence,

and now the rambling starts
with a pounding of hearts,
wishes on lips, arms flailing
any thoughts are alienating,

natural hand holds flesh covered,
the head pounds ideas on hover,

when burnout takes you out, all life becomes toil,
clothes too tight, strip and run into the night, roil

in the street, of a different city,
they don't know, they offer one pity,

so much anger, tears bleed,
strongest muscle has no need

to speak of the gamble,
this affair a dreamt ramble.

We live near the boulevard,
Open a window and it is not hard
   To believe,
                    Do you believe?
Each year for the last four or five,
  Some men and women in trucks drive,
     By our house,
                           Do you believe?
They now have forty or fifty or a hundred all lit in color,
  Police escort, HONK their horns and drive my dog bonkers,
      If you wave they do too,
                                             Do you believe?
Each truck has strings of lights to delight the roadside few,
   Maybe out past curfew or stamping their frozen feet too,
     Reindeer and inflatable penguins on a skidoo,
                                                         ­                     but do you believe?
That human kindess and good cheer should only show up once the decorations are complete?
That what is generous now, will last till summer,
                                                         ­                     somehow, that thought should warm some feet?
Or like festivals, celebrations or such things seasonal are best kept to one time per year, call it    Christmas fiscal responsibility...

Maybe you don't believe in anything at all?
Do you believe in love thy neighbor as thy self?
Or do you believe in a story about an ageless elf?
                                                   Do you believe?

*
I
believe
in each, one
of you, can do
more good than harm,
it is true, if it is one mite
only, as that is all you have,
may it be multiplied by those
who see what you do and they
want to give, contribute and share too.
This is half a tree, my poem is sadly
incomplete, for that night
we all wait for and
attend,
will at
the end,
appear
almost
the end of
this December!



©DWE122013