solo
so low,
some do,
well, ...alone.
Not for sake alone,
go to the meaning of life.
take what you earn and share,
take what you own and wear,
there is no time to spare,
give freely as you have received,
give freely and do not deceive,
blame is not a game,
to be played with so much passion,
                                as to fashion,
fingers pointing in all directions,
away from the center, get some back bone,

of all the nerve...
if life is a maze,
spending it, amazed or amazing?
how to say it with OUT using the words,
the beginning of life is...,
the meaning of life is...,
the gloaming of life...,
through and through,
are connected one strand,
A.N.D-D.N.A,
through and through,
one nerve felt by
everyone under the sun,
so to the past,
so to the present,
so will the future,
need ...

I sat in a catatonic state
Looking forward to sate
my appetite
for coffee,
but unable
to move or enjoy the taste.

Frozen.

A mask of glazed eyes blinded
by a bright white light, reflected so much more
was I standing on the wrong train tracks,
had I died and waiting for my turn in line,
was this my karma as a deer in the headlights?
none of these had a chance to cross my mind.

a figure silouhetted poured from that light,
her features delicate and skin so pale, in an eerily
beautiful way, was that her hair or wingtips peering
draped gracefully over her shoulders, and she asked me
"would you like to try our new mocha and vanilla via?"

I saw spots of white, and said "I would if I could see ya,
please step closer but out of the light"
as she stepped out of the light and to my side,
I just realized this whole time I had been trapped by
a reflected beam of light from the sunshine outside,
that found a highly polished mall marble floor, next time,
and there will be a next time, I will wear sunglasses
so as to not be served, like fine wine, before my time.

She was pushed, into a box, no, that is not right,
she was made to accept, inhuman acts, what a sight,
how dare he do it?

So much hate and vociferous violence directed,
at an innocent, she was starving, for the opposite,
he shamed himself and blamed her.

Bit by bit and piece by piece, she was disassembled,
restructured and her psyche crumbled till she trembled,
even her her sleep.

There is a millstone with his name on it, he is not alone,
that admission makes me not sad but mad, he may be
alive, forgive and forget not, before God, to atone.

Next stop Hell.



To her friends;
You did not fail, although you might have those
ransomed thoughts, if she was but an angel, you did your best and chose,
to help one who was spirited away, you did your best and God knows.

I have no other words to comfort you, in this tragic loss.

The air was fresh and still,
unless you get moved by the sound of the waves of traffic,
going by.

The hue of the blue sky,
not dusk or or sunset,
twilight isn't quite right as the moon hung
like a broken vessel, with traffic in waves underneath,
going by.

I stood, with my dog pulling at the leash in my hand,
boy could she demand to be let go
where ever her nose would take her,
oblivious to the noisy wash from the street,
going by.

I knew in that moment joy and sadness;
for the awe I felt in that moment and aware that
I would not finish my writing for that contest tonight,
another opportunity and time, noisily,
going by.

The deadline was like the air to me,
a chill reality, my dog exploded after a rabbit heading to escape us by,
going by.

My arm was jolted to full reach,
the leash bit into my hand as the dogs paws bit into the the mossy
ground, legs and moss flying to gain momentum to chase the prey,
yet I held her still no further than six feet away,
her heart racing while my life was staying pace
marking time,
going by.

I am here on this coast, come on over it is toasty, we can watch together the sun go down,
There you are where ever it is, that you left me, for awhile I did smile but know I frown.
I am still here waiting to hear from you my beauty, it seems your phone number has changed.
There you are somewhere please correct or refute me, has your address moved or am I deranged?
I am still here, on the coast, returned mail piling up, you are no longer in my feed, do you even follow me?
There you are no longer on Facebook, you haven't opened my e-mails, what am I to do, play hide and seek, do I look like a creep?
I am still here, going coastal, your family won't return my calls, all your friends point their fingers and put the blame on me.
There you are living your life, all alone, what did I do to drive you away, and hey by the way where is my car?  
I am here,
gone coastal, not fishing,
can't find you or my car,
jokes on me hardee har har,
now
really
please, I won't lurk or be irked, come
home, and bring the car, and keys
I'm still making payments on the loan.

The day was good,
so,
night must follow,
                    slowly,
right?

Good Night  Poetry
Arc of the moon curves
as an outstretched hand
leads the way
Good Night Poetry
Arc of your back lying still
as a finger traces a line
a sheet falls away
Good Night Poetry
in motion
as two shadows become
one in the moonlit room
Good Night Poetry
no more woe in me
yet this is but a dream
misty shadows, lift as
the moon falls and as
the sun rises...alone.

I can't end the year this way,
the title of this piece won't sway,
It is not an anchor to hold the stay,

but wait and listen to the choir singing
as they practice in the church hall down
the road, with too many cars, so listen...closely
and you may hear the high notes on
a night clear like this, just like this,

the information that swirls on and on,
about people, places and events,
homeless people kicked out of the park and tents,
political figures mishapen by absolute power,
absolute greed,
absolution to them a quick rinse in a shower,

more information feed my gluttonous mind,
I absorb none of it as there is newnews to find,
there is a woman out there
who has a reputation for causes,
wicked witch in the East beyond Oz,

gut check as some said
world paused to remember well,
so much left to do there as well,

Oh Africa!

The world's greed for your resources,
makes nasty fodder for the choices,
as to who is in charge this week.

So much pain, it is plain to see I can't write about it all, it would take an eternity.
A loss this year like no other, but a life to celebrate, who will Madiba motivate?

Natural disaster, filled with remorse after the eye of and storm has passed,
loved ones looking their loved ones lost, some evil gang backfills, a brand
of poison into the the void, the pain the anguish, in lives,
to steal the aid and make it their prize, to be aportioned at their will and price.

And George is back in the news...sad, so many things this year that make me
want to ball up my fists and punch the air, walk down the streets until I begin
to shout and let it out, harm no more, harm no more, anniversaries of bullets,

and little ones who touched, so many with who they were, I wonder who they would
                                            
                                                                ­     have been,    

I am not being flip and this is not Christianese, but God knows as the spirits they are
                                                             ­                  and He is.

There is no one poet
who can say it all,
there is no one place
that tears did not fall,
this may be a wrap up,
I have left so much out
and it falls so short,
maybe the ink I spill
is wrongly placed.

Tomorrow night at midnight, let's just embrace REFRESH!
not forgetting
lessons learned
poetic stripes
maybe earned
by writing or typing or wiping away tears
I could go one, but that is one of my fears,
...losing you.



©DWE122013

groans to laughter
what am I, after
riches not
a fool and his are soon parted,
fame not
I have had my fifteen ticks of shame,

time...
to
love...
never will have enough of either with her,
love...
the
time...
have so much gratitude for what has past
and what will be, what we have between her and me.
So what
am I, after...different before I met her.

She puts up with me
when I skip down
grocery store aisles
you see,
she laughs at my
humour and tells
others not to encourage
me,
she knows I can not rub her
back but she asks me any
way, and I may be getting better,
so it is gratitude, I display each
and everyday...maybe she will let me stay.

And the coyotes will
find something else to eat
or starve another night.

I saw the baby
crow on the ground while above
parenting pair flew.

And she is intoxicating, she always is, was and will be,
No,
Not that way,
I
Vested myself,
Everso long ago,
Radically,
She vested herself too,
About the same time, if my memory serves me, for
Real, Romance, Repair, Rhymery, Rings, Relationship, Reason, ,
YES!

Where Everyone Steps, To Beyond Ordained Reality, Often Total Kookiness

how did it break, the sky,
raindrops like tears fly,
projectiles aimed at my
heart of strength, you, right beside

Heavy Heart-ed,
heavy Headed,
heavy... Handedness,
heavy ... Hit,
                             heavy ... Hurt.

Heavy,,,Handedness,
heavy ,,,Hit
                            heavy ,,, Hurt
heavy ,,, Headed
heavier ,,,Heart-ed

A wolf prowls amongst the ruins of concrete and glass
An appetite for the elderly, for the easy, for the edible,
Causes his stomach to growl for the emptiness,
of the stomach,
of the wilds overtaken by clumsy men and women,
of the structure, where people matter not,
relentless, needing not to be graceful
but there is poise, and
always something fiercely
poetic in the ****.

Even the weakest
is reason,
for a seasoned
hunter
to howl
after words.

His heavy soiled worn
work boots, are set aside on
the woven mat in the corner of the room,
behind him.

Picking up the violin and bow,  with rosin
sticking, tuning as he moves across the open, lofted
space
in preparation of play.  And by playing,
the chatter and noise of his work day far and away,
from this private space were no longer a distraction.  They were behind him,
now he had completed a new song, knew it by heart,
as it was from his…
with the sounds and notes soaring above the vaulted
ceiling rafters, he was getting that feeling that comes
with his play.

He began to dance for his audience of One.
the music was his, but with it he asked for forgiveness,
for his thoughtless ways on those days when he cared not for,
any other living soul than his own. Then a heaviness in
the flow, the rhythm, lead him to a place where he knew he
was forgiven now and forever from before he or this song,
were ever birthed.

He dreams Celtic.

Arms moving as he played, feet lifting and placed,
jumping from note to note, to land and lift again. And again.

Lightly.

He dreams Celtic.

He paused, so did his music as did his play
and he stared his work boots down.
Then he quickly he began again fingers dancing over
the strings,
as feet danced across the floor, he knew
that in playing his music there was joy,
in his past there was a history,
that told a story every-time
he played
because he dreams Celtic.

Though the day may tax him,
it was able to be tamed, for
his dreams of music are reality
and he dreams Celtic.


DWE 2013-04-21

The heights of men
        match their lows,
The heights of God
        nobody knows.

I climb the stairs,
to get higher,
awkward ones that
I am aware, I
no longer aspire,
I say the words,
but they are already
dead to me.

Dizzy...
It all moves
while I sway,
                      no stability.

The heights of men
        match their lows,
The heights of God
        nobody knows.
Someone once said space goes out there and out there and never comes back.

On the edge,
the precipice,
                I am not afraid of heights, I am not afraid, I am not,
               but that landing!

Only if I was an astronaut, but as my aspirations are,
beneath my feet.

Trod on
like stairs,
eroded and
incomplete
like this

©DWE092013

He can say it,
he can flaunt it,
he can live it,
he can walk it,
while talking it.

If his heart is changed, it will not beat different,
If he has become less arrogant and more diffident,
Time will tell.

I will not judge the change,
I will not think it strange,
if he found Jesus.

The other option is Hell.
Let that rest heavy on his brow,
how is his head hanging, can he
feel the heat of remorse?

Her friends are heroes in my books,
you had the courage it took.
To face him on her behalf,
She was there with you in court,
I think she helped you to do,
no I am wrong,
you were all strong,
and you saw an innocent perish,
that screamed of unfairness and death,
you all stood up for her,
it may not have seemed enough,
as she did die, did part of you go with her?
we cannot measure how much you
all cried, when doing and trying was not enough.

The best place for her would be with you, sigh,
some say she will always be watching over too.

I believe in eternal life for innocents like her.

The grit under a shoe on a tile
floor, is heard, an ugly sound,
under duress, of a hardened sole,
                Or is it the soul that has no give,
     No mercy, with which to live,
Scapes of wrath, scratches on the superficial,
Eke and etch an existence, where None, stood a chance,
For None was luckier than most, and a Host of Others it
appears, in relief. None, Other can I trust, None Other do
I have.


©DWE022014

People walk. they drive, talk is cheap
                                                  like some Red Wine by the gallon my dad bought, often
                 he was not a nice man to most, what they could not change, they overlooked.
Overnight when the sun rises things,
                                                         ­ will have changed as much as they stay the, same,
            it will rain somewhere, and as many tear drops will fall from eyes of those with
            broken hearts, and those eyes if you looked in them, you would never forget, ever.

Ever sit there on the dewy grass at night or in some Adirondack,
                                     chair, actually in the Adirondacks, and just want to shrink and be small
                                     enough to disappear and travel at the speed of light, with out getting
                                     tangled, under the stars, in string theory.
  
Totally impossible you think and that may be where all of our problems start, we dwell on the
                            impossible when the possible is one small step away from you until you get so
                                   close, the impossible becomes I'm possible, I'm possible, repeat and repeat.

Riches, little can be so varied, there are some common ones, money, jewelry, stock portfolio,
                         there are so many tangible and all most intangible, love, joy, goodness, kindness,
                         gratitude, notice no mention of war, violence, death enough of that out there, they
                         are devalued right now, yes, yes they are yes.    

Y*ou are the best advocate of change I ever met, start with a *small, stay close to your heart and close to home, write poetry, take care of yourself and when you find the ONE, take care of each other, there is power in right relationships, now if you have found the ONE, teach your children too, end your day with a laugh and smile, but be alone as little as you need to, teach peace.

Fall is here
shortening of days,
chocolate chip cookie moments,
with socks
long
enough
to keep
your knees warm,
dampness out,
fireplace friendly
chair,
comfort needed, fueled
by cold,
yet to,
           winter here.

sounds my lips around go,
found poetry roadside show,
her mouth had teeth to
bite the air, spout foul
language without a care,
while her dark hair tossed
with her head-felt shouts,
where buses stop,
but not for her,
and she would not stop
her assault on cars that
drove by, leg kicks in the air
high,
while pole dancing at
the bust stop sign, her
mind assaulted and her
body attacked, all that
was out of her reach,
while she was out of her
mind.

She does not always have
teeth, she is not always
standing and moving
like she did today, in the
chill of a January 1 air,
she acted like she cared,
that the world neglected
her,
that the world angered
her,
that the world had treated
her,
wrong and not what she
saw,
what we saw
she needed, help.
But don't hold out your
hand, offer to help her,
today she has her teeth
in and she will bite.

I like it, when a baby begins to walk, even when they are not mine,
Oh, this one isn't walking just yet, each day crawls by just fine,

Her steps take me, to a place where,

I like it, when two people walk hand in hand, if the hands fit,
Yeah, stride for stride, step for step, cadence and lives knit,
Left foot, right foot, stop to laugh, left foot, right foot , stop to sit,

Her steps take me along, leash taut, her heart pulls me along,

I like it, when she finally burns energy that, she can trot at an even pace,
Again, her four feet are striking the keys of the piano notes in my head,
my pod tunes and her steps align until she follows her nose to pause;

Then we step off again, and one day her steps, will once again match mine,
the piano, the drum, the mandolin, the voices all heard in my head, just
as surely one day we will both on walk a roadway,  I alone, only memories of
moments shared.

While he slept,
   I wept,
He laid behind an
  electrical box,
above ground encased in
a wooden frame,
he covered his face,
with a hood, in shame?
No, just to keep the bugs away,
he had his hand in the waist band of
his pants,
was he twisted,
no he may haps had a gun or
wanted those who saw, think he had one,
his back pack was up against him,
he looked exhausted from the spectres
that haunted him,
sleeping twenty feet from where cars
and trucks accelerated by,
all oblivious to his unconscious eyes,
should I call 911, would that have ruined
this end to his all-night fun,
was he dead,

or just dead to the world,
what altered state, made him pick this bed,
of dirt and weeds, wait, what sort of life has he led,
thoughts of "that could be me," fill my head,

He slept, and
that is all that mattered.

I knew him because he was there...sometimes
in the morning drinking one of his sixteen cups
of coffee before I would go to school.

I knew him cause we would go camping sometimes
and the four of us and our dog would be in the station
wagon towing a tent trailer, to be set up and taken down.

I knew he was there sometimes when I joined cadets and
then the militia and...sometimes after I joined the CAF,
and less when I began to have a family.

I knew where he was when we were home... sometimes,
as he was cleaning his rifles or handguns, making beer
in the wine room, carving or tinkering with something.

I knew he was there...sometimes he and mom would
argue and their voices would be raised and we could
hear them through the floor, as they struggled with
reason.

I knew he was there...sometimes he would smoke
when he drank more than he should so I would
drive us home with my new licence, before that
he would do the driving.

I knew he was there in the hospital...sometimes he
would have seizures then the aneurysm that did not
take him but made him less able to be a father
and grandfather to our children.

I knew he was no longer there over twenty years
of a slow spiral down, to where the cold, cold
lay waiting...sometimes sooner for some and
later for others.

As  he lay on the bed in the care home he was
no longer there, cold to the touch, heart stopped
struggle quit,... sometimes I miss him, sometimes
I am not missing him, he was not the kindest,
and I made him my only dad... sometimes I
wonder if that was, my mistake.

Mystery intrigued me,
3 zombies walking with a ragged stagger,
talking guttural sounds,
wanting to know if I had any zig zags?

I looked at the hats into the eyes,
thought and said "No, don't smoke guys" and they,
stumbled by, hunger for a smoke
mounting; I had spoken truthfully, never have, never will.

I stopped and turned to stare, they asked,
an older woman, who didn't slow down or say a word,
looking ahead, the day walkers approached
a couple of construction types at the bus stop, who
patted themselves down and shrugged.

Their pace became more erratic, as they were
denied, they sped up, getting
twitchy as they weren't flesh eaters but they
were addicted to smoke and
rolling there own, the heat and flavour, they savoured.

The knew what it would feel like as soon as they...
Amazing what grows out of a few tobacco seeds,
oh and what seeds have you sown...

Must move, running too hard,
driving among the insane traffic,
is just wrong,
So...I will walk among the almost naked trees
and those leaves,
most of which are dried and crumble, under
my clumsy feet, pick them up by the bunches,
in the hope that some sense will land on me
as I toss them into the air, and stand under
their falling, with my arms and hands wide open,
catching them at random, fragile twisted has-beens of
a three season display, the ones I catch having
meaning while the others are dead and not just
to me, for they will fertilize the new growth in Spring,
But let me look at my leaves discover what they bring,
I am struck in wonder
I am in a state of awe,
I begin to laugh and guffaw,
Maybe this is how I write poetry,
throwing words around like dead leaves,
as I wander among naked resting trees,
and the ones I miss this time will
be my fertilizer in the Spring,
and the ones that land and leave
my hands, are submitted into,
The Fray, the battle,
The Day, and rattle,
a sound to warn me
of danger, if I don't play
by                                  by
writing.             ­    loving
each                             all
day.                      His way .



©DWE112013

We are all so small,
        that is all,
bums in chairs, who cares,
warm bodies, with a pulse.

That pulse
where does it originate,
not your heart, that is the noise maker,
your lungs are the breath taker,
where was that pulse founded?

Have I, you confounded?

Your beating heart was known and
loved before you were born, God
knew what he would do before you knew you.

All your cracks are filled with grace,
All your dents, and brokenness,
                               bear witness,
of a loving God that has never left your
side but been there with you to
                       bear, the hurts
                       bear, the sorrow
                      bear it all,
that is all,
why we are small,
if we were only talking about the physical
                   not the physics,
                   a God who is time,
                   a God who is love,
                   a God
who gave you character,
who gave you identity,
so though you are small, and
feel alone or lost in the crowd,
He who gave you individuality,
so you could find and
                                     be a part of a community,
where you fit in,
                            with other assorted parts small
                                                           ­     that is all.


©DWE092013

He calls,
words fall,
on ears that,
don't believe,
what his lips say,
and they have heard
it all, again and again and

now this.

won't give him credit,
won't say he was raised wrong,
not my call, he made that effort
gave a name and an age,
they could not trace him
to any place, he was going
to commit a kidnap crime,
unless they stop him in time.

I call him a creeper he knows his victim,
knows her face,
her age,
her place,
so the police put it out there everywhere,
after all they think he lives in New West
while my thoughts roll, could be anywhere
in the GVRD, remember they could not trace
his call.

He is a fish,
Just a Beta,
A better Beta fish,
there never was.

He has a home,
A crystal palace,
what was once a
cookie jar, is a
better beta fish tank,
by far.

There are no trees,
there are no sunken ships,
there is no plastic or real
plant  life,

but there is a legion of
rainbow rocks scattered,
                      no matter, on the bottom of
the best beta fish tank, yet.

He is blue, turquoise and green too,
he is not sad or mad, likes his food
and youtube music too, like me, like you
surround sound for the best basic beta
fish living in a best beta fish tank,
there never was.

He is so humble.
An average Beta Joe.

he almost died when his car built with his hands and time,
                                                          a­nd some of his money,
rolled over and over and over more times than mortals can
                                                             ­ survive the shock of the stop,
after the pounding of every three sixty and hit finally a rocky, outcrop.

But my friend lived, more bumps and bruises than could be counted,
by his girl friend. Years later though,

south wind blew overnight with ten more centimeters, of light white powder,
                         when two died the slide came down after the copter left,
                                                        hig­h in the mountains with no cleft,
to hug or find, safe passage as the snow cascaded faster than his car
                               ever did, driving him into, through the trees, far
he rolled over and over and over, the mass of white powder pushed
                                                                ­                      and pounded
                                                         ­                        until all was still,
and he was one of two held tight in the frozen grasp too long until
                                                   they found him,
                                                        eigh­t others
were safe that day, as he told them how to do it the right way,
he went first,
then the number two, and that was all it took for the monstrous white
wall to become larger and harder than a rocky outcrop,
                         the only thing that ever made him stop.



©DWE102013

late, darkness falls not lightly
                                   but nightly,
moon gathers up the fog,
to let a new damp cloak go again,
in the morning when,
the sun drags up and out,
from the grasses,
from the brush,
from the tallest reaching
arms that trees have to
dance with,
the veil,
before it returns to where the
stars applaud,
as meteors weave,
warp and weft
that make the next
days misty
morning drape
to soften the
harsh glare
       and stare,
of the unkind,
of the concrete
blockheads,
who have rebar for brains,
of the makers of pain,
of the committed sharp cutters
who want
no softness, as that is where love
takes hold
while waiting late and lightly.


©DWE012014

Poems about me may be therapy,
Poems about you may mean I love you,
(even if we have not met face to face)
there is so little poetry
that the will in me is to write more,
about poetic things for sure,
so in 2015, I will leave myself out
more often,
                    than in any year before,
let me diminish so the prose will grow,
let me become invisible when the time is rhyme
for the picking,
and if this writer does err,
and if this poet is still there,
where he does not belong,
among his own words,
                                         share him among your friends,
                                         because truthfully he is not alone,
                                          in this prescription write, right?

Time to get honest,
salmon pink stucco walls,
see through the reflection,
white window framed images,
of this silhouette and a Christmas tree,
refracted lights truthfully adorn,
what the four eyes see, honestly.

Do you learn,
how do you earn,
if you did not burn
what you do into gray
matter memory.

Memorize by rote,
                   by rote,
                         rote,
a reducing game,
I'll call it stacking,
to maximize your
gain of what you
know, I mean know
for certain,
repeated physical
and mental actions
over and over,
over and over,
and over and over,
like a martial artist, doing a kata,
till he is caught doing it in his sleep,
or his nerves are always there
ahead, waiting for him to arrive,

but do we know for certain,
anything?,
photo shopping,
auto correcting,
foolish sexting,
conspiracy theorem,
bring me to life
   AWAY
with boredom just a drop of inspiration,
AWAY
with tedium just some time and some space
   A WAY
and I can and will learn it all,
with peace as my covering,
         peace as my covering,
                    as my covering,
                        my covering,
                               covering.

Honest learning is that which is
involved in dwelling, some times
easily and at others it is a crime,
and a torturous process but in this,
                      
"Finally, brethren, whatever is true,
whatever is honorable, whatever is
right, whatever is pure, whatever is
lovely, whatever is of good repute,
if there is any excellence and if
anything worthy of praise,
dwell on these things. "
         *

That would be
what honest learning
could be,
where do I start,
memorizing by heart,
when my is heart turning
to stone, hardening,
not fertile and not prepared
for gardening and the
planting of good seed,
use a funny voice,
if you need to memorize,
tape to a mirror in front of
your eyes, your face,
where you do spend allot of time I might add.

but before you go forward,
        I will be forward and
remind you there are better
things, on which to dwell.



©DWE082013

Morning smelled like sixteen cups of coffee,
but that is what it took for you to get through the day,
your brother and your sister are doing fine,
as i am still pariah, must be a flaw in my design,

Evening smelled like cigarettes, as the beer you drank smoked,
driving you home late-night was the best part, then it finally became
legal when I got my license, your other brother's ghost stills sits
in the back seat, he didn't have the heart to tell you he died.

Noon on weekends was bottles of beer in a pitcher,
we (you) had to drink them all because it was *****
and waste to pour the beer back.

who'd have the salt to
pour over a wound,
cleansing the edges
and the in between but,
I am thinking tears would
have been more gentle
and still clean these wounds,

but there is that hover,
of a possessive lover,
standing over the para-
lyzed form, docile and with
a mixed bag of contorted
postures, and your phone/
camera takes pictures
and videos just like a drone

from above,

it hovers,
in my worst dreams,
we are lovers and i scream,
not in passion or ******,
but you began twisting
and plucking all
your perfectly placed tacks,

I guess, at this juncture,
that book on acupuncture
was worth the weight,
in flesh,
and still you hover as
I stream consciousness
on my mattress that feels
like a dry rocky creek bed,
and over my four poster bed
a black crow hovers
and the beak resembles
your nose, so please as
I sleep let me wake with
my ugly toes, and my covers
intact and no lover hovering in my
room, and no betrothal to Groom.

Gardens come and gardens go
seeding, planting,
watering, weeding
as do the seasons,
as the crop is waiting for your care and
to greet you daily, for without a gardener
such as you, I may have turned to seed,
too true? Or become a bad ****.
Your garden is a beauty every year,
as for me, I am getting there, thanks to you!

©DWE08262013

I look for kindred,
I look for my kind,
I taste the air,
I walk among the streets,
I use my nose and my feet,
I see all that is before me,
I reach out and bring all closer,
I use my eyes and my hands,
I turn my head as sounds abound,
   rebound and echo, such a delight,
   finding my kind, the humankind.

I walked up to the door,
I had not been here in years,
In my bags included fears and woe,
How long I stood I did not know,
I raised my hand and knocked
Once and
With impatience
rang the bell.

The superficial greeting went both ways
Neither of us knew what to say, shoes off
She took my coat and he took my bags,
Weighed down with guilt for sure,
As I had taken too long to arrive,
Not months
But years had
passed, oh well.

We sat at the kitchen table,
I told stories and my fables,
They listened and looked at me,
She ran the water warm and he,
Got a towel and bent to his knee,
socks discarded, feet
bathed and massaged, saying
"Welcome weary traveller"

With that done and my feet towelled dry
I felt relieved, I knew I was forgiven,
Dans mes faiblesses, the water poured out
took my stress, a new page was turned,
Nothing I had done had earned,
the humility, gratefully I
had received that
humbled me.

The slow serpentine hop became circles
rapidly by two rabbits chasing, dressed in
their light brown summer fur camisoles,
territory owned was defended by a win,
give up ground was to give up food and
the right to eat there to your fill, on demand.

Shadows played tricks
thorny hedgerow caused
****** in the skin, drawing
blood, as the chase
went outside a steel
wire fence, into where the
warren was, and
coyotes crouched
ready in wait too.

Some days nobody wins,
over some green greed.

make a big deal out of no deal,
stand still, life of a spinning wheel,
strands of fiber bind u.s. together.
united by the process stated and
our heritage is a product of the lessor,
from this day forth, or Fourth,
of the seventh or the Seventh Amendment,
so who has 20 bucks?
I am lookin' for 6 or 314 million jurors, (Americans need only apply)
If you were all talkin'
and if'n they would listen,
till the sweat glistens on their brows,
in that dawns early light,
I betcha they might not get it right
but here is to hopin' your open
the next time I...write a poem.

Rest easy, read these heavy words of slumber,
tap your chest to the beat of your heart,
empty out breath even from the deepest parts
the void, will fill itself, with sleep, I hope for your sake.

Scrunch those toes to close, then let them relax and let go,
Half close those toes and let them loose, shake them once and again,
Tense those calves, feet pointed at the ceiling, if you are willing,
Go half way and shake the tension away, from you,
Quads and hamstrings, next remember in pretext, full and halfway,
shake the tension away,,
gluteus maximus
then abdominals
and lower back
and in their turn
chest, those pecs to reflex and relax
latissimus dorsi, my oh my you got your back
shoulders,
hands of fingers, just like the toes,
pretty soon you might doze,
forearms, biceps and triceps too,
neck and face shrug and scrunch,
you don't have the answer,
so pucker your face,
eyes are the last close them once,
eyes are the last close them half,
eyes are the last,

I hope you never read this far,
unless you are awake, after a
night of rest fullness, so if it does
not work, know this, I will sit by
your side so you can unwind,
I have a good year for listening,
on pillow soft words, for you to put
your sleepy heavy head.


Good...night...yawn

I have not triumphed over armies or doubts,
I have not gone into battles with cries and
finished with victory,
I am not a chess master
I am not epic,
I can play no instrument, or have perfect pitch
I have no treasured wisdom at my call,
no deep pool from which to draw,
I am not epic,
I have not ran into chaos or darkness,
not knowing what my chances are,
of being epic,
because, I am not,
my faith is at times like mustard
without the seed,
watered down, not epic,
I do not ride a stallion,
or have tigers as my beasts,
I have a dog, aging as fast as she walks,
we are not epic,
I can not unleash an arrow from any bow,
with accuracy, but I can say, the fights
I have fought, I can count on one hand,
and none were epic, maybe mistakes,
I did not sacrifice my friends lives or mine
to save a princess, the queen or the Land,
I have not fought dragons,
or black forces of night
I am not epic,
I have never received near fatal wounds,
I have not stepped in front of an arrow,
meant for someone else,
that would epic,
and I am not epic...yet.