a group who has a cult following
sings about hiding for
solitude
they dedicate nothing to the poet
who did, as they know it
in hiding
but it was inspired by the same CB
I must say a big wowski to
Charles Bukowski
don't think it would happen here
no chance without distraction
little peace, much action
guessing if I became an angry man
ranted, raved and demanded
this type of peace
that would be a living conundrum
or a poet raging as an oxymoron
please leave the ***** alone
and
give
peace
and
quiet
a
chance
meeting
with words that escape
at the first sign of distress
as they undress my day
and see vicariously the
disrepair, oh you don't care...
Okay
I'll go.

To my hidey hole,
to write my pre-verse
in hyperbole ,
"how to get lost"
         and what it cost me,
let the silence be
deafening,
no man may be a
poet unto himself
(forgive me I forget myself)



©DWE102013

have ten thousand hours come and gone,
                 master?
can time go faster??
have feet taken ten thousand strides or walked
              ten thousand missteps?
                                  no regrets
is there ten times one thousand miles of ink
           in these dusty notebooks?
       constant flipping pages with
                           darting looks at each page seeking to add it all up.

read ten thousand books
to write one story, surreal ratio
live a thousand days time ten
doing one thing very well
with out your head to swell
and you will be a master,
not by your own admission
     not of your own volition
only to begin your mission
to give back what you have
                          learned, that a talent is a gift only, once it is given freely away while shared.

©DWE102013

every move that is made, she must shadow,
her place in the pack
is to guard the back
                                 of the Alpha,
it matters not her insides are older
than she is, she is loyal, she 'tis,
until
she can
be no more,
true to the bond,
that is beyond,
                        the human.


©DWE102013

blame the crows
perched in rows
of branches
black suit for a foggy mourning,
the mist so thick it holds in the "caw!",
and they all answer the echo,
but they work at breaking branches
down to twigs, to carry away to their
nest, it is the best
investment in their home.

Yet they drop and leave a few and these land
just past the sidewalk
where the edge is lava rock,
catching twigs in the rusty red colour that
is more rust then red in the fog, these hold
down all sorts of rejects, cigarette but and bits
of paper, those twigs from trees, worked by crows
and silken threads with drops of misty dew.

What a fine thread,
for a fine woven web,
there and there and there
my they are every where,
what kind of spider or
arachnid, weaves a home,
a spider web
without a lid or cover,
with twigs, lava rock
all around, surrounded by other junk,
I would get, I could get,
close to have a peek,
but what if a spider
were to bound from
beneath the web, and lava rock brandishing a sharp twig?



©DWE102013

I had a 750 Suzuki Katana, gray machine
learned like a young man 350, then 650 then that 750cc of course
in the mid eighties, paid cash but then my mom expected the worst,
I was in the army, I said Army, military single man
I could handle the motorbike well enough,
I knew my limits,
too slow one day
on a sharp parking lot turn
and I earned a
cracked signal light casing,
too early in the
season an April Easter trek
home, turned
around in Manning Park,
near that summit,
snow and ice made it dicey
and the police wanted me to prove I had
chains and snow tires for this late season
fall of snow is
all, so I turned and went back to the base,
too much competitive spirit one day
and I thread the needle between a moving
car and a parked car, well how to say this,
with the driver's door opened wide,
in that instant I passed by at thirty miles an hour
my Life Cycle almost stopped,
my thoughts were driven to,
maybe I should go back to
bicycles, instead...
but I won the race
back to the base
and both the admiration
and admonition of my peers
whom I beat.


©DWE102013

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

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

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

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

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

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




©DWE102013

relentless, incremental,
running away,
play ...,
grains of sand measure
both the stars in the universe,
and the stars in the universe
measure descendants and...
all of this is weighed against, what?

some where today a man flew home,
some where today a woman will open this,
with intention to read, with soft eyes and
a warm heart, and more savvy than that word
knows it has, by definition.
some where  a man puts his hand in a river
and comes out with words, not water

there will be many babies
                              maybe born in zones of conflict,
than my country has people behind bars as convicts,
which some people would take as   a    good   thing,
                                                          ­                bring
peace to the conflict zone,
as for the convicts they are on their own, what current
wisdom would and just as quickly ask, but who is gonna pay,
for all this insanity;
no wars,
no jails,
next you'll tell us there is no shortage of whales,
                                                         ­                 but what of their song
why has a choir turned into three whale voices singing a quartet piece?
why do we measure space and dig into the earth, you know the Earth,
no I am not going to do the obvious thing and rhyme it with a birth,
settle lightly like falling leaves when you sleep,
don't keep your fingers texting to go deep,
into the technological pool of this age,
mock whale noises,
news cast without real news, what a blast,
stand real still and sense where the wind blows
stepping outside, your castle walls and open the windows,
is more productive than hitting the refresh button,
oh don't worry, I am no hurry to start a conspiracy with this,
I'm not in the know what is for show, a closet conspiracy theorist,
anything goes,
anything goes,
I can converse on any topic as long as you say the words, I'll move my lips,
and you make the sounds, it will be the result of a well oiled machine,
trying to save the planet from the very pinnacle of creation
that caused the fall
man...kind.

You say to me, it has to be this way,
" Cause you say it best when you say nothing at all"


©DWE102013

rise refreshed, walk the dog, after splashing water on my face,
breathe the air in and out before to many cars are about,
feed the beast and pick up my muse to read for as long as...
                                                           ­                                    i can,
drink dark brew, after a lemon water, warm not cool
have breakfeast, an egg, half a bagel and a whole grapefruit,
with brown sugar, butter and walnuts, broiled just so there
is a slight crunch to that glaze, with each bite.

then off to my favourite  bookstore in some part of the world
or near by, hope i can get the leer jet, to pass the time by
to get where Munro's is waiting.

then stay have brunch at some hotel or other five star place,
and fly back for early after noon and listen to itunes,
as I sip my green smoothie as the traffic motors by
making mockery of ocean waves as I read the book and rave
about my purchase. is that your beer or mine?

then dinner would be a winner, some veggie or meat dish
like ratatouille or nachos ground beef and cheese with green
onions, olives and tomatoes and please pass the guacamole.

have a glass of wine or two, red would be better considering the
chill in the weather at the end of the sunny fall day, might have
a hot desert or not, then to walk my dog, not to trot, as we
both are not as young as we used to be, maybe I never was.

well then i will wash up while showering
then to bed and write it all down as who knows,
when it will happen again, perfection is rare as
pure air, then read for an little bit,

dim the lights and see how easily

my head rests on my pillow, as i drift on some
translucent sea of blue,  still comfortably fitting
her hand with mine, as it has been all day.



©DWE102013

Young men fit for battle,
too young for war but paddled
with swagger down the Skeena.

A week on the water, lakes and rivers,
bodies of water that take if you giver,
but this one this day promised what it delivered.

A vortex, canoes lined up to paddle hard,
as the hole in the middle would drag a canoe,
to the depths, to the depths, without release.

One canoe and wait then another then one more,
three were through, number four went round
and round the eddy they held steady as five went
past, then they, four escaped the mighty swirl without
cheer.

Six was with the whirl, they paddled hard as
they were drawn near the rocks and cliff,
a broken paddle, and they limped away, clear
of the gulf.

Seven went and were hell bent, to get through,
all experienced paddlers too, what success,
number eight held four of us, weighted low down
with only three paddlers too, round we went and
then again, nine passed us and cleared the danger,
seven came back to encourage and be near...

What happened was what they feared the whirlpool
dragged us closer, we weren't dizzy, but tired of
rounding the same bend, breaking waves but not enough,
tiring out as we were pulled in again, round and in again.

We needed to split the curve cut the outside wave
and across the break, near the rocks and in the wake
of the river wash and the base of the cliff,
we had to all paddle hard and when and if
we broke free we would join our brothers guilt free,
if we did not
we would have
been a story on
a page of some
deaths to drowning
while at a cadet camp.

the boat's bow broke the waves one two and three,
missed the rocks, the cliff, almost free, voices raised,
an angry fight to live and have done battle with no loss,
we were finally free three companions and me, tossed
by the fourth wave, and I looked back into the hole
of the maelstrom, I looked back lesson learned,
passion for life, a must you have to yearn
for life otherwise, for love, point your bow,
dig your paddle in
and look back no more.

There is more rough water ahead.


©DWE102013

rain pelted and fell from the sky,
glancing often as no one went by,
four wheels rolled by often,
the rain did little to soften,
the rumble, the thrum, sounded like thunder
but it was the noise of the "Jake" brake under
the hood.

so many big wheels lifting up spray,
mudflaps did not get in the way,
of the geysers, of oily mud, and water
too slick to stop in such short order,
tons of weight, need to wait after the halt
their turn so, you hear the thunder waltz
into the air as "Jake" doesn't stand still
until he has sung his bass notes.
                                             By rote.

Still no pedestrians, too wet even for a
well structured umbrella but the
skid of brakes is seldom heard,
not a word except by "Jake"

Thanks for the brake, "Jake"


©DWE102013

I

He grimaced while flexing forth,
the Hulk he was channeling, going North,
blonde crew cut, making a spectacle while
                                       wearing glasses
he wore a black tank, with no sleeves,
while the wind teased the leaves with a breeze,
and they fallsaulted (somer is over)
                             across the concrete at his feet,
                             it was all about him on the street,

                                       his handler, his care giver,
                                       watched with a shiver as
                                      as she had him and two
                                      others to deliver to their
                                      destination on foot, crime
fighting would delay the journey
                                                    and she was not sure who would
                end up on the gurney if it all went awry.  

                                              II

Short time later, as they passed by, gone, the other part of the duo
                                                             ­                                            arrived
she walked with swagger, in heels and no stumbles or missed steps,
                                                          ­                                       not quite a stagger,
dressed in black with jet-black hair, she was part ninja,  
part tim-bit monster,
or at least her appetite was,
the box of forty sat on her shoulder and she was delighted
by eating
them one at at time, her confident stride and petite feet,
stuck in almost stiletto heels acting,
very intuitive, see how she feels,
that kind of hero, because if she had to from fifty paces,
she could take out your eye with a honey crueler tim-bit
don't be fooled by
her ambivalent smile, and toss of her hair, those spoke of
caution and beware, as she stuffed another in there,
where she smiled while her eyes twinkled, kept moving her feet,
                   I think she spotted me from fifty paces,
                               away and from my second story window,
                                                it was curtains for me, I closed my eyes and braced for impact,
                                                         ­                                                           which never came,
                                                           ­                                                         as to her shame,
                                                          ­                                                          see even heroes
                                                          ­                                                          don't share
                                                           ­                                                         all the time.


No more heroes walked by that day,
crime rates were down and children were
                                      able to play
                        and be safe, so as my final thought
                      from my view on the second floor,
                          never under estimate anyone,
for real or in fun, and their capacity to bring joy, even without sharing.



©DWE102013

the writing was on the wall, no real fuss,
it was like a quiet ocean between us,
dried up after a summers intense heat,
this country is so large, amazing we did meet,

in a small town,
in a cadet corps,
fast friends,
spring time,
was it to be love,  

I left for the army, and she was to finish school,
letters and words of our days and nights
the ink filled the pages of our thoughts and emotions,
perfume on her pages was a magic potion,
drawing me in, keeping me close, in the end was I a fool?

There was a day, months after I had left,
my dog had died, my mom said they had found
the dog under, the neighbours tree, I cried
my voice cracking on the phone, blamed the
connection
and distance, so far from home.

I dragged my upset and a tissue, back to my room,
where waited a letter, it was on my bed and I was
alone, I smelled the fragrance and saw the cursive
hand, opened IT after all nothing could be worse...

In a few short pages she did explain,
that long distance relationships were
a pain, and though I might come home
by plane, it was plain to her that she was
not right for me or rather as she put it,
could I not see, she had fallen out of love
with me.

That relationship ended and I cried more tears,
I think my naivete was preyed upon by fears,
that I would never find another quite like her,
and wonder what would've happened if ever?
and was she my soul mate who ripped into me
with angry words of hate, that I had left her
for a career.

Such is a soldier's life, she was not meant to
be this army man's wife, or betrothed,
nineteen I felt going on sixteen once more,
and it all started with two words,
Dear Darrell, the first time in all her
letters she had started with my name,
she had much to say my tears stained the pages,
and she signed it Goodbye Chantelle

I may have wrote
back, an angry
mess that I was
in, but I knew it
mattered not, it
was over in
September of 1978.


©DWE102013

I am thankful there was no Facebook in those days...

good night little one,
you have been busy today,
good dreams little one,
you have laughed and played,
good rest little one,
you know you are loved,
the words you say
speak for themselves,
your laughter is so clean and clear
I want to hear you laugh some more,
read on with me until with your
own voice, you can make the sounds
and we then will rejoice together,
grow little one grow for you,
warrior princess fought an old
foe that needed to be vanquished,
and you soothed the savage beast
(grandpa(foe) and his dog(beast) )
rest for the evening after you have
partook at the supper feast,
for tomorrow,
you will have more growing to do, than today
you will understand the world one day sooner,
and we will
                   read,
                   and play ball,
                   oh I can't list them all,
                   we will build and drop towers right where they stand
and all will love you more,
as your hopes and dreams and possibilities
will wait out side your door,
discovery to your left
and awe to your right
cuteness factor ten,
lamp of learning
              burning bright.
Now shhhh, goodnight.


©DWE102013

thinking about all of it lately,
when is the next day like the last
payday,
when is the next day like the last
kiss
we shared,
when is the next day like the day
most feared,
No where to go,
No where to sleep,
No where to eat,
No drink,
No one to love me,
most feared see?
no pillars to support
life as needed,
oh but I am not being clear,
Another fear,
using big words,
so there are biological needs
So insecure about personal safety,
so shy to ask a friend to be a friend,
(and don't bring up the f - word (family) or SI)
respectfully don't address my self-esteem,
when it and I are in the same room,
lastly actually realize there is creativity,
in the moment, but look at me, do you see
any of it, mostly tell the truth to me,
I will accept the facts you find.
If I am not available I am looking inside,
so knock most loudly, if I am not present
or aware.

©DWE102013

the cars that wash
down the boulevard,
take the wave sounds
with them, leaving
low tide markers,
deaf to the rush
of those metal wave
makers, some street
walker, wobbles on
high heels, and
weaves while waving
wandering from grass
to curb, wanting a
lift, cause life is a beach,
and all she can see for
miles is sand castles,
empty of their dreams,
empty like her,
wanting more than
sand dollars and the
stings of the jellyfish.


©DWE102013

the three quarter crush crunches
                              under foot,
till you leave the man made route
                       step from sun to shade,
of the forest, inside a park, inside a city
                        to see inside of me,
what do the shadows stir, was that a
                        movement that blur?
or is my deepest insides pooling fear
                 when I walk alone out here,
it is then the beauty escapes me, some
                traffic noise nearby masks
the peace that could be mine, walking
                further to find rotten logs,
in my thoughts, so if I just sit a while,
                  let the green needles, inject
me with a sense of humility and blindness
                  evergreen, ever clean, silence,
now pristine, I have walked deeply to
                 the place there is no sound,
except that which is so close to surround
                 me in its entirety, and I feel
that the onion layers of tears will peel,
                   leave me stronger to go back
into the world uncluttered, save for the pack
                   of sensations I take with me
no fear, no darkness, no sadness just be free,
                   with bird whistles echoing instead
of the thoughts that can only hold the despair in me,
                  I like my forest walk and would rather
listen to the birds and nature talk to one another.
                 Than the self-doubt poisoning my stream.


©DWE102013

I know I won't be shot for writing poetry,
even if i was on the walkway or side street,
ok?
I know you who read will react with speed,
but none of the actions will make me bleed
13?
replica resulted in repugnant use of force,
they were experienced police of course
ak
he was returning it to a friend,
guess he was at the wrong end
47
so in a country wear the right to bear arms is protected,
so in a state that is self-proclaimed progressive,
we have an innocent fall,
not trip or stumble,
he caught bullets as they tumbled
into him.

I am confused that people with real guns that cause real harm,
walk in and the killing begins,
a kid a child about to be a man, had the admiration of his peers,
life torn, 'cause someone did not want to get close, and be sure,                                                            ­        

maybe he had an ipod or phone with ear buds, had his hoodie up
more like he did not think that "stop" was meant to be the end
for him, unlike the bullets, that put holes in
his dreams and the hopes...of a future.

I am harsh I admit it,
but nothing no nothing is harsher than
losing your child,
for any reason,
it is wrong,
but this,
              but this speaks of sorrow a whole life long
a void



a n     empty                                                           space
that will be filled with only tears
as they hold onto one another
instead of, their son or brother.  

Thoughts and prayers to all, yes, even them


©DWE102013

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

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

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

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

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

©DWE102013

promised them not to do this tonight,
                                                        ­     please pass the potatoes, my they are light and fluffy,
promised them not to be so distracted,
                                                             they said if I keep going, it will be redacted,
asked them if they meant the turkey or the stuffing,
                                                       ­                            they said is that your feathers you are fluffing?
asked them where is the cream corn and the gravy,
                                                                ­                 "stop typing and we will pass them maybe"
thanked them for their generosity,
                                                     ­  they said they "hadn't seen an appetite with such ferocity."

thankful that I am full and tasted some of it all, did not have to cook, only child mind and clean,
up after,

they said, if I "try to write a poem again during a family celebration," with irritation, my "serving
                                                        ­                                                                 ­     will be lean"
thankful that they do not know that I really will eat anything even if it is just white meat...



©DWE102013

step away,
to watch,
the sway,
the notch,
in your gun belt,
as you
pull the
trigger, quicker
the more liquor,
you imbibe,
become a tribe,
of misbegotten,
choices,
and the voices,
cheering
you on
to spawn,
a new life
form,
usually only found in a dorm at university known liverless unconscionable -
"capacity
to drink
alcohol
unknown"


©DWE102013

she was blonde but now brunette,
her guy in the States dumped her
  with force with a divorce,
he hopes to become a citizen of the USA,
being married to a Canadian girl got in the way
what an inconvenient truth and full of dismay,
something about a Presidential Pardon, for those
from a certain central america country,
the tears were real as she reeled in the wake
of his void promises to appear here,
you know love is just another word,
until you prove yourself worthy of her affections,
not a set of misdirection of your affectations,
that tells all,
with out a touch,
and at first blush,
your love was an
illusion, it was all a
trick, you
...
there was no
promise from
the land of liberty,
no love without
conditions, only admonitions
that it has to be about
you, and will you call
her back when it does
not go through?
With her age and her beauty,
I hope she grabs dignity and
feigns a hearing disorder,
and if you ever try to cross
the border...make sure your
headed south.


©DWE102013

jets sound like thunder as they float and lumber in for the asphalt by the sea,
their wake, vibrates the hydro lines, with only a gentle shake and shimmy,
not heard over the traffic that speeds up and down the boulevard lanes,
cars, oblivious to the aircraft overhead, and they go north and south again,
i sit on my balcony to see lights that show the shape of wing, nose and tail
i watch the wires silhouette high above, needy to feel their dance of pain,
and the millions of volts will brighten up this awfully gloomy tale.


©DWE102013

the magic of science,
the faith in a miracle,
words lead us astray,
sounds ring true,
but from whose lips,
whose ears do hear,
the feather light weight
of truth,
the whispers of mistrust
that lie
heavy and pieces
make a maze
(instead of amaze us)
  so that layer
   upon layer
    must be told
     and behold,
       to enfold the
        nugget of untruth,

but wait,                              no wait..

when that first
sliver of light
breaks the horizon
to reveal,
a new day,
the weather,
the East
and
a love's heart.


©DWE102013

street walked on every day,
traffic in four lanes go both ways,
is there a place of peace and rest
or is tweeking happily
at a city bus stop of glass and silver grey
the best we can expect, with a cop and partner
                                       at a bus stop nearby, dealing with an angry young man but
she is dressed in camoflage she has more moves than a basketball
team while her man, her protector, garbed in matching clothes,
holds his head before it implodes, again
while she undulates and bends her spine,
and each vertebrae releases the next
      while her face remains perplexed.

                                             Just as is, mine. as it is only 12:17, just after noon.

Take the world at face value, the mist hangs heavy,
there is no sunshine on this misty grey day,
the mist is so heavy feels like rain anyway,
how did she get here with him,
betcha the bus driver won't let them on again,
so my mind wanders
                                 where in their lives did decisions and choices bring them to this point,
and why with all my missteps and listening to those voices in my head that I end up anointed
with a job that pays,
with a wife that stays, by my side,
with kids that give back to society,
with a grand-daughter who says "hi"
to everyone under the sun, under the mist,
while I under my breath,
I heave sighs, and "why Lord, whys?"
and a place I can vent AND A PLACE I CAN VENT,
when there is nothing I can to do help them
but pray.



©DWE102013

walk a route familiar you can close your eyes,
circular routes are better there are less surprises,
some say "life is circular",
some say "spend it perpendicular,
as once your horizontal, your dead."

Now what was this about,
you ask yourself, "no doubt?"
Doubt, no, more like certainty,
the dog walks the route and
knows each sign post, bush and
tree root.

She just stops to freshen them,
walks it dark of night or before
the light of day, and she never
gets lost, she nose the route
with a hand at the end
of a three foot leash.

The quirks she has about her
self-imposed back scratches,
the way she puts her paws on
two legs as if to say,with a wink
"I have a joke to tell, it is kinda
of doggy humour, I'll tell you
when we
get OUTSIDE."

she rests heavier these days, must be fall
and limps from time to time, from hard play
she is getting old too fast, but you don't see
it in her pace or
in her bright eyes
or her furry face.

She not a dog to sound the alarm,
will bark for the door bell,
at twenty two pounds
she will not take down an attacker,
there is heart,
there is spirit,
if there was a
fight, with an
outsider, inside
her home, I know
she would join the
fray,
as she knows no quit.


©DWE102013

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

how to write poetry?
And rea(d), And rea(d),
Observe beauty,
write the life you see,
with honest integrity,
Vulnerability with
the woe in me,
out in the open,
Typing,
Writing,
Sketching,
Etching,
Carving NOT,
a niche,
Every word
written here,
is a piece of me,
the letters and words and sounds
are not tattoos,
but decorated, ornamented me,
piercings
and truth be told,
Let me know if
I am on the Button.

Veneer with oils and salt saline,
surface warming to a sheen,
Sun also rises too break the
morning,
fabric shapes change
like billows stoking a fire,
until the fuel is spent,
the grip seems to not let go,
to join the day,
stay euphoria stay,
slowly fading away,
Sun still rising into a cloudless sky,
parting,
is to greet the day,
richer for the moments of play.

©DWE102013

oh fall is here all the real flowers begin to disappear,
I know what I will do, if it is okay with you,
I will find some fake greenery
borrow a live
stem or two, or three or four
or what the heck a whole bunch more
all real one's from my neighbours garden patch,
and then I will mix and match and call
it mine, put it on display, no one will know
what could they say,
and I will sing under my breath,
"it is a free world after all,
and my imagination is so small"
but I sure know how to borrow!


©DWE102013

sign that says stop
intersect forebode,
to wait until clear,
the air,
the fear,
the sky,
eyes, of those tears,
but what if becomes
cannot stop,
throwing pieces
off like they don't
belong and won't
stick around long
enough to be
reattached to rusted
vestige that used to
be human,
now rust stains
down the face,
empty carcass
after the fracas,
of living like there
was no tomorrow,
came
true.


©DWE102013

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

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

©DWE102013

the caw, was  heard,
it was a crow, the bird,
black in daylight,
shredding with the
pointed beak and skill,
probably road ****,
or a left over side of fries,
in a paper brown bag
with arches, golden,
the risk of being in
the roadway was worth,
the treasure and the squabble
with his or her crow friends
and one attention deficit gull,
                             he was dull,
and slower than the others,
he was white among his black
feathered brothers, sisters
they are smart
these crows as
they knows them
cars that pass just, so
close keep the curb in
reach and don't go
beyond the line,
while the gull of the sea,
would walk on the out
side of the circle nearer
to traffic and cars swiftly,
rush by, the crows kept
moving pushing the gull
toward the road way,
he had stepped over the line
assumed they were friends,
they all knew he would get
it in the end, the front end
of a rusty tow truck.

Road **** to share, poor gull
don't stare, just be quick,
and beak it while it is still fresh.


©DWE102013

Hours pass,
so does memory,
and I can safely say,
you have all heard,
the question, like this
hey you live in the Big Apple
back in 1989 I met these four
guys, nice guys from Jersey on
the train going through
that real big train station,
do you know'em?
if I could remember their names, I bet you would recognize'em.
OR hey you live in Ontario,
I was in the army and I had this
friend he is six foot seven, nick named Too Tall,
you can't miss'em, blonde hair, blue eyes,
he was posted at CFB London last time I heard,
his first name is John, do you know 'em?
I spell his last name if you think it will help?
And in 89 when I got out of the Army, needed
to clear my head, took my wife and son,
for a walk way down south, on the good old
Appalachian Trail, met this guy along the
way, he was famous, I guess, trying out
boots and socks for some company with
Wing in the name, and some colour like Red,
he signed his name on some of their ads,
I, for the life of me can't remember his name,
do you know'em?
there I go again,
watch as I wax and wane,
trying weave my
minor misadventures,
like some debenture,
into story lines,
not to sell a bill of goods
fully true, see?

It is late somewhere in the world,
I have said too much tonight and hurled,
back in time and found memories with grime
and grit, and spit to clean my hands to
get a better grip, on who I am.
but better who I am with want, to be...
and what is your story?


©DWE102013

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

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

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

Then, I woke up.



©DWE102013

he 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

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

Ten years at a thousand hours each,
                        and I am a Master,
                        of what I have achieved,
am I an Artisan,
who has designed much and created much beauty but never seen the same in others,
                                                     am I a published Writer,
                                                     who has only imagined lives instead of lived them,
                                                           ­             am I a Journeyman,
                                                     ­                   who has not traveled beyond a skill set,
                      

all, late and
too realize,
no one person can do it all alone, as much as each thinks they have done.
For every Master
Artisan
           Writer
                    and Journeyman
who has gone on before, has given to you of themselves
what you thought you possessed alone.


©DWE102013

I like the rain,
when it falls
                           somewhere           else,
I like the cold
morning air,
                               from under my quilt or when
                            dressed in my jacket with my toque on,
I like the leaves,
who paints them each night,
                                               a different colour to my delight,
There is a mystery,
I know not the answer
to,
                                     maybe you do,
                                      it is about mosquitoes...

they fly sort of right now,
trying to break and enter some how,
                                                          in­to my house after me,
                                                            t­hey are thirsting see...

even as the sun is about to set,
it isn't really warm, cool is a better bet,


The mosquitoes don't know it is fall
they have blood sense and no common sense is all,

Do they know when it is fall?
do they have any common sense at all?
When will I see then end to these blood thirsty hordes?


©DWE102013

little warmth
sky is clear
stoke the hearth
sit right here
humans are sparse,
                    partial to birds and mice,
on the street, fear
kicks your ****
sickness everywhere,
even in the healthy
so please be aware
we have no wealth see
but learn to love
one another,
sisters and brothers
when we are sober
we have a family
pact, watch each
others back,
not just when, we
say goodbye
and keep your eye
off what is in here,
it might be worth
what is needed,
when needed, for me.

yeah we curse we swear
at everyone everywhere
LOUDLY,
but know it is not for show,
we sometimes don't know
if we can stop.

©DWE102013