SOME ARE                                                                                                                              some are parrots
carrying sheepskin
in back pockets
some are zombies
empty houses
no longer a home
wandering through life
no knowledge of self
no way to be
and some can see
what they cannot                                                                                                               ECW  12/31/2017,  Denver

A PIP OF A WALKER                                                                                                                    I've got a pip of a walker
not ugly aluminum  
no no no not for me
four wheels and a seat
the basket is my favorite  
for groceries and sundries
laundry on Sundays
there’s no better walker
than my pip of a walker
won't be seen with it outside
where the old geezers walk
blank faces remembering what
unfelt feelings and bad choices 
heads pointed down the sidewalk
wincing at what could have been
wincing from pain given to others
wincing from shame
wincing from blame
they gather in the courtyard
walkers with yellow tennis balls
no no no not for me
I’ve got a pip of a walker
midnight blue on four wheels
a seat and the illusion of time
remembered forgotten
and yet to come before
making a public appearance
walking with my midnight blue
pip of a walker
—ECW, Denver 12/08/2017                                                                                                                                                                                                       

dear mister trump
I want to be a witness
with my very own eyes
as you have stroke
of unfortunate luck and
choke on your own demise

ONCE UPON A TIME  (to Chris Cavalari)
I was in your head
yes I truly was
remember we spoke 
mind to mind 
did you hear  
did you know 
I was listening 
to thoughts you thought
I thought this could never be
they must have never been 
yet my illusion persisted
a risky pleasure 
mixed with fear 
is irresistible
I did not want it to end
did you feel the same
did you feel the future
the cannot-be-happening 
encounter with the impossible
and I didn’t know the etiquette.                                                                                                                          ~ECW, 4/18/2014, Denver                                                                                                                    

night fog rolls
along city sidewalk
music pouring out
downtown bars
bright neon
chatter and smoke
the savage scent 
of desperation and beer
fading into shadows
into corners
gin high 
dim lights 
Sarah Vaughan 
praying to god
for somebody
someone to love
~Denver  11/1/2015

LIFE AS A POEM                                                                                                                                                                            did terrible things in my life
through anger bad choices & ignorance
chose to hurt o yes 'tis a fact
worst of all it became enjoyable
’tis a struggle returning from the edge
did terrible things in my life
abused my body & tortured my soul
broke hearts & one was my own 
deliberate bad choices in my life
’tis a struggle to begin once more
again & again & again
holding back tears that cannot redeem
the terrible things done in this life
no balm from gilead for me
no blue rose of forgetfulness
’tis a struggle to forget 
forgiveness is not ours
sometimes it takes a lifetime
for peace of mind & the wellspring of love
& the wisdom to know it is you and you alone
whose choices brought you here into your life
so very late into your life
yet not too late to awaken the joy of life
from walking in your shoes
from seeing through your eyes
from feeling all your body felt
the emotions & the pain & thoughts shoot though us 
like atoms though the universe to find
that we each share minutes of our lives
& we come to discover we are on                                                                                                                        ~ecw, Oct 8, 2015

turtle run (in memory if Marc Blackey, my mentor)
run turtle run 
under the fence 
run turtle run 
under the weight 
of a world heavy
and deformed 
from gravity 
from charcoal 
of ancient coca cola 
fizz of invisibilities 
of molecules 
of eons 
of space 
get going
through the weight
of it all
run turtle run 
turtle run
~Denver 9/9/2015

sometimes life feels 
like an amusement park 
closed too many years.
paint chips on rotting wood
another pleasure leaves
a fun house no longer
a mountain of memories
left dying in quiet decay
~Denver 2/19/2015

SCENT OF SAD                                                                                                                                                              gray the scent of sad
deep gray
billowing gray
gray on gray
after midnight 
wet cobbled streets
sailors and butchers
progress slovenly
towards destinies 
sailors to boats
their ports of call
butchers with knives
stab dead flesh oozing
sweating the stench
of blood and flies
that gray
that scent of sad
~ 1/18/2014, Denver, Colorado

UNTITLED #1                                                                                                                                                                    sit in my room 
step into my shoes
listen as they speak 
in another room
you hear little
beyond the wall
you piece together
snippets of reality 
creating bridges 
from prayers and wishes
over unknowable space 
between fragments heard
beyond the wall
you never fully understand—
the unspoken magical reality
~ 6/11/2012, Denver, Colorado

I lie on freshly mown lawn 
the grass lay strewn around 
the scent I smell is Gramineae 
I lament to the sky below 
O, to be a virgin 
again and again and again 
O, to lie on my earthen bed 
again and again and again 
O, to feel my petals plucked 
again and again and again  

A walk under Father Sun on Mother Earth 
through the prairie and fields 
of wild sunflowers and groves 
of cattails soaking in the sun next to one 
of several lakes shimmering, dazzling 
under the blue August sky where leaves 
on cottonwood trees chatter like children 
through the breeze of a day 
under Father Sun on Mother Earth.
~ECW, Denver, 8/13/2011

THE GRAY AREA                                                                                                                       caught in the gray area 
between the Beat and the Hip
taking cues from off the movie screen 
learning the best one could from false examples
falling down the smokey funnel overhead
a lapse-dissolve melting one into the other
coming into focus as neither one nor the other
images caught between the source and its goal 
expanding from out the eye of the projector 
throwing forth hollow, senseless, untruths
across the screen I watched and believed
when I was young after Jesus and fairy tales
studying and learning manners in matinees 
seldom hearing nor feeling the real
between the Beat and the Hip 
caught in the gray area
~ECW, Denver, July, 2011

I AM YOUR EYES (For Ron)                                                                                                                                       in a moment of real
in a captured glance
something sincere
something honest
and you watch the subjects 
wondering where I am 
I tell you I am nowhere 
and you watch the subject 
I am he who took the picture 
through my eyes you see 
there for a nano-second 
you see yourself through me
~ECW, Denver 2/14/2011

sometimes he saw himself the star of his life 
playing the actor playing the role
reflecting upon which is which
sometimes in the moment
sometimes somewhere else
sometimes nowhere at all 
but always the actor playing the role
when he was the star of his life
sometimes with little regard
sometimes with genuine respect
or a slap of truth for uninformed prediction
sometimes spontaneous applause
for the grace of his performance
when he was the star of his life
sometimes it was difficult 
sometimes merely impossible
when he didn’t have the stomach for it
and when he was bored with the plot
lacking compassion and lacking heart
lacking truth and lacking soul 
he didn’t like the actor playing his role
he wasn't the star of his life
~ECW, Denver 4/14/2010

THE RHYTHM OF YOUR HEART (for Ron)                                                                                                       The rhythm of your heart
beats next to where I awaken
from voyages upon airy seas
and I listen as your breath
sweet-scented heavenly breeze
sighs through our waking hours
reminding of our love by day
and our vow of mortal care
and I am split between two loves
the love of the divine eternal
and the love I hold for you
my here and my now                                                                                                                                                    eternal                                                                                                                                                                               ~ECW, Denver, 11/28/2009

HIS DAY IN THE SUN                                                                                                                    Let me tell you about his day in the sun.
He awoke in the gray of early dawn
as the sun’s illumination touched the horizon.
When he lifted his eyes to the breaking light
the moon’s voyage faded from sight.
With a long sigh he wondered how
he would spend his day beneath the sun.

There were unexplored roads to travel
and mysterious places in books to see.
There was goodness and beauty and truth to uncover.
There were bitters and sours and sweets to savor
and girls to watch as they grew into women
writhing in beds with bodies to taste.

Let me tell you about his day in the sun.
He saw his feet as they walked toward the warmth.
He reached out and scooped up the burning globe
and from his hands sunlight poured
like undone ribbons of liquid gold
as the world grew far and bright.

It was day and he was ready to begin
his journey into the sun where life explodes
into diamonds of light splintering
into the time and the day of his life.
He savored the bountiful flavors of being
and he tasted the bathing women
in the heat of the noonday sun.

Afternoon in the shade of whispering trees
bearing fruit and nuts and flowers
he whiled away some precious hours
as he lay content in the scent of earth and shadows.
There were roads untraveled and lovers to meet.
There were lies to tell and hearts to break.

Let me tell you about his day in the sun.
He hurt and wounded innocent souls.
He raised his fists at those who loved
and from his hands crimson blood poured
as the world grew weary and dark.
He gathered himself into a sad refrain
of loves lost and hard earned wisdom gained.

Shadows stretched around the planet
beneath the feet that took him nowhere.
Soon he would sleep and he wondered where
and he wondered if the sun would rise anew
with unheard music and dances he never did dance.
He lay on the ground as the sun disappeared
and he looked to stars wondering if they cared
as he slipped into the night at the end of his day in the sun.
ECW, Denver, 7/8/2009

a mere shift of attention
and you dare not mention
how the person before you
has melted into god

intellect divine
bitter whines the unplucked grape
wisdom is the wine

is no god, he cries
into his midlife morning
then prays for an answer

silently he sleeps
dreaming of the moon and stars
awake she sees clouds

weightless sparks of light
soaring dreams through silent air
prayers of night flight

and the road goes round
while stumbling through life
on half remembered visions
of being here before
by choice or by chance
deja vu
wandering into the searching eyes
of strangers never known before
or perhaps the only reason you don't recognize them
is because you have forgotten
deja vu
and the road goes round

O, Most Beautiful Spark of Life,
Animator of my Body,
Deepest sense of Self –
Teach me to Love.

O, Most Glorious Being,
Center of all Life,
Of all things manifest –
Teach me to Live.

O, Most Inner Awareness of I,
The center of all that was and is
And is yet to come –
Teach me of You, My God.

you see
and not ask 
how the eye may 
see and can
ask not

naked stands an idle thought 
stripped of shining rays of
action in the darkness of
a cloistered cloth both
mysterious & obscure
crying from the pew
of souls mourning
forgotten hopes
from dim light
praying for
to be
or be
the one
weeping in 
the death &
acceptance of
a blinding faith
binding them to a
tradition of custom
where reason is never
asked & faith is far more 
virtuous than a knowledge
of all the truths & the wisdom 
of the souls who die without god

He remembered being alive
The walks to nowhere where
The sun caught his ruddy cheeks
And arms tasting of sunlight and salt 
Mixed with licks of puppy's breath 
The gentle breeze from the orchard
By the edge of the path
Perfumed with fallen pears
And apples where they lazily lay

He remembered being alive
Till the Dark Angel cast its
Long and chilling shadow 
Across the Autumnal path
Where once he walked to nowhere
Before he forgot ever standing
By the edge of the orchard
Where he never ate the fruit
And the pears and apples lay and rot
~ECW, Denver, 10/19/2008

and the road goes round
while stumbling through life
on half remembered visions
of being here before
by choice or by chance
deja vu
wandering into the searching eyes
of strangers never known before
or perhaps the only reason you don't recognize them
is because you have forgotten
deja vu
and the road goes round

the sweetest of life sits
remembering as metaphor
a second passing
on a park bench
as youth flies against
a father’s loving push
while she sits in the swing
where the sky winds through chains
holding high the princess
in her pale green sweater

Easter week in the chill of the park
buds on the horse chestnut trees
watch as he walks away
with her future in his arms
and the smiling princess
peeps out from under 
a pale green bonnet
and all the young women
push blue white trimmed carriages 
lined with pink or blue

they move quickly past
old men on gray benches
staccato shouts pepper the air
in a single cryptic voice
rising toward the heavens
to the rhythm of a distant siren
in the crack of a baseball
in the snap of a supple wrist
off the throat of a black taped bat
it passes and it passes
in the uncertainty of steel wheels 
humming on wobbling feet
pigeons squabble over spilled jelly beans

there is a bite to the breeze
lifting last year’s leaves
brittle and crisp as a dead man’s future
into the pastels of Easter week 
across the greening park
where the premature budding
perhaps showing their heads too soon
showing their intent too soon
have risen above last year’s hollow
horse chestnut shells
a cruel awakening

it is lighter and vaguely brighter 
for this time of year
for this time of day
the clocks have sprung ahead 
the men on gray benches cannot help
but feel that summer came and flew
on the frayed wings of butterflies 
as all and more was felt
that Easter week
in a second passing
~ECW, Brooklyn (circa early 1970s)

There are so many things in my box 
How many I do not know
I can only tell you it’s lots
Such as how to make my penis grow

There are urgent responses required
There are prizes to claim
And hot girls to meet
Or get a Ph.D. in under a week

There are surveys to take and pills to make
Bigger and better erections
There are Christian loans and sensuous creams 
That come with explicit directions

Ephedra is finally back
Hoodia will get rid of fat
Oprah says it’s a fact
So who would argue that

I could be a genuine genius
Or maybe I should be more studious
There’s a pre-approved credit card notice
Though my credit is somewhat dubious

There are stock opportunities galore
Low rates on the house next door
Get ordained and start a flock
Go to Ebay to get rid of my schlock

Get paid big bucks doing nothing it seems
Get free downloads of amorous scenes
Work from home in my p-jays
Taking naps between surveys

Barrister Bhrama Orama wants to greet me
Christian singles are waiting to meet me
To refuse all these takes gumption
Especially those pills for erectile dysfunction
~ECW, Denver, 5/26/2006