Poem 146

Hey poets. School has been kicking my bum! Hope to write more soon…
A woman came in to the library today and needed help printing her poems as gifts. They were simple but I was inspired by her blissful writer-glow. I need to write more, in a small way it’s more important than anything else

nonleapyears

In case of wax flowers

know this—we are well thread

in the eyelashes of all things                     &this

hardly a coincidence we have

the same hair—espresso except

in summer, forever lovelier remembered

&this

heavier with time, unfolded over and over

&this

hollow quiet space which I filled w/ sleep-signs

ah-feather-be we wander wishful, pinkytied

&quiet

something humble this way grows

from the earth we come wide-eyed except

in summer, when our mouths are open &this

is the quietest place we can be: together

holding out for rain

&rain&rain&rain

—ECW

Poem 79

from last spring… it was spring today so it seemed appropriate
A cucumber could not taste as sweet
As arm hairs in a long forgotten breeze
Carrying chattering laughter of weather and what not
Across untidies—ever eager spring—comes grass
From eye level the down low dirt colors summerness
Becomes the pressures on elbows straining this afternoon’s
Latest failed attempt at slashing to to-do list
Waiting for the sun to prefer certain patches, clockwork
The excuses to-do nothing collect armies
Of cross hatched spear-seedlings: a barracks
Against the wide view of impending calendar crossing
–ECW

Poem 53

no matter where i go, nevada will always be home

 

All the history I know

is the way the dust blows

cutting at the face of the earth.

Conflict-construct deducts

from the sand-sculptors I find

to capture filthy the free—

Send off didactic calligraphy—

the lights seem to me brighter in my wisdom.

Boyhood and summer becomes them; I am

not a boy… I can’t appreciate this moment:

westward-boot leather-toe, like you can.

Wrinkled furrows of manifest, resent not

only the meager syllabic meanderings of verse

or worse, the sounds of unraveling

minds. mines. Mine. We don’t speak

of the syrup we pulled from the Rockies—

Instead revel in man’s triumphant sun-bulbs

blushing dry meadows with life. Nothing survives

but we—ay sayers—dehydrated sipping on silver.
–ECW