W.C.W. "Dichotomy" Book / sample poetry


It’s clear that this poet, can believe in each moment,
and write Dichotomy from the heart.
Important philosophies, which really ought to be,
dealt with alone, and apart,
coming to life, like husband and wife,
in an odd marriage of prose.
Like extolling the beauty of a mistress’s nudity,
and the hymn she sings in the throes.
It’s true and it’s real, a feeling to feel,
when the time is at hand.
And facing that fact, is just staying on track,
the track that a master planned.
Examples never cease, like fighting for peace,
and , or, crimes of passion.
I promise, no lies, with crossed fingers and thighs,
in hand on my heart candid fashion.
Picture the detail, trying to trace the trail
of a butterfly flutter.
And the poets cosmos, lit like a dose,
with one foot in the gutter.
The creative wind blows, and the artist mind goes,
through any gate it pleases.
Maybe even the gates of hell, dancing to angel’s bells,
while contemplating Jesus.
Therefore dichotomy is almost they caught me,
hanging pearls on Galatea’s throat.
In a twisted relation, of justification,
living up to, by, and for, what I wrote.




I'm an animal,
live by the jungle rule,
going to hard knock school,
hungry - but cool.

Yes I've got my beside,
my  get up,  off  beat,  free  ride.
Puzzled by the nice thing.
The love thy neighbor - sugar spice thing.

Oh I could cry of  needing  love.
Heartbreaking - brain eating stuff.
But I'd rather say how rough I play,
and see if you decide to stay

with an animal,
living by the jungle rule
and justice of the hard knock school.
Hungry - but cool

There's always something better,
as there's always something worse,
gotten by  go getter,
you know that  of course

because you're an animal!
Live by the jungle rule.
Post graduate of  hard knock school,
Hungry - but cool.







When I’m blending with my lover, put no music or words on the stereo.
I want to hear, crystal clear, memories of this one, of just begun.
That’s all I want to know.

And the sound, between the moans, of the wetness, doing what it does…
and a light squeaking from somewhere, moving with us,
in the still air.

Mix in the distant sound of cars, in the afternoon, passing by,
or low rolling thunder, and rain, falling from the night sky.

And sometimes a breeze whispering in the trees and grass,
as it brushes past, our blanket in the sun, where we’re having fun.

And sometimes the rush and shush of the waves of the ocean, matching our motion,
and singing the song of the timeless love, we’re enjoying a tiny taste of,
in our emotional and physical harmony, the finest  music composed in eternity.





Between my fragile temples
a winding path meanders
about and betwixt the miraculous
birth and decay of all the events of
life and love and truth and soul
which I have and haven’t witnessed.
My own inner light wanders the
labyrinthine way like a torch
carried by a spirit from temple to temple
passing behind my eyes
sending out a glow
not of knowing
but of longing for
further turns and visions
of the wise.




Before the rain, before the dark, before the flood and blackout,
the waves of the bay at high tide amazed me
by the power, and the weight so tossed about.
“Why the smashing? Why the crashing?
Are you angry?” I thought out loud.
“NO!” roared the surf,
“and I am not depressed, nor am I proud.
I only respond to the forces, as you do. Just as you do”
In awe, I wondered why such a great thing,
with no emotion, could stir my mind.
Here I’m listening to an ocean,
driven by the moment’s wind,
and searching inside to find
answers to my wonder,
amid the roiling, like cold boiling,
and hard landing thunder.
“You cannot stop me. You can barely stay atop me,
unless I’m smoothing, pacific and soothing,
when only the wind can chop me.
I glimmer without joy. I sink without sorrow.
Predictably unpredictable.
Even red skies will not reveal my tomorrow.”
How can I learn from these heartless words
from a thing so powerful and vast?
A thing so sure to affect even more fates in the future,
than it has in all of the past.
I’m so insignificant. I’m so small.
I must be humble. Humble. That’s all.



Choose, chose, chosen, have I,
for experience, to express,
preferring the forbidden path, to,
anybody’s guess.
Why? Is asked, and, How dare you?
As safety runs and stumbles.
“I am an artist,” thinks I inside.
“I write when the thunder rumbles.”
Let me sail on a ship with holes,
as I fear black water deep.
Let me test my aging heart,
dangling far past I could leap.
Let me feel, as I felt as a boy,
on a midnight runner’s caper,
injecting my blood with adrenaline,
to drip out on this paper.
Let me sing out, “I can help,”
as broke, I beg not a dime.
Let me see if I can save myself,
and put it into rhyme.
Signs I notice all about,
coach me to industry,
but the artist inside
wants a reckless ride.
A primitive version of free.
All the wrongness, and the rightness,
it’s the principles I tell.
I live to learn, to be me now.
I am what I have to sell.
You won’t try me? Just won’t but me?
All the more to drain out my pen.
Then only in notice, as before,
without the where or when.
Why? Is asked, and, How dare you?
As safety runs and stumbles.
”I am an artist,” thinks I inside.
“I write when the thunder rumbles.”



Was It A Dream?

Was it a dream that I found a book,
a fantastic book, hidden in a secret place,
whose unmarked cover promised to bring me face to face,
with truth and hypocrisy?
Things that I might, and things that I might not want to see?
It doesn’t matter, somehow. Once the book was opened,
the mystic wind blew the pages at a wild, and random rate.
Sometimes they changed much too fast. Other time I’d had enough,
had to look away, I couldn’t wait.

Each and every page that turned, the next one wondered if I’d learned,
and if I’d noticed where the book was then.
Because it was where the book floated, in a spot, in a scene,
that made it clear, what those pages mean.
And the chapters would blow by, and the contents of the pages would fly,
out, and build another world.

I could see my own countenance, on characters, on both sides of
an invisible fence. Offence. Defense.
My face on a statue, only seeing in one direction.
My face on an owl, looking behind me.
My face on a monk, looking from the sky, to the floor.
My face on both sides of every door.
My face on a cow, looking, chewing grass.
My face on a tiger, calmly tearing a squirming, bloody mass.
Every thing turned into me, and made me ask if I could be,
Any piece of that revealed, or if I was already, whether shown, or concealed.

The pages blew, and the scene where the book was morphed,
And the book was somewhere else, and else again.
And the pages blew, and the time when the book was changed,
And the book was some when else, and again else when.

I saw myself old, wrinkled and dented.
Then I was a soul searching, a person, not yet invented.
I was a sinner who falsely repented.
Then I was a victim, and a criminal, resenting, and resented.
And the mystic wind blew me through other worlds.
And the pages exploded with timeless learning.
Pages and pages, and pages, of questions burning.
With countless answers, all right, all wrong.
And ever the wind sang it’s truest song.
The book mocked time, with reason and rhyme.
Forward and back. Quick and slack. Twist and wrack.
I lost track. Just when I was trying to be clever.
How can I be enough, ever?
Still, I can never, never forget the book.


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