Own or gift an original poem of award-winning poet and novelist Eric Vance Walton!

Eric Vance Walton

Own or gift an original poem of award-winning poet and novelist Eric Vance Walton!

Own or gift an original work of award-winning poet and novelist Eric Vance Walton. These make great and unique gifts for all occasions. 


One poem for $20 or two poems for $30.  After two poems are purchased each additional poem is $15. (same order only)

Poem prints are mailed in 8 x 12″ format on parchment paper, ready and suitable for framing.


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The Cubicle Jungle

Eric Vance Walton

Working in the close quarters of the modern office environment can be more difficult than you think. Below are a few tidbits of wisdom to help navigate you safely through the pitfalls of the cubicle jungle.


Homo-Cubiclus – An often intelligent but sedentary creature who sits in a tiny three walled office for 8 to 10 hours a day. These creatures survive on various forms of fried pastry, sugar and caffienated beverages and frequently daydream of places far, far away.

Listed below are some, but not all varieties of Homo-Cubiclus:


Besmircher – One who has mastered the art of twisting every conceivable positive into a negative. You often feel like washing up after encountering a besmircher.


Besmoocher – One who cozies up to the boss or high ranking cubicle-mate at every opportunity and then is the first to talk about him/her like a dog when he or…

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Madison Avenue Marionettes

So spellbound
we count
Dollars in
our dreams

We chase dollars
while wearing
invisible collars and
Strings from our limbs,
Dance, dance
Madison Avenue

Marching to
someone else’s tune,
An ear worm
So cunning
That we swear and
be damned it’s
Our own

We follow the piper
Right into
A self-imposed
prison cell
While all we really have,
this singular moment,
passes forever
from our distracted eyes

Not enjoying nearly as
much as we oughta be
While the most
precious commodity
Time, our time

Become Fluent in truth
An incongruent sleuth
You won’t fit their plan
But you’ll be a (wo)man
Who still has time, your time.

~ Eric Vance Walton ~

This Poem

Here I am, writing this poem
When hundreds of other things
Scream out for my attention

As Autumn’s bluster
Rustles the treetops
Waving red, orange and gold
Here I am, writing this poem

The hairs on the back
Of my neck rise in the air, electric
Sending shivers
Never have I felt more alive,
And it feels like this every time

When the words are right
They flow on
Like some lazy river
Sourced in a land faraway
That just never runs dry

Here I am, writing this poem
And in a hundred years from now
Some stranger, yet to be born, will Read these words and share the Same moment, will be intrigued
But not know why

They’ll have hundreds
Of other things
Screaming out for their attention
But there they’ll be,
Reading this poem.

~ Eric Vance Walton ~

Memories of the Sun


smothered in this deep winter bleakness
as the sun walks away from us
an ancient journey to be traveled once again

but I will hold fast in my memory the days
when it seemed close enough to pull from the sky
and whisper to

I remember each moment it warmed us
and the wondrous twilight when we squinted
as it danced broad along the water’s edge

these memories of the sun,
they will offer me solace through the gathering darkness
as we patiently await the lushness of the equinox
with a certain feigned indifference that fools no one.




~ Eric Vance Walton ~