at the root of motherhood
the dawn of civilization
how could I have mistaken
God for my father and cut the
throat of the Magdalene?

the burden of the sky is to bear no defense against
the weavers of treachery,
words are pulp fiction
and pronounced in syllables
with the accent on denials,

recruit the marching flowers with the sing-song of
the drum, its rhythm a temple in an oasis where
priests fornicate with their sinless prayers
and the wealthy masturbate with spoils of ill-begotten gain

you said you wrote
to become popular and i
scratched my head
knowing
that very thing
isn't achievable

with your ego intact
as hard as needles on a porcupine
i suspect your sting wounds

she reminds me of
how classicists took ordinary
and made ugly perfect
how you took her with words
turned her from who she was
to madonna with child
so vividly white
everyone forgot marble is cold

IF FLOWERS STILL BLOOM IN BEIRUT

A chill cuts through my valley,
There's whispers on the wind,
The air is rife with rumours:
Tonight more boys are coming in!

Silently, in pairs or single:
Some are men, some hardly boys.
Some, with money in their pockets,
Some, with bullets in their toys.

Too young to understand their orders,
But the children living there
Know death comes across the borders:
Fear hangs heavy in the air…

I broke the break
the bond
this weakness

youve flooded
me where I dwell
but I can swim

and well

and My Mermaid
guide will smile

so I set you down
with the greatest respect
you glittering phrase
your thick upset

and bravely weakly
find my strengths
in surrendering

In days of youth and out to eat
each full of jokes and words and tales
we enjoyed this little weekly treat
while watching an old gray couple

They hardly say a thing at all
amid the restaurant noise and bustle
she's kind of short, he's not too tall
sitting in their booth cocoon

A near table erupts with raucous song
someone's birthday celebration
she nudges him, they smile, not long
turn attention back to one another

swimming with the sharks
or splashing in the pool
olympic in size or not

the idea is to get the feet wet
look,
there's a poem wiggling
(it's not a toe)
don't let it get away!

Good luck, splash, olympic and shark poolers, have fun and let's learn something. I admit I know little of the logistics about creating poetry; hopefully I can up my game to the next level.

"AM I TOO TAME"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 15th May 2011.

Am I too tame, too sentimental, too sweet,
told that I was sweet last week,
I reacted thinking, is that ALL.

Do I want to be sweet,
and what does that really mean anyway.

I also wish to be bold
and take a challenge in the blood-stained world
of the young
with their horror-loving minds aglow
with dirt and splendour.

Or do I.

Imperfect Future

Now, I fear, my age I show
By being fat and bald and slow.
I have no way to combat time
But hope to please you with this rhyme.

I dream about those years gone by,
When you and I were young and spry,
My memories still warm and clear,
Exciting times with you, my dear.

My student days, that grubby flat,
The swinging sixties, we cool cats
The night we met, our lives entwined,
These treasures kept fresh in my mind.

There are snails in my aquarium,
they eat and inch along the glass.
Fish don't harass or bother them
nor watch them as they slowly pass.

They slink along and slide about
within their mobile homes of shell,
creep like a bent old man with gout.
Yet they seem to do just swell.

But every once in a great while
these plodding, plain and mundane snails
turn loose and stretch and maybe smile?
and through the water they set sail!

here
hear
phantom photons
plunk and bounce
across a skull
made of space
and a small reflective buzz
looking for something to do

deciding to entitize
...to become something
a mouse, a snake,
or a poet
come what may