Emotionally in a void
Bereft of feeling pain
Cutting oneself inwardly -
again and again

Moments of mutilation
Once perceived as magic
Now forlorn memories
Only seen as tragic

Anything to garner sensation,
Revert back to pain!
Rather than this lifeless apathy
The feeling of Nothing...
all over again.

Bjr 8 May '11

stone against stone
the great backbone
written from the works
of ice

the glacial tales
spun

and winter small
melts in parking lot edges
the moraine feilds
of coloured scraps

You endured so much pain
to bring me into this world
You had tears of joy in your eyes
when on your face, I cuddled and curled.

You fed me and cleaned me
And amused me when I cried
had it not been for you mom,
I would have surely died.

I spoke in a language
that only you could perceive
I wonder how you deciphered my needs
when I was not able to speak !

You were the happiest person on earth
when you heard the first word I spoke
You taught me my first alphabet
and held my hand when I wrote.

My careful paces, three to the second, carry me

across the worn, regular plates of the footbridge; a slight give,

spring, a dull noise that dies, and if I pause to look

over the rail into the slack, dark backwater,

the black-to-silver flash of heron-bait fry

flickers against the turvy tree and the negative sky.

I know that by the hedges at the far side of the bridge,

where an old gate leans, black flies will be haze-hanging,

trailing their lazy legs in the air, and that I might be taken

In the heady, bloody diffusion
of iridescent, sinking afternoon sun,
the solid, thick chest of the red gum,
with its multitude of long gnarled arms
stretched in an arthritic attempt to touch eternity,
ever so slowly turns various shades
of convivial rosy-brown,

until,
catching the final rays of Sol's dying white,
they strike a splash of caramel-golden light,
to paint the worn, tired, pale canvas behind,
its colour used up in the day's heat of history creation,
hues of shining ochre,

"UP&DOWN UP&DOWN"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 8th May 2011.

See saw she saw
what she didn't oughta
the tailors daughter in ...
well its a slaughter of her pose
her panty hose tangled
and earrings so spangled
ends up on her toes.

No one knows
but she's pregnant
it doesn't show yet,
but the town is awaiting her bet
cos she's one that's around
all the beds of the land
yes you bet.

Holidays are quite the "breed"
promoting reasons to "toast" a day,

some of them we do not need
but, celebrate them...anyway.

This one, made for my dear Mom
shifts my memory into high gear,

if I remember right, when I am calm
I can remember every year!

She's been right there, everytime
fate's hurled at me, a curve,

we've celebrated time's, sublime
and times when I've lost my nerve.

Accompanied me, when I was, right
been there when I've been, wrong;

You may very well remember
a tale I've been known to share,
about the King of all the Gnomes, gnamed Fred;

he's finally gnow home
from his instant, "time share",
in a "gated community", where he felt, decidedly "dead".

Highly unfortunate
Fred's terrible bad luck,
it had such a twisted, ironic "vibe";

he paid his toll, alright
and was spirited, away
for giving a man in uniform a "bribe"!

A warm breeze,
caresses her body,
touching all,
in places seldom seen.

Eyes closed,
capturing fantasy,
hands follow,
the path of lovers,
leaving fingers wet.

Baring all,
teeth clinched,
her breath stolen,
as hands remember,
forgotten ecstasies.

A pleasure reborn,
in erotic moments,
her form quivers,
sweat beads her brow.

Freedom in silence,
now broken,
primal screams,
nails tear skin.

sixteen isn't pretty
not the way magazines or
i imagined it to be
at her age i was mourning
black like crows
crowding palm trees-
she is too

we both wonder
how a hollow tree feels
when left to stand on its own
no leaf returns
it stretches
no shadows towards
welcoming sun

she writes it out
all the pain
all the parts
she isn't ready to say

my poetry is
like thinly veiled threats
constantly thrown
against my hope