you came to me
and drew me in
the velvet closeness
dark and daring

our plots
and thoughts
like rich veins
thick and singing

the waves of want lapping
thirsty as a stray
and how we played
and now we stay

haunted
extricated
slowly
one bruised leg
at a time

sweet this wind
that seeps
through this

and your touch
lands like a gunshot
hot and stinging
the
equisite graze of
these wounds
another notch
on our scarred hearts

Master, speak for thy servant hears
The assigned tasks taken to the end
Back in time, long ago, I do not know
When it began and what history has to say
On this seemingly low office of mine
Addressed often as aide or servant
Yet, the high and mighty seek to secure
Their positions with a plea to serve

Sounds of skin on silk

break the stillness

as she stirs in her sleep.

His chest heaves, hot and empty.

After their passion, before her sleep,

his pleas for a life together

were spilled before her

in torrents she denied,

in a deluge unabsorbed.

the air hangs stiffly
clouds sharpened by frenzied winds
of change
the contour of devastation
raves against itself in a poem,
colour and contrast strike an
uneasy truce
with the underworld--
to the surface, rise;
the ferry across is sinking fast into
pomegranate seed

my house is not a home, my abode
is not a poem,
a deck of cards
shuffled by some fanciful breeze
and scattered into
a compendium of inner silence
i bear down as If i am giving
birth to time itself:

"WHERE STREAMS FLOW FREE"
Margaret Ann Waddicor may 2011.

Wooded landscapes, trees
where mists caress their leaves
their gentle winds and breeze
sway birds and beasts.

To be bereft of these
what solace sun and heat
no grasses green beneath my feet
no mud
exotic flowers seduce the perfumed air
a shock
the azure turquoise water
oceans edge
green hedges so monotonous
canals
with cormorants egrets alligator threats

Occasionally
I tend to think
selflishly
I believe the world
revolves around me

Complacency
is my cross
comfortably the chains
of unawareness
hold me
the thought
of another's needs
elude my self-involvement

Reality
has the ability
to smack the face
of sureness

I awaken to the fact
that nothing
is written in stone
at any moment
I can lose

(little opening poem):
"A story joyful striking none as cold
needst never find its heroes fierce and bold.
'Tis fortunate such myths seldom unfold
and thence, as luck will grant, my tale's still told."

O, that the child was ne’er conceived at all
nor yet excessive tell his birthing cries
cast not of God, but else God’s nearest ties.
Without he live, none founder ‘neath the pall.

My weakly attempt at free verse

Four wheeled nodes of color
rush frantically to and fro
down dark grey dividers
seperating vertical geometries
of
..pastel brick
...marble white
....concrete gray
...........bones.

A peppering of pigeons
spices the hazy air,
itself a smorgasbord
of ripe aromas

The chili has been simmering
for two hours now,
the rice cold and no phone call, again.
I’ve fed the cat, dog and
helped our budding baby girl with her homework,
made sure she washed behind her ears,
she’s in the bed, but still no call, just the silence of winter’s
end and its cold running though in jarring shivers,
she’s really pushing this trust thing … but she
does deserve any me-time she can get, just wish
she’d call and confirm it, not leave me here waiting
for … knock knock knock,

Horizon

I look to the
vanishing point of my
eclectic life,
self-reflection
stirs memories
of both virtuous quality
and abysmal events.

If I were a coward
I would purge the
horrific occurrences,
one by one, for they
often lead to reopening
past, unrelenting stings.
If I were a weakling
I would flee from these things.