Everybody needs to just listen,
listen to the song in your heart.

Just let the melody, and the harmonies,
and the lyrics pat your back, if your smart.

Because there's nothing better than that language
to lift your spirit so high, it's clean out of sight;

it'll give you the strength to climb up any mountain,
and the comfort of knowing, it's gonna be alright.

But, should your taste in music turn to melancholy,
well, them there blues, may just gonna hafta be your tune;

clove magic

flower of clove
essence of orange
mingling esters in
ether's province

begets a boon
of
boundless olfactory

crisp as flowering
orange blossom's scent
in humid
southern nights

made crisper from
exotica of myrtle's
clove magic

Szygium aromaticum and
Citrus sinensis

one sniff
mind's eye entertains
new horizons

where hate cannot
exist.

vcp

30 December 2010

I want to learn how to purr
release the sound from deep below
the one caught somewhere in my throat
a voice I have but it’s hidden, remote.

It seems my desire has no cure
so I search my voice that you will know
what I’m feeling when my senses float
find passion’s scream I wish to emote.

I know it’s there when my senses blur
a lustful emotion I long to share
beautiful songs I have never written
purring love, I’m your soulful kitten.

Loreli

At Dawn

Droplets of dew
upon velvety petals
evoke intimate memories
of your lingering touch

At Dusk

My parched lips quake
like sun baked soil
come quench my thirst
with your nectars

Come Night

A shooting star
doesn't quicken my desire
it needs the flash
of your lightning touch

The Call

Come drench me
in your showers and hail
let's drowse the embers
in our loins

excuse me...i faced formatting probles..i shall repost

"EXPRESSING ME "
Margaret Ann Waddicor January 2010

There is not least 
an element of panache, 
of the theatrical 

in what I write, 
one dons a garb 
like that of a bard 

and expounds
with a superior vocabulary, 
with a feeling that one is swathing, 

beaming
the mind for all possible remarks 
of dashing value

to impress oneself first, 
to show how well one can dance
this particular waltz 

and does so
with an energy
and excitement 

Time's moments takes it's toll
adding gravitational pull

To a body, so weighed down
His chin can touch the ground

With pain visible on his face
He lives sans his wit, and grace

A life of selfishness, his crime
now sentenced, to a duel with time

And time's blatent tenacity
plus it's control over eternity

Reminds the man how much it's cost
for him to realize what he's lost

So he wears time's final wrath
As he walks life's thorny path

It's really rather humorous,
in a whimsical sort of way
how, "work on my Ibs" sounds like an exercise program,
"Wow, workout only ten minutes a day!"

But, It's neither ibs, nor abs, that I'm addressing here,
it's my irritable bowel syndrome sounds,
that pre-fart situational audio
that's more embarrassing by leaps, and bounds.

I am the assassin
If you see me it’s already
Too late

Can you feel me breathing
Upon your neck
Too late

There won’t be time
For a spine tinkling scream
Too late

Out of the darkness
You will not see me come
I‘m in your head

Look in the mirror
Just to your left
I’m in your head

What was that noise?
In the attic or was it the shed
I’m in your head

.
floating words
of implicity (and sense)
breathed at the pace
of engaged soliloquy
speaking of meaningful excellences
or bewildering travails

then,
refolding that which has been discerned,
back into life's inevitable, inexorable
fluctuations

finality is not the point
never was
never will be