I'm a bitch
Jump in feet first
and think later.

Volatile witch 
quick to anger,
Curse and fight.

Someone attacks me 
they live to regret It
they will never forget it.

Filled with self loathing
Brimming with remorse,
Overflowing with regret.

Not to proud to admit
When I'm wrong,
Even when my foots in my mouth.

there is no cure
for this melodrama
there is blood on my fingers
where i touched your wounds,
you said we all have them
and some are well-hidden
some follow us with hound-dog eyes
inconsolable and lonely for his master,

the spirit of the wind
shakes the dream catcher
halfway to paradise

the parchment of this poem,
an unspoken sin
that catches fire,
our ashes rising,
sing.

The flame in me
Which burns
Endlessly
Is about to be quenched
Awaiting my need
Is my love

On wings of gossamer
I fly like the birds
That migrate home
After winters cold
To the warmth
That touches me
Deep within my
Soul

Our love is a volcano
Erupting
Taking us beyond
The highest
Chakra
And holding us
In bliss

Unlikely-like personified!
Guess who joined me in my realm!?!
The "lass" from Impressionatomy
has returned to overwhelm.

These days it doesn't take too much
for me to end up all "twitter-twirl",
I'm known in these parts for ruining topics
when talking to, or in front of a girl!

Who could even say, "why" she'd return
maybe last time seemed like, fun!
She's either brave, or awful dumb
most others would've turned to run!

peppermint pole spirals

"open
three chairs
no waiting"

"who's next?"

doesn't matter
the old guys like hanging around

politicians to tear up
wagers to concoct
old stories to embellish
jokes to repeat
even some gossip now and then
and obituaries
lots of them
bragging rights
tall tales
and damned lies

no woes though
men don't "talk"

He keeps to himself
A stranger in his own skin
Wearing society’s rejection
As a winter coat

He spits out the taste
Of sour failure
Awaiting the moment
To spread his wings
Out of this nightmare
That seems to
Never end

He writes nightly
Until his journal
Runs out of pages

He listens
As people call him
Awkward

His room is a sanctuary
That plays host
To Creativity’s offspring

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

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