workshop
Hurricane Hugo has it been twenty-years
Has it been twenty-years since Hugo hit
My first child, a son, was three-years, five-months
And my only daughter, at the time, was eight-months
Slept unaware in my bathtub padded with blankets
I knelt before my headboard
Staring out my window
Listening to the howling winds as it sang songs of terror
As the trees swayed in the midnight hours
Listen up now all you guys
the following contains no lies
should you wish to live sans lover
here's some hints you can discover :
Flirting with fate
As she seduces you
With words
That make love
To your ears
Her weapon of choice
An overwhelming
Sense of worthlessness
Bestowed on her
Victims
Effortlessly, she rips
Her prey’s confidence
Without any hope
Of regaining it
Another rerun.....
I've got to go on a crash diet
and grow a head of hair
whatever works, well I shall try it
to keep my head from being bare
I need to trim my mustache neat
and shave 'most every day
and, again, watch what I eat
so some of me will go away
Trim the hair in ears and nose
clip nails on fingers and on toes
use drops to allay bloodshot eyes
work out the jiggle in my thighs
Here within lies
a recollection
of large talons
that tear smooth
creamy flesh
a cadence ricochets
off paint peeled walls
of the clatter as soles
strike dry dirt and stone
blood rushes
two sets of eyes
squint and scan
backs hunched low
only darkness shields
momentary peace
words mumbled
in restless sleep
betray the vessel
of secrets deep
burial crypt
posterity's portal
reveals a clue
gravestone cipher
the silent cue.
poetry written is for poet first
only person who must be pleased
stretching words thin
tantalizing them to mean
what they mean
beyond what they mean
word play --
not a contact sport
but for firing neurons
skipping electro-chemical light
in darkness of skulls
critics pick and pull
poet's words
stack opinion upon opinion
losing meaning
perhaps only poet knows
poet just keeps writing
for him or herself --
most ruthless of critics.
"BLACK MOON" or the end of the world as we know it.
Margaret Ann Waddicor Novmber 13th 2010.
Black moon,
your glow eclipsed,
the clouds lit by the flare
from burning lights of cities,
towns;
weep,
weep your tears
of sorrow,
for on the morrow
weeds will form,
in place of life,
its vigour
and lacking daylight,
wither.
On a top floor balcony I sit
in our great east coast city
as the night fades into day
among concrete business monoliths
The last few visible stars fade
into skies turning slowly black to gray
all silent save a lone street cleaner
slowly chugging down empty streets
Sun still drowned by tattered ocean
although under lighting horse tail cirrus clouds
with a soft saffron glow
alongside cris-crossed contrails
She's empty, a recepticle ,translucent.
No obvious personality ,
Deconstructed.
She is battered and bruised
Misused.
Frightened to emerge.
terrified he might see.
Playing dead, guarding
her sanity.
defending a personal reality.
Recieving body blows,
crushing all self esteem.
Grinding her to a tiny nub.
Tiny crumb of self
remains, .Something to hold onto.
When all else has fled.
Deafening waves of blood
Pounding in my ears
The quiet noise
Sudden darkness fills my eyes
Rising on the flux of my panic
It was the clatter of my clutter
Flowing in rushing rivulets
Down the banks of my life’s stream
Washed to the brink
Of eternity’s open maw
The crash cart enters
Harshly inducing
My reentry into the now
Briefly dead
But now reborn
Giving me two birth dates
* Due to a stomach ulcer, an artery burst. I died and was revived. This is my first poem on this experience. Cat.
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