The stream (all workshops)
It was November the last time you touched me.
It was November and the leaves had done their changing.
Winter was calling, coaxing them to curl,
beckoning brown where Autumn had lit them.
In my head you are still at the foot of my bed.
One lightbulb humming golden on our skin.
This is how memory moves.
You are long and you are pale
but I remember you pink.
So you are pink. You are a poison.
Do you remember me laying on the floor that night?
I stripped and skinny dipped
down into your eyes
the night you left me.
Cold, cold, murky waters,
deep black sockets.
Your hands were in your pockets.
I rose trembling on your shore.
perhaps a stupid thing
laughable, yes
but frustration is intricate
it's web works in mysterious ways -
for example:
a deck of cards.
a game, just a game i said
then i said it again
if you don't say it, it can't be true
so the reverse must work as well.
* Here goes scribbler traveling unfamiliar territory again. Another attempt at poetic prose...........stan
Knocked off today an hour early
(old knee was screaming way too loud.)
Between it and such warm March first
there was excuse aplenty.
So down the old two lane road I went
eyes roaming through the dirty windshield
of my old red pick up truck.
All the maples had a blush
as buds prepared to open.
Or maybe they had just wakened
and were embarrassed at having spent
the past winter naked.
"GAMBOGE LICHEN WALK"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 2nd March 2012.
The wood that walks the path towards the lake has wind-
felled trees, they block the path, we have to make a detour
treading on the top of frosted crystals, a thousand diamonds glow
no more the wooden bridge rocks loudly as we pass, 'tis solid too;
Very true
In war
none is ever killed by a bullet
as all fire in the darkness
only shells wound.....
snipers are not worth their salt
if they don't kill
one for one,
may be injure another
with the same single bullet
Ricocheted
I am thus.....
each poem of mine
must touch the heart
in such a manner
that tears must flow
else, my poetry ought to blow
The dead follow you sometimes
where mountains are lost
in a white avalanche of poems;
they wear keys around their necks
and you hear them jingle sometimes
but you think of windcatchers
and catch a waft of dirt from somewhere
deep inside another memory, filling your
nostrils with the scent of olive trees and
strawberry blossoms.
You read poems to old gods and lovers you
barely remember and pigeons follow your
crumbs, warming themselves in your breath.
thin winds
arouse
the bitter itch
douse the clamour
taste the touch
light fall down your
crooked hall
where smiles wither
drape the pooled sighs
with vellum promise
and feel the satin
heat of lonesome thighs
valley burden
rich and haunted
pooled like ready wheat
the swirl of your hair
at daybreak whisper
When traffic lights turn green from red
And cars stopped at the front and back
Careful, not to drive your mind out
Unruliness messes it all
When a police officer jumps in
Pretends he is right, accuses you
Falsely of contravening rules
Extortion is behind his moves
You know what he says is not true
But to swindle for his own gain
He must return home with some cash
Or drink away from his exploits
AGUA
você é agua
caindo por entre
os dedos.
rio fugindo
não sabendo
onde se parar
WATER
You are water
Falling
Between my fingers
A river fleeing
Not knowing
Where
To stop
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