The stream (all workshops)
Well beyond one hundred feet below
until about eighty years ago
sat a little southern textile town
and it sits there still, only drowned
It drew its power from the river
running looms made the old mill quiver
a mill, houses, school and church
a little store and river birch
Each week they'd work for six full days
amid machines, loud noise and cotton haze
Sundays were church, picnics and baseball games
all knew the players and their names
Come out come out…
Do not chase facts in the book of god,
they’ll not be found only ever sought.
Like a castle made of finest sand,
those grains of truth run out of hand.
He could not save a man made monster,
only standing by to watch the melt.
His believing ministers are on full tilt,
trying futilely to convince us how we felt.
No he can only make appearance when,
his standing is of a mad desperate need.
No guidance he gives on logical outcome,
the poor he chases with fears to feed.
the man who is my neighbour
draws mouthfuls of tobacco
from curved stem of his pipe
the curve cools the smoke
he smiles and the puff is
beautiful; an aura around his head
i think of my grandmother in her chair
laugh out loud at the molecules that
held her together for ninety seven years
she was once a little girl who
kissed a boy for the first time
i am also amazed that distance
equals rate, times, time and am
dumb-struck by the square root
of minus one
With the pieces of a heart
I built you paper airplanes
Hoping you could fly far away
In all this darkness
I beg the sun to send some rays
So that a smile can give you hope
No more hiding in empty stalls
This time you will smell flowers
Rather than watch passion as it freezes
I know that this world ripped out your soul
And your poor heart tried to be strong
All you could do is raise your arms to surrender
enact
this sun gown warms
streamer lightness
like a halo
adversity is empty
shelved with
motes of touch
I thought I knew
loves striations
falling like spring
snow
sedimentary values
I hear water trickling
and I can feel the falls
jagged rock and foam
freshets
the heart shaped sweetness
a glad smile
that lightness of being
and nights joy burns
like tracer rounds
my heart kicking
and I dream Im
hunting
Manouver Neo ship
guide it through the turbulence
using your rudder
Set it on course
of a wonderful voyage
for those on the Board
You are the sailors
in whom we have laid our trust
deservedly so
So set up the sails
in the chosen direction
give the wheel a heave..
Walking between the silver rail
Where engines run on turbine sails
.crunch clop, crunch clop .
I pick 'em up and put 'em down
Miles and miles from nearest town
.crunch clop
Legs swinging with a steady beat
In a pleasant spring day's heat
. . . .
No idea where the track is bound
through this forest all around
. . .
Where ever it decides to go
Is better than behind I know
. . .
I walk and walk and drink and drink
And never ever,ever think
..
This poem is not about myself!!!!
"BONES BRITTLE"
Margaret Ann Waddicor March 23rd 2011.
Bones brittle, the mettle of old age is weak,
and sleeps in cushioned sinews strained,
the bearded feathered strands of hairs
from places yet unknown, sprout,
the cheeks and breasts hang limpid down
and wrinkles show the bends,
filling to burst with the fluids drained
from here to there by stretching limbs
that crack and groan in painful grey disdain.
Give thanks for the courage
to be who you are,
Feel unashamed of your emotions.
Niceness is not a dirty word.
Gain strength from your vulnerabilities,
fuck those who don’t value and are
blind to your worth.
Learn from your mistakes,
If you allow yourself to be trodden on ,
Then make way for the oncoming stampede.
`
On a hand-hewn pedestal
imagination coalesced;
on milk-white face alight
eyes sparkle with a liquid flame.
Some build ivory towers,
these hands raw from driven labour,
on scratched cheeks a stricken eye
ransoms a sculpted orphan dream.
Across time and Middle Sea
another calloused hand chiselled;
laughter on a pine-white face
resurrected an ailing heart.
Some can only imagine
what others have without trying;
when vicarious journeys fail,
reality's block they assail.
`
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