The stream (all workshops)
"THE SOUNDS OF SPRING"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 23rd March 2011.
The hollow sound of sticks on ice,
the ski sticks on the snow,
the wail of winds in crevices,
this winter's going slowly on to spring,
where winds still howl their ditties
deep within the bushes, forests, wilds,
and down beneath the cover white,
the gurgling brooks take up the strain
and with them sounds the rain,
Tracing pain…
Hurtful skin tight
tired and taught
his pain dampened
no I’d say it’s not,
each line contoured
like a craggy heath
never to see
what lies beneath.
Draw the pencil
make it speed
don’t drag those
lines deep in deed,
spare the rod I hear
from his past, he
never slept first
night or last.
The voices in my head spake thus:
"Pray heed a word from all of us
should what we prate to you make sense
as host we deem you somewhat dense
'Tis folly to believe we're real
to banish us would be ideal
we're products of your fantasy,
your own authentic fallacy
We're sexless; neither gents nor dames
and so we have no need of names.
as playmates we have little worth
we're in your head, not on your earth
So many of them are gone now
those old men who fought the fight
who saw the beaches and the snow
soaked in blood so red and bright.
Young boys were called and thus they went
with no doubt of where they stood
to see their friends and buddies rent
and felled in the hedges and the woods.
Then on to free the walking dead
from death's fearful fiery factories,
visions ever wedged within their heads
of ash dumps and spewing chimneys.
Look at me
What do you see
are you able to see what is truly me
Could you see more?
More than a face
More than a voice
More than a man
Do you see what might be
Have you seen all that i am
My being unique as all others
To walk a mile in the shoes
of those who see what is unseen
My voice my words
Hidden from all but those who seek
Whispers with such intensity
They reach beneath my skin
There they remain..
a reminder of whispers that touch me
Spring, wakes
shakes her head,
salutes the sun,
washes her face
in the dew of the morning
stretching her arms
she embraces
the new day, it's
a good day
for a rebirth.
Sometimes in the tired darkness,
stumbling on a grasp of yearning
older than times spent
in remnant memories,
stars wonder at my absence,
their shine so cold
above a crescent moon
adrift in ragged clouds
as air grows cool
across forgotten prairies.
It whispers through the unseen trees
and I,
a thousand miles from ocean,
from life,
listen to the rush of wind
and ache,
remembering salt air,
the gleam of moonlit water
and the sound of surging sea.
fall into pools of swirling merriment
shirk substitutes that others recommend
firm in the knowledge of purest joy
your visage clear in mind, no mental toy
stab with wanton thrusts this warm caress
reveal dream's scorn amid phobic duress
with fiery brand your chariot swift - protect
lunar spheres in shaded ponds - thoughts collect
tinge red this broken tune - unbroken still
wave its braided locks on crested hill
press in, unhearing ears to hear each cry
reveries opalesce, no longer dry
I oft venture where there is no trail
along steep hill sides and rugged ridges
on old legs that are far from hale
I ford lone streams that have no bridges.
Most times I find myself alone,
the mass of mankind far away,
as I travel through these lands unknown
by those with faces pale and grey.
By traveling where the paths are rare
I've sometimes tripped and even fell
snagged by the vines and stump holes there
while walking beyond the peaceful dell.
there is a dream in my window
stirring in the frost corner
there is a cloak of wonder
waiting on my door
at the touch
the craze that humble
rises
I feel the wear like wings
healed
I hoard the words
that echo in the empty
chamber
and stitch holes where
blackness flew
and scarred the night
like bleeding comets
between our common-health
how the distance
the distance great
smoulders like a beam
borne bridge
and I taste your love
and I taste your hate
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