The stream (all workshops)
when the clouds up there stop playing across,
will love still be in the air or it will then carry a cross?
though it was a complicated thing that never rely on a toss,
still it just colors my will to move on for my cause.
love indeed has no walls,no rules,no laws..
but when its part is broken,what's gone? what's lost?
though chances are just playing...moving and tossing across,
still i'll move on for my cause even if i'm to carry a cross..
SIXTY SIX
No fresh adventures, no new tricks,
I've done it all - I'm sixty six.
The world is small, I've seen the sights,
Been around it, once or twice.
My senses blunted, all seems bland,
Next holiday - The Rio Grande?
It seems there's nothing new out there
To make me wonder; stand and stare.
My birthday; should I just be pleased
That I'm still here and not deceased.
I've seen it all, and yet, again,
My Love, you touch me, and it's Spring!
A web has been spun
around the world
wide as imagination
making possible what
beforehand took years
Many other modes of
communication and
intercourse have fallen
almost by the way side
and flies come in droves
thirsting for much more
What spider lurks we
can only conceptualise
What dangers we
can scarce visualise
But what remains as
it was in antiquated
human conversation
is that in all this closeness
in-each-others' faces
we are truly still alone.
Words silken
Feel the words move minutes to hours,
see them scatter across turned pages
Hear the sound of their magic powers.
carrying us from here through ages.
Nature's gift is given to us beings,
writers be praised of every ilk
Describing for us just what we’re seeing.
life given to blank sheets in words of silk.
Slaying every mythical ogre or giant,
easily with cut from strongest will.
No fear of consequence or reprisal,
it shall be written, with an honest quill.
Old age is something that I scorn;
the ache of limbs and frailty
is definitely not for me,
I will not spend my time forlorn,
remembering regretfully.
I will fight advancing age,
make war upon decrepitude,
enjoying every interlude
of life up to the final stage
of my own stubborn attitude.
No dread will haunt my final years,
I scorn the terror death does hold
upon those who are grey and old,
whose dignity fades and hope dissapears
in the face of growing doubts and fears,
Don’t lie to me
Nothing you say now will ever touch me
Nor will it affect me like before
When the wintry cold storm of your anger
Burned like frost between my toes
I don’t get it
No amount of ridiculing will make me see it
Nor will it help me get the jokes
When the bluster of your words
Move me from my peaceful state
Behind my bastions of cement and brick
Swords and daggers safeguard my heart
Fighter planes loaded with denials
Create a no fly zone over my fortress
When you try to tear down my wall
We love you son, we'll see you soon
as the bed is rolled out of the room
along with drip bags
monitors
drowsy cargo
of one of the last of my line
my son
So down the sterile halls we go
the only noise muted footfalls
echoing off the pastel walls
of worry
Transformation of Energy
I don't know much,
About the nuances of poetry
But one thing is for certain,
All energy is indestructible,
For ever it’s under transformation,
My minds eye
Opens your eyes
And
My poem transforms
Into a script,
Energy continues to transform,
Bit by bit...
bite thick this flesh
arc bright the flash
of blade
where frost steams
beneath springs
rapture
and bird dark rain
winds cascade
life for buried seed
"FLYING AWAY FROM USA"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th March 2011
Bland without a hand, a heart,
a head,
numbed by the sudden bereavement,
left,
bent in two
my seat belt fastened;
beneath
the inner feelings and sensations
rise,
like weed disturbed by sea's
deep tides,
once glowing blue
now grey, insipid drawn
along the bay,
where shells cast magic spells for me,
for you,
their voices joined in unison
now wail.
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