i.

I suck at being holy.
Can't write poetry worth a damn,
I can't pump sunshine up my blanks
or my blind side. My mileage will
always vary.

Can't help but think the world is no more than a rock
in a hard place,
torpedoing out in space, hurtling to some final destination,
each and every being thinking the answer is
written in pure poetry, holy prophecy or
monetary concurrency.

Asking questions already answered
in a desperate quest to clinch a dream
by the skin of a tooth.
That is how life is like,
for any one born in a cage.

You see the ends,
and know the forced limits,
but when darkness falls
and your eyes fail you,
you ask the slave-master

"How far will you let me go?"

Oscillating like a pendulum,
eternal in the timed swing:
you are set to and fro,
and that is all you know.

Coles doesn't stock spinach anymore
sometimes you can find it in the cans
but it doesn't come in bunches

I don't know what a spinach plant looks like
so I'd Google it

***

I want to find out what finding out is
where's the screws on my iPod?
my mobile?

how do you use a thesaurus?
I know it's not alphabetised like a dictionary
isn't there a search tab?

***

I can't remember what a stone looks like
in my hands, touching me

It was indeed
a great day for me ,
when you passed by my solitary lane,
somewhere in the maddening wilderness .

That you having been declared the best,
by the only poetic authority
enlivens my heart

I am no one to commend,
but greetings I can send
to a poet who time views
as God sent

Alas, I am a solitary passerby,
In this vast arena of time,
where only death bells
for ever for me chime ,
so anonymous,
Loved,
is a name of mine.

The genius in you rocks my emotions, and
Volcanos under virgin seas, erupts
Rumbling noises heard miles away 
Warns islanders of pending smoke and fiery ash
And demons behind my eyes seek your demise

You never cease to amaze me with your crafty ways, and
Hyaenas live at bottom of the food chain
Scavenging for quick steals from lion king's hunt
Learned hard lesson from power of kings roar and mightiness
And a kingly crown of thorns I've design for you in my mind's eye

I will come back to see the book you bought
We shall read the page you talked so much about
If you still have some doubts on the main theme
We may have to call in the one who knows
Judge not from the piece I gave you to read
I can see that I am no where near good
I start to count my words with hand and pen
This stalls the flow of lines from head to hand
The muse waits in the room with a stern face
To go or to come back, she seems to ask
My fears rose high if she will come at dawn

Many survive on the bones
and raw flesh of corpses,
to boast and bask in the cauldrons
Where they in reality smolder…
The guffaw, the gumption they boast,
they feel the world is
about them to toast

A sullen face falls
and
when the world around does awake,
Like foxes into the forest they escape,
tails wagging below the horizon
they are actually dead
ere the new morn sunrise is arisen

Chain

tug my chain
my attention to gain
I rise and follow
in near silent pursuit

I am addicted
although restricted
to track your footsteps
from far behind

knowing not
what you've got
a devote disciple or
a stalker with sights trained

here a warning
far from morning
stray not from safe abode
down darkened paths

speak no slur
of stranger's spur
or a worse fate than reproach
occurring by blooded blade to endure

He sits alone on his park bench
on this frigid winter morn.
For hours he's not moved one inch.
His heavy coat is old and torn.

With gaze unflinching toward the west
where the sun set this past eve.
No breath stirs within his chest.
A pigeon lights on dirty sleeve

The eyes of blue, yesterday clear,
now dimmed by a skim of frost.
To any who once held him dear
the chance to reconcile is lost.

JUST A LITTLE LETTER TO YOU.
M.Ann Waddicor. 1st February 2012.

Little letter, like a snowflake
tossed in the sky,
coming to rest on your doorstep.

Each snowflake a perfection all its own,
flown from the damp of winter skies,
frozen in flight to crystal shapes,
as cold as stone to hands of man.

Joining the mass of white wet glinting piles
on forest, field, and brook,
or on the paths frequented by yourself,
such silent stealth, and yet they make their sound.