Through the tunnels of my ear lobes
They came, talked and left, the words echo
Struggling in strive, they stumbled
Waking up and back to our beds
The living and dying dressed up
In recurrent cycles of woes
Looking at our history lesson
I wonder why we forget fast
The dead fret not for the living
They are dead and rest now in peace
Hassles are for those still alive
On what the future holds for them
The dead natter with silent signs
In sleep, like death, we learn to die

Why is it,
That I can’t identify
The words said
With her eyes

Am I truly looking deep inside
Can I reflect what’s conveyed
From a heart that touches mine
Is it a moment
I have let pass in time

There are words never spoken
Which are articulated with a gesture
That speak volumes
Without vibrating upon an eardrum

If my eyes were truly open
Would I gather
The corollary intimation
Of librettos which were not sung
Only to be captured in loves relation

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