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.

Tracing the forest domicile
away from a shadowy civilization.
A dark toiling earth,
bereft nobility and worth,
amend self gratification.

Searing plains of adversity,
walls, ignorant, situate torn minds, once blissful.
Promise to appease,
a heavy avalanche of knees.
Thoughts in action turn choice deedful.

Yet still recede I to a cavernous mind,
meandering tunnels through questions too deep,
for beneath the surface, emptiness will seep.
Light shatters darkened forms to keep thee entwined.

Homely burrow, in a safe place.

If elephants consume your plants
And devastate your lawn
Don’t run about or scream and shout
Just wait until they’ve gawn
For elephants are very large
And everybody knows
It really really hurts
Should they step upon your toes

Get the morning up!

Our night'been too long.
For daylight, now I do long.
Out, for dignity do all throng.
Hand in hand sing the salvation song.

Get the morning up!

Sprung, bounteous mobs I can hear.
Forget the flowers of yesteryear.
The new Spring, they'll never sear.
Tendered gore,them all will rear.

Get the morning up!

Groveling, servility never been inhere.
Your roaring silence, don't veneer!
Away chase the mighty jageer.
To lustering Springs, let's all adhere!

The loss will be entirely ours,
to lose such a gallant poet,
Tell us not of the vexations caused,
think of us
who shall miss you most

You and I have been bombarded daily
But I don't damn care,
for the sound of music I create
with all I do share
and
Some grunt, many laugh,
Others shunt:

Never mind the worse forms of human beings,
else these words
Grunt, shunt and laugh,
will be buried at once

I look back upon this lengthy trail
and barely see where it began
for it's faded like a white contrail,
like any effort left by man.

Distance masks the rougher parts.
From here rivers seem mere brooks.
There's no sign of the stops and starts
or short rests earned in restful nooks.

Overall the path has been ascending
and full of forks along the way
which I often chose merely depending
on the whim which struck that day.