consider the pond,
the golden koi rushing through
the water
to touch your open hands...

has your Buddha nature
listened to the river birch speak
the sky's language in spaces leaves unfold
watching patiently the sun coax open every blossom
to exude its temporal fragrance,
have you ever listened to spring peepers
harmonizing on water lily pads,
is there nothing of worth to save?

Second version of a readers perspective which is???

If at times,
Clock's hands
Were pushed back
For years as
one may assume
the computer existed

Just think how the Bard,
Would’ve faced the music,
To clarify his newer
birth of words
Not contained in the dictionary.

What power did he wield?
To use a word such as musify,
As it then had not existed.
The Bard I daresay
would have had an
explanation the way

She paints him
colors to suit her taste.
Her actions mold him according to her whims
while he writhes beneath her gaze,
those dark lenses transforming
his contour, size and shape.
Soon she has him ready,
wrapped for her display called life.

There is one catch.
She can’t control his sounds
reverberating off walls,
hills or ears of passersby.
They overhear his cry,
“Let me be me or set me free.”
They catch his whimper,
“Must you refashion me
to walk beside you
on parade?."

The way she spreads her legs,
like a letter of despair,
as the wind bellies with
a thousand voices,
and her mouth becomes a tomb
of little girls, a cacophony
inside a stale womb -
too warm to sing with an eagle's flight;
angels pressed in her diary,
waiting on their second birth -
'till she borrows a half wing of a casual moon.

I have a demon,
I know him well,
He was a gift,
Sent straight from hell.

He is a ugly sucker,
Skin scaly and green,
With the most yellow teeth,
That has ever been seen.

With bulging eyes,
Drool sticky and black,
A horrible creature,
But I can't give him back.

He tempts me and taunts me,
Puts ideas in my head,
He drives me insane,
Makes me wish I was dead.

twiddles her thumbs talking
quicksilver
musical chair jumping
mercurial
solo recital twisting
spliting hairs
spit spat splat
the clack of express train
tongue histrioncs
outlining time trails lost
rarely found barely
matters
onto something new
to peruse
examine, ponder
to exclaim unknown
until now
to all moderns
insight colored in sunshine
rainbows and angels in
various shapings of the phallus
she has discovered
the secret
shhhhsh

"THE COLTSFOOT"(Tussilago farfara !)
Margaret Ann Waddicor 20th May 2011.

Coltsfoot flowered
your sun once bright
lighting up by day
at night closed tight

now white
your filigree fingers soft
like bottle brush slices
in a ring
of silvered tendrils
ravishing the wind

your wizened yellow petals cling one side
until a freak breeze stirs the trees
and carries all your pride
far and wide to places new
to plant your seed

Preparation, anticipation, awaiting the baton
other team already handed off
my leg of the race will soon be on
I clear my throat with nervous cough

Now my team mate's drawing near
exhaustion in his weary eyes
I begin running ere he gets here
exchange made, I tote the prize

Feet flying, eyes in front of me
slowly, I'm gaining on my foe
he glances back so as to see
who it is that's running so

I taste smoke
and feel heat
books seared
words forgotten

erase teachings
to teach a new order

"we've blended energies, even
our atoms dance in syncopated heat."
I say
"you're quite scientific,"
you said
"i've married both sides...
searching for God until i discovered love."
i say

you held me close
and we fell asleep

when the first bird sang of praise,
you wrote a poem,
i asked if you found the words,
you did