This poem is not about myself!!!!

"BONES BRITTLE"
Margaret Ann Waddicor March 23rd 2011.

Bones brittle, the mettle of old age is weak,
and sleeps in cushioned sinews strained,
the bearded feathered strands of hairs
from places yet unknown, sprout,

the cheeks and breasts hang limpid down
and wrinkles show the bends,
filling to burst with the fluids drained
from here to there by stretching limbs
that crack and groan in painful grey disdain.

Give thanks for the courage
to be who you are,
Feel unashamed of your emotions.
Niceness is not a dirty word.

Gain strength from your vulnerabilities,
fuck those who don’t value and are
blind to your worth.

Learn from your mistakes,
If you allow yourself to be trodden on ,
Then make way for the oncoming stampede.

`

On a hand-hewn pedestal
imagination coalesced;
on milk-white face alight
eyes sparkle with a liquid flame.

Some build ivory towers,
these hands raw from driven labour,
on scratched cheeks a stricken eye
ransoms a sculpted orphan dream.

Across time and Middle Sea
another calloused hand chiselled;
laughter on a pine-white face
resurrected an ailing heart.

Some can only imagine
what others have without trying;
when vicarious journeys fail,
reality's block they assail.

`

Knowing of her….

A muddy knee that
day I saw, my heart
then was forever
muddled as I steadied
her to feet, was I
to be the keeper
of the mud on knee
or that intrinsic
beings beauty whose
eyes had laid
me bare.

Contentious as my
loving her became
an absence of
consequence thinking
only of moments
to hours to days
to wonderment.

they will say
don't eat spinach
it glows, much greener
than it should
don't make love
unless you cover that sucker
for the babies you make
will be misshapen,
useless lumps
the world will
all feel sorry for
and we will
give them
vacations to
disneyland
and rides on ponies
and fifty years
from now
we'll forget
how the earth shook
the waves rose and

someone will blame god
because it's easy

.
camera mounted tripod
relegated to leaning in the corner
otherwise, unused

accursed vacuum cleaner
covered in the dust
of eternal stillness

printer on the fritz
don't care
purpose has become tiresome

my chair, however,
used and used, so used
conforming me
into a marbled headed quasi statue
stiff
ossified
immobilized
but for the gentle
jostling of a mouse

...while fresh, beckoning sunbeams
peer through smokey windows

That's right, there are no leftists here
they've left to make things right
but first they drank up all the beer
and all the wine in sight

The right wingers all fell from the sky
at least the few still left
they fell with a joyful cry
their perfect smiles all cleft

Progressive, they all shifted gears
and went into reverse
while ridiculing brave men's fears
in long speeches which were terse

Sunburst glows, fades

returns in tomorrow’s venue

Daffodil bursts, grows and shows

lushness amid Lenten’s darkness

Satin whiteness among leaves of green

feed my craving

as this morning’s hard boiled blossom

radiates, framed against

the spitting blackness of today’s breakfast

searing on caste iron skillet.

Do you love her?
Really, truly.
Of course you say,
her truths and lies
her smarts and sillys
her beauty and flaws

but do you love the human creature?
the sweat and pheromones
the skin flakes and cuticles
the pubic hair stuck under your tongue?

when she is not wearing deodorant,
lick her armpit
truly, madly, deeply.
Then know how much you love her.

Once forever then
no more, re-evaluating
what came before.

Time in years
a distant contract
with mortality, static
possibilities still vivid
within passing seasons.

Captured too far along to
be enraptured a legacy that
begs to be beyond the etchings
that mark a spot, a demise not
where this flesh was begot.

My seed the bleeding of this being
the probabilities of the ever after
without conceding.