It's late November, cold and gray
last warmth of autumn gone away
most of the trees are bleak and bare
their festive garb no longer there

Each step descends on festive litter
alerting squirrels, making them chitter
the crunch of dry leaves quietens all
as denizens flee from each foot fall

The wind blows in puffs like breath
unsteady and as cold as death
the chill creeps clear down to the bone
am I here in these woods alone ?

.
redemption?
...from what?
I am a man
and if you say "in the image of god"
I say "I am that I am"

repentence?
...for what?
my will is free
where is the freedom in guilt?

awareness understands
the predicaments of man
newer mind does not demand
reparation from the old

no acts of contrition shall be imposed

the only sin is sorrow

We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person. -William Somerset Maugham, writer (1874-1965)

We're chained to the post
Prometheus at most
tedious forebears of a terrible task
trying to love those who love us best -
even though the passion has past.

Throwing stones on the pond
the ripples ever widening the effect
on the center
Continually expanding and dividing
our responses changing,
but impasse is a formidable mentor.

Uniqueness of Ones Soul

I ain’t quite sure
What is a real soul?
All I am aware is
A man is fully whole,
If he has an active heart
A rife, brain, not only garbage
It has intelligence
Then the heart pumps
Blood into its periphery
Feeds it only from outside
As only pulp and electrical
Neuron guided senses
Reside magnetically
And
Majestically inside

 
FULL CIRCLE: REQUIEM FOR BENAZIR (WINDS OF CHANGE)


 

NOW:
 

No solace now to help them cope

A loss so hard to bear

A nation on the brink of hope

Dragged down to such despair

 

You went out in a flash of heat

In a searing flash of light

Work unfinished, incomplete

Their song was killed tonight
 


Just as the crowds began to gather

With the setting of the dark

platitudes, ah platitudes. . .
paucity of penury

when not enough
is too much

non-existent forgiveness
lines road to somewhere

all signs point
to

pot of gold --
more than wrong

clandestine advertiser's slick
fleece fools

waiting in line for it
anticipation is killing them

hyperbole notwithstanding
they wait and wait.

As finality draws near
I see the world as ecstacy
beyond transition,
each instant burgeoning delight,
unfolding outwards into endlessness
where every second's thought
becomes eternal,
each moment's choice
a new beginning
reaching to realities unknown
until the present catches up with past
and future hurries by,
time decreasing in echoed infinities
between duration's measure
and hope's treasure
of emerald lands that shout beneath
bright shores by gleaming seas

"NOT A DAY, OR WAS IT?" Margaret Ann Waddicor. November 15th 2010.

Today is not a day, its grey
no highlights wake my mind,,
the snowflakes one or two,
float by the window frame,

and all is quiet and colourless,
as white the grass is hidden,
the trees breath slowly,
their messages from heaven,
the weather tells them what to do,
to be and see and state,

Down within green silent shadows
of forested ravines carved deep
between the windswept sleeping dunes
that lie along the empty shore

Is where my God is found,
revealed deep down where march
of living trees conceals
all tales of modern life,

For the God I know eschews the
brick and mortar mortal men lay
down upon Her earthen flesh to
cover truth with lifeless versions
of their own.

I shall go quietly
albeit with my chains
released into the ethers
without pleasure, without gain.

Dissociative dimness
dumbs down the mind
Indifference is Nature's way
of release, from the unkind.

No love for love
given freely over time
No pity for this fool
who's passion proved the only crime.

BB 19 November, '10