rationalizing
reminiscences of her
needing pretty pictures
to revive my burnt out life

Armorall'd surfaces
seasoned, but shiney
glow-in- the-dark fantasies
oozing whispers of love
so necessary
so needful

woe be me, for real,
if the surfaces were to be glimpsed
in their natural rough and dull state
and the darkness was unmarred
by smokey spotlighted images
and the oozing was a raging flood of regret
and disillusionment

What Mankind Has Done

But for the cold
Calculating stare
Of electric blue orbs
Lightening flashing
From within
You’d think it human

Others blind their eyes
And deafen ears
When in her presence

Faint whirrs and clicking
Are the only clue
That she
No longer lives

Once filled
With life’s passion
Flowing through every vein
The sole giving of all
To flora, fauna and mankind

en medias res

in the middle of
things

is where we are

our mood
is lethargic
our awareness
blunt

if we don’t get
off our asses
we’ll be point
of the hunt

wasted days
wasted nights
running for stuff
how much can
we carry

some have so much
it’s pretty damn
scary

my wants are small
my needs are few

enforced insanity

never followed
that cue

en medias res
in the middle of things

Should your eyes behold another
 my heart would break
Into infinitesimal fractions.  

Shards of emotion would scar
 my inner turmoil,  pulling
me apart  

Lacerated physicality, contorting.   
Descent into the abyss, 
the very root of my mentality.

A maelstrom of insanity.
Your love has devoured me,
left me flailing , out of control.

I grew up a poor country girl living on the out skirts of town. We would move every year like the military form place to place and house to house within in the same little town of Turbeville.

There weren’t many neighbors, so me and my siblings, two boys and five girls, spent most of our time roaming the woods for fruits and berries. We played all the outdoors games we knew and created some of our own. Those were the days of innocence and youthfulness.

wind through wattle's perfume to me whispers
pure essence enticing taste-buds to spread
visions of old gods and ambrosias

emulating honeyed-nests of lovers
as eighty angels dance in each flower-head
wind through wattle's perfume to me whispers

independent yellow-haired Septembers
down in the land of the Waratah bred
visions of old gods and ambrosias

with the Wattle Australia remembers
endurance, by its floral emblem led
wind through wattle's perfume to me whispers

At my journey's end,
When dark and warping cold
At last could wend
Their strangling hold
Around the vacuum space
Where my poor heart
Would always race
To speeding start
Of empty faith's embrace,
I found instead
A new and different place
That inexorably led
Into belief bereft of wrath
And without sin,
Leading to another path
I could begin to tread again.

"I'M LIKE THAT LITTLE STONE"
Margaret Ann Waddicor October 2010.

I'm like that-little stone in your garden,
that keeps being seen,
but you don't always see it,
sometimes you do,
as you stub your toe against it,
and wonder at the little stone,
that gets in your way,
sometimes if you look carefully she is me,
that also gets in your way now and then,
in ways you do not approve of,
too close by far,
but
she is only there to love you.

Fear works;
has since the earliest tribe,
the first strong voice of unreason

... but reason;
hides in secret corners,
baring greedy teeth,
slobbering success in numbers

... and the following grows.

Afraid;
we congregate,
allured to the heat of the crowd,
and find ourselves growling,
armed ... with mob intention.

Repetition of History
Kill the Enemy
Motivated Murder

... when will we learn?

water

this is the water that wore
granite down
in the merry month of may

this is the water that wore
granite down
as flowers bloomed
in merry month of may

this is water that wore
granite down
as flowers bloomed
picked by an angel in
merry month of may

this is water that wore granite
down smooth
as flowers bloomed
picked by an angel of a throng
in merry
month of may