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"Sorry For the Days that I made You Cry"

sorry for the days that i made you cry,
and for all the times you're caught in my lie..
i'll never do it again....i'll never try,
i'll never let this story end with goodbye..

sometimes i'd been used to be blind,
sorry for the times i'd never sleep by your side..
while the way of life is what i tried hard to find,
when i lose you, it's hard to say "never mind.."

STONED

Stoned
November 2nd, 2010,

In halls and pebbled passage ways
the whispers come and go
"scandalous", "adulatress"*
each word another stone -
pelted at her inadequacy,
to just leave her lover alone.

Inviting the blows
enured to the pain
she would rather suffer thus -
than to lose him again.

Forgetting absolution,
willing to do time,
knowing that longing is forbidden,
and pursuing love -
a heinous crime.

BB 2 Nov. '10

driving into sunset

road -- taken its toll
and been kind

on my face light
has shone --
dark places seen
where no light shines

shriven wound's woe
joy and love received --
alike

driving into sunset
affords time to question
was something missed?
fanciful thought -- that

manifold pernicious
chattels --
wished different
road changes -- but little

while
fear reigns --

in little pockets
love waits
lives on

time passes
into sunset.

blind optimism

There’s something to this going blind.
Although one doesn’t see so right
light plays a trick and gives a gift
(presumably to compensate for our poor failing sight)
we discover when we gaze at the heavens
and things which illuminate the night.

Such as eyes of a flying jet plane.
When one is compromised in sight
those lights are amazingly bright
they send out rays like a Christmas star
flying through the heights.

SKORVE IS MY ANCHOR

"SKORVE IS MY ANCHOR"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 17th October 2010.

Skorve is my anchor 
where my house caught in the web 
of chequered fields, 
resides.

Its hulk a shoulder to lean on
when feeling grey, 
its ever changing seasons painted,
from the summit to the dale,
the thousand little streams 
that make their misty veils
after the heavy rains;
where rainbows play across the deep,
and forests weep their tears, 
through winters many storms.

being born (a poem for the obdurate)

being born (a poem for the obdurate)

kill what you don't understand
annihilate what you cannot control
deplete your resources
murder even the water,
trees, and rocks
you would kill the stars if you could
but reach them
you act like your heart was torn out
as a child

now you cannot steal enough
kill enough --
or cause enough pain
to fill the void where your
heart once was

lay down your arms for the rest
of us
and forego your vengeance for
being born.

I Learned This Day..(That I Need U More Each Day)

it’s been roasting inside my flat,
so i took a stand-by in the roof top…
as i stand there to catch the night breeze
realized that something to me was missing…

it’s been a puzzle for couples of weeks
i see it’s newborn yet seems so fixed,
this can’t be love…it just need some space,
but i’m totally guilty of the sweetest case

she’s in my dreams whenever i go to sleep
maybe destiny is really making a powertrip,
but from this calling who could ever escape?
better grab some potato chips and my lemon drink..

Rejuvination

.

lilac petals drop daintily

a swoosh of night air and fragrance
pushes the poplars to samba
swishing and swaying seductively
bouncing droplets of rain on
xylophonic roof tiles
beckoning me to join
this unnamed celebration

I escape my lazy chair ways on
loosey-goose legs
(usually stiff as boardroom banter)
and I feel

....TALL!

The Morrigan

I met her once,
in a battered place
where Irish bombs blew
holes into an English city,
broken bodies writhing
as I looked down at the splinters
of a shattered friend
stuck deep into my shins.

That Christmas

We kids were all prompt to arrive at the door
for we knew we shouldn’t turn our backs on
Christmas roast at dinner time -
it can’t be left long after out of the oven
for the Aussie bush blowie is nasty
and even with windows and doors fly-wired
doubled over and nailed every inch
the buggers still get inside
and if they get to your dinner before you
well, the sight would make a saint cry
wriggly maggots dropped to feast
on what was going to be our festive meat.
Too much information do I hear you implore??

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