We have touched so much since December,
steeping teas torrid and arctic ice cubes
a thousand fibers, prince bee his princess
generous blankets papering flu
the drizzle on wedding dawns or departure’s eve
pieces of candy for holiday celebrations
even the ending of a movie –

these are wild fingers that we have
rebellious, juveniles in mind
singing summer stories through knuckles  
bodies long slenderized
and they are more than myself

to them, I have no name
but my brain and I are their mother
a well-mannered woman in command

I feed them lotion,
then play in the sand apathetic
whistles papercuts that sting with
mouths as lions tigers bears sharks leaves
asking which hurts most significantly of all we
have loved –

and then again, what enduring does not belong?

The adolescents scoff at each of their
five circadian baths, and I hear cries
for showers because soap makes them crack

but it is in your best interest, I say;
you touch everything that gets in your way

to move is beauty and transitioning more so:
my hands are dancers, pirouetting
on stage to fall harmoniously with
bashes, revelations, words I care to mean
yes, these are what causes the bleed of
my aging hands, and throughout their years,
rings dying them green.

Mud puddles
Seeping
Is that mud?
Nah, prob’ly jus’ …
Just what?
He thought for a while,
Adjusting the stance
Of his cigar between his thin lips,
Barely covering the hole in his face.
In the dank silence,
I stared, and began to wonder…
How could he stand it?
The noisome smoke,
Right under his nose-
The rough texture
On lips that could not quite afford anymore sand-papering…
He took a drag, finally looked back down, and answered.
It’s mud.
We both knew it wasn’t mud,
But the foulness that seems to follow
The human wherever he
Would wander….
As I contemplated, he spat,
And added his own contribution.

When it is done,
and only the fear of doing it
lingers on,
because you were scared,
didn't know if you dared to
do,
but you did dare
and
what did you think you
would find there?
Demons and Dragons to eat you?
did you think they could beat you?
whatever you thought or did think,
in the blink of an eye,
you did it,
and why?
Because you needed to see what
the doing would free in your mind?

Are you happy?
did it change in an instant and
do you now know what
the doing of it did?

It is done
you move on
'til the next time.

I’m at (my roommate) Lisa’s for the holidays and it was Christmas Eve afternoon. I was in Leeeza’s room (Lisa’s 13-year-old sister). One corner of the room is all pillows. A hundred pillows or more - Disney pillows like Mickey and Minnie but shrek pillows too and penguin pillows, minion pillows, mario brothers pillows and novelty pillows that look like bags of doritos, cheetos and ramen noodle soup - just about every toy pillow you can imagine.

Leeza was there on the pile with me, watching “La La Land,” my favorite movie. Leeza had never seen it and I hoped she’d love it as much as I do. In the end, she pronounced it a new favorite.

Later (still Christmas eve) Lisa, Karan (her mom) Leeza and I made our way to a lardy-dardy rooftop event space called “The Skylark,” where Michael (Lisa’s dad) was co-hosting a Christmas party. The rooftop is on the 30th floor and everything there is made of glass - even the staircases.

When Lisa told me about the party (at school), I brought out a few Anna Molinari bits I had stored under my bed (when I realized Yale wear wasn't very fashionable). I ended up wearing a black lace party dress, a black knit crop cardigan cover and white, satin bridal shoes. It seemed very on point as a "Wednesday" look. If you haven't watched the "Wednesday" series on Netflix - It's fun.

As we arrived the sun faded, as if timed, and natural light gradually gave way to the cityscape of artificial light. Once it became fully-dark, New York city glittered around us, as if the stars had dropped from the heavens to join the party.

A brass and piano ensemble played seasonal classics like Prokofiev’s Troika as we (Lisa, Leeza and I) explored the venue. Every surface seemed decorated with poinsettias, candles, and ornaments or ribbed by garlands of balsam, spruce and fir that smelled incredible.

There were (guessing) about 200 guests and servers wound their way through the crowd with trays of cocktails and champagne. These waiters were all good looking, as if picked from the sea of actors, in New York, just waiting for that big Broadway break. At one point, Leeza, with a mischievous holiday gleam in her eye, reached for a flûte à Champagne only to have the waitress twirl, at the last millisecond, like a dancer, leaving her grasping at air, disappointed.

Michael’s company had set up a tall, white and gold Christmas tree, in a corner of the terrace, under it were packages, for special clients, so beautifully, individually and uniquely decorated that you could believe they were wrapped by angels.

The papering was exquisite, handmade, thick as Liva and embossed, inlaid or pebbled with gold. They were topped with bows, brooches, angels, or snowflakes of silver, rose-brass, batic silk and even crocodile.

No doubt the wrappings were as valuable as the gifts inside and though those presents enchanted, teased and cajoled us all, they were reserved for people on the very, very nice list (a cop stood discreetly by). We were briefly transfixed by the spectacle, but the spell was broken when Leeza said, “I’m hungry.”

Cocktail parties are for adults, so after we ate, Karen stayed with Michael and the teenagers were sent home. We didn’t mind, after all, none of those presents were for us - our day would be Christmas!

Happy holidays!

i find myself following our old footsteps
almost subconsciously
letting memories make decisions
leading the way through lingering thoughts of you

while they may be seemingly mundane
they are increasingly significant
for it is not just a choice to order miso soup
or to venture down the scenic route
to our old curry house
where the spice would bring tears to my eyes
a prelude to the damp ducts that were soon to follow

now that the streams have dried up off my face
i take joy in the journeys in which i place my stride beside your fading footsteps
painting our memories in the vivid colours of yesteryear
as opposed to tainting them with the disjoint of yesterday

i will continue to do all the things that we did, albeit alone
for it is now as much part of me
as the bones that support me
and the heart that pumps my blood
slightly aching when a thought of you lingers slightly
but an ache diminishing with each passing day

you changed me,
you probably didn't even realise it
as you were papering the cracks in the fibre of my being
allowing me to grow as a person, a partner, a lover

so i will ride my bike down the mountains from which our love fell
down the steep cliff faces from which it never recovered
and i will mimic the thoughts in my head
through words on the cloud, as you did
sharing
caring
remembering
not least you
and the way we were
in one of the best times of my life

Places to go when in Cairo
places where I've never been,
not the usual tourist attractions, 
but the hot spots for hot spicy things.

Are the fleshpots still there?
he declared 
with that misogynist air,
are the girls just as nubile?

He was a throwback 
someone we all knew back 
in the day.

Nefertiti would meet me on
the banks of the Nile,
for a while 
in the reeds 
satisfying our needs.

Pyramids built from papyrus 
papering over the cracks.

Just dreaming of dynasties 
and the mysteries of
mankind on the 
riverbanks lined
by age.

Hold my hand
turn to me and tell me "run"
close my eyes
breathe in deep
breathe out lightly
feel the tapping on the snare drum
living in my feet
papering my skin with canvas
to paint over my mistakes
so lets get on planes to the horizon
moss beneath feet
mirrored in the lakes water
breath doesn't fog this glass
caught in brambles
make a bed of leaves
for us to lie on
glancing at the sky
pointing out places to fly  
kissed my each of my fingertips
smiling saying "My oh my"
calm forest summer eve
hearing just cicada screams

I watch you tend to your eyebrows
in your childhood mirror;
your parent's showroom.
You're not dressed yet.
I fix your necklace, breathe in deep
to smell your perfume.

You once told that settling down
is a kind of fatal error;
papering the walls to your tomb.
I'm staring at clouds,
your eyes are wet.
It's the coming of sleep,
shaped like a mushroom.

call me something outside
outside of myself
beyond these walls
lined with my past
my tears and fears papering the ghost underneath them
call me something outside
and let the inside fade away
we can make it fake and flawless
this person i will become
call me something outside
forget where i was born
that i've been born
take me outside
let me see the dawn

We poets calmly expound ideas and theories
filling them with rhyme and reason
expecting enlightenment 
to beam across the world 
like gods revealing the temple of our minds 
to all
unclothing hidden thoughts 
gleaned from the
coffers of ideas

lifting the lids of treasured phrases that inspire 
dramatic waves of foam from poets 
before carrying on across the sands of time 
into supposed infinity

Many end up in dusty books unread 
or in the loft among forgotten dreams 
and untidy experiences
the drawings on the wallpaper 
of other's lives 
now covered with new fashions of papering
obsolete and sadly ignored

each individual person has their own philosophy
their own unique vision of reality
each utterance describes us 
in more potent ways than pictures
our sense of feeling alive
expressed in neat patterns of symbols
forever changing meaning as time passes. 

Margaret Ann Waddicor September 1st 2014.

Oh how to
To think that my body once capture your attention
From the top to the bottom of my physique:

To think that our minds didn’t care what our brains thought,
When we said I do: knowingly we did not:
And when we went ahead and tied those awful knots: such crackpots
Regrets we had a lot! But then again who doesn’t,
Marriage is like wall papering.. Choose your spouse carefully
Else that fumes will lingered and lingered forever:
My lover!
How we made each other unhappy
How we fought like the bull and matador
In and out of the ring:
I won!
You were dragged off to the slaughter house:
Since marriage to you were twenty- eighty: I knew better:
Too painful were the memories, but how sweet was the revenge

We use to say young and old alike, aging and living together;
Alone but never lonely: not I/ not with my narrative poetry:
Arthritis and constant back pain: hair coloring and
Wavy weave: one with myself and loving me to death.

Too think that my body once captures your attention
from the top to the bottom of my physique:

just out here, living my worst life.

recalling my lovely weekend on a monday morning, asking how yours was, but not really caring.

i don’t care for much anymore.

i underrated my inner actress. i know those lines inside out now.

papering over grief with office small talk and curated social events.

casually omitting the 6 hours of tears from my relaxing evening in.

everyone thinks I’m ok.

but I’m not.

Mark's lower colon tightened like he was Robert Young in the role of Dr. Marcus Welby with Consuelo at the reception desk & Dr. Steve Kiley on his trusty motorcycle riding in smooth & steady to assist the senior doctor. Mark's wife, Betty, was a wizened hag with nose-warts & bow-legs. She was from Italy and she was very unattractive. Mark hated her a lot and wanted to commit uxoricide which means wife-killing. If only he could get Betty on a look-out at the Grand Canyon – he could push her sorry *** over & get together with his true heart's desire – the mail man who was really a woman with a keen ****** & everything. Oh, the mail man's ****** must be the greatest one in the world! Mark would get so excited thinking about it – adding a second storey to it, plumbing it for a luxurious bathroom, papering it with exotic prints of naked Sumatran women with brown ******* – oh yes – he could do it if only Betty were not living anymore – lost in the Grand Canyon – eaten by giraffes. Betty's sister was **** too – mail man **** – and Mark wanted to hug & kiss her ****** forever along with the mail man. They could take turns. Anyway, dreaming will get you nowhere as it's actions that matter a million times more than Negroes do that's for sure. Betty pushed her ****** along the breeze-way, tired & sickly. Her knees were discolored from rug-burn. She missed Mark's loving vaginal attentiveness & she was very sorry for being from Italy. She dreamed of the mail man who was a woman and the icy-hearted lesbianism that makes America better than Toronto. Lovingly she removed her last ******. “If only Mark could see it,” she whispered into her ******. “He loved to pet you when we were alone with my sister sitting on the couch, eating hand-dipped ice cream cones covered in latex paint. Oh why did Ricky Nelson have to die? Why couldn't he have lived long enough to see Obama in a Texaco men's room whispering sweet-nothings to the ghost of Oscar Wilde?”

You’ve been trying to brush over my excuses
The same way I’ve been papering over the cracks
So it’s about time I talk in facts
I never loved you in a way that I really should
Maybe I felt like I didn’t need to try
So I just told you everything that you wanted me to say
In a way that only someone like I could
And begged you wouldn’t figure out it was all a lie
But now I’m left treading water
And the thought of hurting you is getting harder
Even if it is the right thing to do
I’ve grown so cowardly
So I just leave it all up to you
And hope you’ll be the one to finally say it’s over

It’s not the first time you’ll catch me looking absent minded
But something about this time’s so different
Stopping the inevitable has proved too difficult
And now I know when we fall apart
We’ve got to do it in the dark
So no one can see the result of all the things I did to you
Every solution creates another problem
Every answer creates another question
And I’m afraid of the time
When there’s no more answers left to find
You’ll realise this was all a rouse
Two people faking their feelings
To avoid the void of emptiness
Just using each other as a “thing” to do

Please put me out,
Please put me out,
Please put me out of my misery
Maybe then we could both move on
And remember what it was like to be happy
I think I’d like that… wouldn't you?