Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.

You don't deserve any of this.

You don't deserve the smiles I try to hide back whenever people merely mention your name.

You don't deserve me happily listening to love songs and absent-mindedly dedicating them for you.

You don't deserve my feelings when I'm high off my mind, looking back down from the clouds, wishing for nothing but your presence silhouetting mine.

You don't deserve my drunken texts when I feel like I'm wasting my youth away; it's ironic how even though I can't form coherent sentences and I barely remember my own name, you still ****** my thoughts and lurk behind the shadows of my mind, like a spell I've been wanting to cast myself free from since the day I first met you.

You don't deserve my midnight blues when I drown myself in sad songs and relentless thoughts of you, along with endless voices screaming and questioning why I'll never be good enough to be called yours.  

Above all, you don't deserve me.

*(So why do I always find myself crashing back to you?)

With mechanical portals known to be doors
That either lead to different worlds or take you home,
These cabled vehicles like tunnels on wheels fastened on a railroad track
Stretch to both ends of the universe under a single route.
And as you get in for closure,
You put your trust on the obscure.

Just say the magic words;
It will take you anywhere you wish to be.
Even though magic always comes with a prize,
The only cost are countable units of your time
And also a few dimes,
In return for the travel of your life.

Across the carpeted walkway of reaching out,
Through the glass windows of visible silver lining,
Behind the blank and arid faces that lure the soul to sink in deep wonder,
The lights and skyscrapers, and mist silhouetting the scenery,
All appear in bokeh, all blend in your eyes;
Your eyes that glow brighter than fire on ice.

The coldness lashing perennially on your skin
And shaking your bones to its final breakage,
Couldn't beat the absolute zero amity between these strangers.
But your fascination has enough radiation
To melt the tip of the iceberg
And shine over what's behind their opaque walls.

Settled on the plastic seats that serve as time machines,
They nestle between unfamiliar bodies;
Static, in a state of inertia.
Blocking out force, resisting change;
Like cars stuck on parking mode,
Couldn't bring themselves to unload.

Grasping on loose handles
With a grip more secure than seat-belts,
Some tend to pull away despite of the constant push.
Like engines on reverse, they take time to backtrack.
For all we know, for every action,
Is an equal and opposite reaction.

The brakes hit; there goes a screeching sound.
But when it comes to a break, we don't really hang back
Or fall to a complete stop;
We only slide forward.
For we must keep moving ahead,
In order to keep our balance.

The portals once again unlock to let you out to the open galaxy
And let in another for the same adventure.
You've reached the end of the trip,
But not the end of the road; nor the destination.
For the journey is infinite; you know you are going to ride again and again,
Until you've run out of wishes of where you want to be where.

Valiant galley set sail
adrift through the  Dardanelles.
Her masts, backs straight,
composed as Venetian dames
in familiar basse danse.

Sunset floats amongst the sea mist
silhouetting the capital's skyline.
The holy dome of the Αγία Σοφία
eclipses the light.

The Lady makes port,
at the City on the Seven Hills.
Gentle entrance to the beating heart
of the bustling district.

Sometime in everyone's life, withered
leaves will not grow back and one autumn
will not pass to spring. Sometimes we know.
Suffering. The constant visitor hidden
like a shadow silhouetting our life.
Every slow winding hour, we move closer
to when limbs falter and senses numb.
Endings ever lie hidden like a corner
sudden at the far end of a thrilling road.
Sometimes we are sure, we are more than
the frame of bones. Suffering is inferior,
deliverance is the greater truth. But:
we don't care, the thrill of weakness
is more attractive than the calm of Self.
One momentous journey, out of the
false-lit comfort of familiar darkness.
These that stalk us: disease, old age, death.
One man could see it all in one evening
what takes us many lives, may be.

Rising before instinct completes my sleep, rousing common sense out of bed,
I pack the car.  It's so dark the moon is still drowsing.
Soon I am in the cool ocean, arms propelling me and a surfboard,
stomach submerged and chest free through white water splashes,
then crests breaking, then up and over their shoulders
to arrive at the very place where waves emerge from calm water.

At this hour there are only a handful of other dawn-patrol surfers, all Hawaiians.
Greeting with a smile of bright grace learned from the sun, and a cheerful How'z It?
brown glowing skin tattooed with small triangle patterns on strong arms, chests, backs,
emblems of kama'aina heritage and Aloha's honor.  
A little talk story, sharing a laugh, and I sit up to take sentinal,
beginning the quiet meditation
searching the horizon for the sea's ever-changing intention.

Morning wakes color, with sleepy palms rubs away the world's hushed gray veil
revealing sky blue on royal aquamarine and palm-tree green silhouetting tropical canyon jade.
The mountain's gold-rimmed halo of mist is announcing dawn's imminent arrival.
She bursts over the ridge, arms showering the water with tiny pebbles of light
gold jewels skipping across the sparkling surface and turning silver.

It must be so beautifully curious from below, the whale's eye view here in their sanctuary.
First we see a mysterious dark shape, a nose, that morphs into an ever-expanding building,
that materializes into the entire magnificent whale suspended in our thin world
then arching over, she bursts the water, scattering dawn's sparkling treasure.

We surfers call with uncharacteristic exclamations, pointing in excitement,
So close we can feel the whale's contagious joy.
One Hawaiian woman slides off her board, to place her ear on the water in reverie;
hearing the Kahunas ancient Aumakua call.

the heart aches
like
earthquakes.

today
i allowed myself to feel
heartbreak
one very last time for you.

the sun was settling,
silhouetting the city

it felt like
the burial site of massacred dreams.

She smelled of wild lavender and deep magicks,
The scent hanging in the air like a golden silence,
I'm trying to hold tightly yet composure is first to dissolve,
Senses fall one by one until no dominoes are left,
Stop staring, act natural and crumble on the inside,
Don't speak, reserve your efforts for a smile,
Blown fuse serviced from the under-wing like vertigo in my veins, and neatly betwixt ******* twirl a cotton drapery,
Framed in silk halo, enshrouding like auras in a Milky Way of phantasmagoria.
Until my thoughts become in summary and each breathe becomes shorter than the last.
The artistry of her elegance like sleek fine line-work on vintage paper and I'm ... feather light.
And in those tresses I'd seen that sheen before, in the ripple of calm ocean waves, and in auburn at sunset.
I'd seen that gloss in her eyes perched upon petals as morning dew and rain upon windows in my quiet times,
Between the silhouetting slopes of her contours as dunes upon the horizon, there's an eclipse in her lips that would not speak in any less than measured prosody nor kiss without dreamscape grandeur.

The steady thump sounds dull to my fingertips touch.
Shadows bend silently towards the spot in which I stand.
Rooftop corners morph into reaching hands.
Bare treetops beckon me.
Tiredness engulfs me,
Like the setting sunlight silhouetting the naked trees.
The tectonic plates beneath the surface of my skin shift ever so slowly.  
Allowing an ache to snake through me in whispers.
My blood gurgles in response to the changing sunlight,
To the rise in temperature.
My body ceaselessly remembers,
What my mind has tried so hard to erase.
So that I cannot pin the shiver that runs across my skin.

She stepped out
One foot at a time
Steam rolling out from behind her
Beams of fluorescent light spearing through
Only to amplify her presence
She was wrapped in a white towel
Held up delicately by her *******
Silhouetting her waist, her thighs
My personal goddess, I thought
And so she left behind these little footprints
For me to hop in with yellow galoshes
Dancing in the fog of our love

Rain down on me

Robes torn, her side was shown,
glowing red, nearing dusk,
primal intentions were aloof,
her minds eye was on the creature that we derive,
from, always reaching for the sun;
never finding just what she wants,
her hand reaches out in lust.

The robe slides down,
frangible, tangible,
her hair covers just the tips now,
silhouetting and mystifying,
men fray from even trying,
but the luscious fruit is worth the stretch,
not that of hers but the ones they lacked,
so Adam and Eve succumbed and never looked back,
the sun of the primitive one would crash,
a title wave hit all consciousness,
they lay in knowledge, the fruit had been snatched.

She sits naked, a lioness,
golden hair streaming in the wind,
lips plump, made of crimson,
wanting to trust,
but now she had her pride to defend;
knowedlge also brought shame,
good and evil begin:
in a bag of conceptions,
tied to a rock, thrown in humankind,
insofar as to drown them,
as it does feeble minds.
I rhyme, knowledge is power—
a word to the wise,
that and be humble,
and then man may survive.

the sun is setting across the pond
silhouetting the tree line
with its golden fire
mirroring on the water
rippling with the wind
seems the catfish are getting big
"I wonder how much
my granddaughter has grown?"
the clouds are scribbled in wisps
no discernable shapes to ponder
such a lonely sky

In the forest of finding my life
Tired of my longing desires
My soul quite silenced
My Body exhausted by unmoved farness
My wind lost its spirit
Hurting my road to desired joy

Yet, Rejecting my lost travel, I am now,
Drifting away from soul pits
Silhouetting my dreams so beautiful
Birthing my unreached longings
Stretching to my forseen destiny
Now, I am in all control  
Creating my beauty beyond compare
And Dreamy Daily Days!

Sky hallucinates
a momentary purple;
silhouetting crowns
of the Sycamores hitherto
melded in tenebrous night.

Planet silhouetting atlases
of worlds we'll never know.
Their histories repeat,
through mushroom clouds
of soft pink explosions,
crying their fears for us to feel.
We watch them live and die,
admiring the beauty of life and death;
only I weep when light eminates through their wars.

it's the caffeine making dark crescents undereye
not some divine enlightenment
(there might be a dash of soul-searching though)
low, glazed limbs are frozen still

a frosted flurry of flakes falls
relieving my concentration
returning me to the road
to the pale glow of white snow
silhouetting the bare oak grove
hefty adumbrations emerging
charcoal on unblemished canvas

"Harden your heart, grow up"
"Harden your heart, grow up"
I repeat over and over
click
I get a different result
Real insanity would be conversing to myself, not chanting: pshaw!

My insides now cold as ice
open windows, abrasive breeze

I don't have a seat warmer

don't need one when everything's the same temp
I've hardened my heart, my groovy slouch recedes
jaw set and stiffened
Sufjan and Novo Amor siphoning my hope
tears become stalactites

"I have loved you for the last time"
pulling me back into colorless pensiveness
matching the steadfast sentinels blurring by

I see the moon through my smoke tinted glasses
It's crescent shape caressing the early morning sky
Before I went out, all of my thoughts were of classes
Now, returning, I am filled with delight
The simple occurance
Of the Sun silhouetting the rock
Brings me joy
As I draw inside
Life is but a collection of experiences
And this one won't be easy to forget
As I stayed up all night
The grandeur of nature seems to beget
The beauty in little things
The sorrow in the world
All at once emotions hit me
And my thoughts begin to be twirled

Resting my head
on my hand that rested
on my elbow
I was
facing her

and..

I asked the sun
to stay asleep
for an hour longer
the other night

I asked it to keep the stars
awake for one more hour
being selfish, I wanted to devour
every bit of darkness
left before, she awake

I asked the moon to glow
on her face, to show me every wrinkle
to show me freckles
to show me scars
in the most magical of ways

I asked the stars to leave
some shine in her hair
because the night needs more stars
and she' should be
the brightest of them all  

I asked the night sky
to fall on her skin
silhouetting that beautiful
valley between her chest and waist
I asked the sky to
calm all sense of anxiety
warming it with its silence
for when she rests
I rest too

I asked the wind
to caress her being
as she lay there, next to me
serene, breathing
shunning away all the nightmares
that haunt her, behind closed eyes

I spoke to her dreams
I asked them to introduce me to her
once again
I asked them to tell her
to show her, that it's me
write a memory of me
that she'll remember in the morning
that she'll wake up smiling to
I asked her dreams nicely
to put me in her mind
again

I asked the mystery of the night
to give me the courage
to tell her what goes on
in my mind
with her

I ran my fingers slightly
removing those curls that hide her face
only to see her
smiling
in her
sleep

Dawn came as exultant release called out to me,
unleashing their alluring notes from the endless chiming of hearts
like evangelical sermons directed to impure minds
constantly begging for me, like divine wind, to throw myself at your celestial body

Morning lingered when warmth embraced my hands,
setting its golden gaze on my earthly tones
like wings pristine with incensed hints on its tips
shedding light on my soul, overshadowed by a monolith of self-hatred

High noon was evident when you spoke of desire
of how you fell from admiring me from above
as the dark winds from wings aflame trailed us
as you told me of ardor, with the light silhouetting your design, with your mask before mine

The doting sun, oh so true does set to rest,
unmasked by the evils that plagued my caged cardinal
as you craved for seven heavens to soar
as you flew away from me, further each try, further away with every leap from ground to sky

Evening came without stars or moon to haunt,
when you grew weathered by winds too strong
when you decided Nirvana was no longer I
as you undid heartstrings, with feathered blades that came from your frustrated inabilities

Midnight grips at my chest but you are not within my reach,
candle light can no longer chisel your androgyny
nor courteous words be answered when I pray
but one thing true fell from a single star, that shed its light, from hope of your return–

Just do so when your appetite roars to love me again

1
There was fire within and between us.
We touched ourselves
And got burned painfully, blissfully.

We stopped.
We took a bath.
Removed the ashes,
and got ready for another.

2
Hush, says the gentle moon
silhouetting the smooth mountains
that we create and recreate.

Hush, says the soft wind
caressing, flowing with our hands,
spreading fire through the forest.

Hush, say our awakened lips
locking the flame that longs
to stay long, touched and untouched.

we sit sifting

through the muddy sand
of an aging ocean,
looking for everything
we've lost.

the breaths come slower,
the fear faster,
as the sun peaks and
falls between the rocks.

the fog rolls in, the
storm creeps in, the
thunder jumps out,
the lightning strikes
out

the rain ebbs over
the flossed clouds,
silhouetting time like
a picture frame.

the seas sigh in unison
with lightning's glare,
illuminating nothing and
everything.

drowned over the cliff,
drenched on the shore,
living free underwater,
and we still sit,

sifting.

Shall I tempt you this night
with the grinning moonlight
silhouetting leaveless trees
flailing in the breeze

sprinkled across the sky
a billion star eyes
tally the winks they emit

silently ponder nature's picture
lets peel it back, take a peek
at what's beyond

run wild with anticipation
find answers to the question
then question why
and wait for a reply

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Two pillows underneath your blanket
of soft brown hair.
Your hair is what I admired
most of you.
The way it would waterfall
about your frame,
silhouetting your features in
chocolate cascades.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
With your newest RM Drake,
and his short sweet eurekas.
You loved to read him aloud to me.
You would smile slightly in a
smile saved for when you
read one that particularly
struck you the way that
only good literature can.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Even though you never could
stomach what I read.
And I would get angry
because of the world's that
I wanted to show you
but knew that I couldn't.
You never shook hands with
Hem or Buk the way I wished
and wished that you would.
Sometimes your reading
was more honest.
Sometimes your emotion
was more true.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
I would sit across from you,
analyze and seek to
emulate every word
while you would read
and only feel it,
in a way I never could.

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
Now that I have lost you
it helps me to do it.
I still have the word and
I still have books and the
world's I was left to travel alone

I like to imagine you reading.
There in white sheets.
I only hope one day
you may read this and
smile slightly in that way
that only you do.

A ****** heart in a ray
Puts the mind astray
Where sings hidden symphony
Dances the legs of silhouetting harmony
In drunkenness was sought sympathy
In it the opportune is seized

*— Anonimous

connubial bris
exhibitchtionist
Dickshun
comic bas-relief
Donald Chump
racial silhouetting
patriotwasm
Republicant
testickles

he saw razor wire atop perimeter walls
guards on walkways with rifles ready
“what have I gotten myself into”

early, early
driving out to the high desert
pulling over to check a map
I saw Easter sunrise in the Mojave
the rising dawn bending light’s spectrum
its pink brightness silhouetting
clumps of dark green sage brush
casting long spidery purple shadows
between streaks of golden light
as morning’******broke mountain’s peak

continuing on
I spied something moving in the distance
within a shroud of clouds
that was blanketing the ascending road
way high up ahead
tiny white angel wings came to mind
thought perhaps I was hallucinating
entertained the idea that I had crashed
and was going to heaven
as I got closer
driving through the warm mists
that strange movement proved to be
mundane yet fascinating
I’d never seen wind turbines before

I had never been to Tehachapi
got lost in the winding upper mountains
my friend told me to turn on valley road
but there was Bear Valley Road
Apple Valley Road
other valley roads
had to circle and back track through the greenery
but found my way

when I finally got to the prison
there was a long queue of cars
I passed them up to see what was happening
then drove back and got in line
a lot of visitors that day
to celebrate Easter in incarceration
but I was here for a pick up
I signed in and a guard called my name
Donnie came out
processed and ready
we shook hands and the guard let us leave
after I signed a release form

Don was always the get-away-driver
so as soon as we were away
from warden’s watchful eyes
I let him take the wheel
forgot to inquire if he had a valid license
he threw his gate money at me to hold
said, “that’s how much I trust you”
“I’d never let anyone else handle my money”

back downhill
driving through the desert
he heard a helicopter above
“they’re being VERY cool right now”
as he kept it at 70

approaching San Diego
we decided to take the scenic route
through the canyons
a treat for this city-boy
ascending once again on a lone highway
into dusky mountains

greenest hillsides were covered
with giant granite boulders
of all shapes and sizes
intelligently strewn in primordial design
an ancient herd of petrified buffaloes
frozen in time
foreshadowing the stampede of clumpy clouds
rampaging above in crisp cerulean

we happened upon a tickling town
people in period costumes
riding horse drawn coaches and carriages
selling jars of jams and jellies
too bad we didn’t stop and get out

back on the freeway
approaching the city
a cop car pulled up behind us
right up on my bumper
a uniform with a brown brim hat
probably a state trooper
intimidation tactics
hoping we would make a run for it
probably alerted to BOLO
for my friend
we froze at first
looking straight ahead
then I remembered to act natural
started talking to calm Don down
started pointing out the sights
along the freeway like a tourist
the cop gave up and backed off
I wondered if he thought
‘that must not be him’
or
‘these guys are good’
I’m sure he ran my license plate

I brought my friend home
met his mother and sister
bought some gas
(you don’t have to pay first)
and made the two hour drive home
just another day
in my boring life

Along the valley
mist goes on its journey to the lake
silhouetting trees with white behind their shapes
they're green
but that's not visible today
as all is dressed in grey
since the dawning of the day

now later
when the invisible sun went down
all turned a blue
such a strong pale colour
its aura framed the view
we felt as if we were in an ocean wave
drowned by this apparition
its delicate embrace

Margaret Ann Waddicor 22nd May 2016

Desolate
Unyielding notes
Accumulate
Silhouetting umbra
Breaking through
Architectural shadow
Flickers of bloom & bounty
From a sleeping
Satiated bride
Reposed upon
The chaise longue
Softly interlacing
The accidentals
With a final grace note
Before absolute stillness
Reprises

I don't very much like compliments anymore.
Please, please don't call me beautiful.
I'm still trying to cope with the last time
I was called beautiful,
I wouldn't a' ****** ya
if you weren't
How reassuring,
he said it as though my beauty
was the only reason I was graced
with the gift of his ****.
It wasn't the drinking
or the party
or the conversations we held.
Only my beauty.  

Beautiful
is what the men who are
twice, no, three times, my age
nod at me as I walk to work.

Beautiful
is the nickname given to me
by one night stands
who can't seem to remember
my name is Nicholle.

Beautiful
feels like his hands silhouetting
my body after I told him to stop.

Beautiful
just reminds me of how hollow I feel
at the end of the day

Beautiful
is an understatement
for everything I am.

So please, find another way
to compliment me,
a different adjective
to describe me looks.
Or better yet don't
compliment my looks,
I am so much more.
You can compliment
my words
my soul,
the way I make you feel.

Today the sun burst through grey clouds
and sported great cumulus
sailing high up in the blue nordic ocean of the sky

below
resting on the earth
the indigo of the hills shading to infinity
strange distant escape routes for the mind

storm shadows shading the picture
slowly encroaching on this idyll
in ominous grey-black layers
silhouetting the colourful lupins

ah lovely contrasts
how they lift our spirits from the mundane
and send our imagination into celestial dwellings
we only see in our dreams

now the dawn of another day
has come
and gone
and evening light dwindles
behind the winding sheet of the weather
that earlier hid the bright sun

a sense of quiet
permeates the atmosphere
birds have disappeared
they were peppering the birch tree
most of the day
clouds
small puffs of damp
some of which have been stark white in the sunshine
have become pale blue-grey

all is spread like a water-colour wash
beneath a slightly pink pastel powdery paper sky
the hills close their flowers
hush their hawks
streams carry on their gurgle and chatter
among the rocks
and the firs stand upright
to reach a better view of the valley

while we shut out day
and stare into the dark
becoming a part of it

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th December 2015 (edited then)

A Cinderella Story
That even Dickinson could not tell
The repertoire that is my body
Slowly collapsing--
As the grave birds alarm for arrival.

I speak to someone that is no one
For strength and guidance within.
Yet anticipated signs only result--
In disappointing strains.

Those demons, they say,
They fill us with fear.
Silhouetting us with cloaks
That haven’t a beginning nor end.

They are made from our troubles--
Our hardships, our pain.
We know where they come from
But will never know their names.

What to do is to ignite
Burn the bridges, light the night.
As Cinderella did in that baby blue dress,
We’ll be alright.

She was drawn to the center of the valley, where the night’s coolness lingered at sunrise. The sun lifted above the surrounding mountain peaks, silhouetting the hikers perched on bouldered precipices. Grounding herself into the concave depression, she closed her eyes as the others marveled at the sun. Her light was dawning within her.

I stood there
naked in front of you
exposing my mind
laying it on paper 
in the dim lit room 
stripped from
all the limitations 
that my conscience 
lays on me 
like a heavy wet blanket
silhouetting my curves
separating me
from bashfulness
and my true nature