margaret-ann-waddicor
Norway.
British, have lived in Norway for over 44 years, my mother was Scottish, my father English, both loved poetry. I have had no formal training in poetry after school days, it was of a sudden I started to write poetry, having written all my life; they just came at any time of day and I wrote them down, more than 1000 of them not that that means anything! Love nature, trees, philosophy, specially Eastern, trained in art and fencing, happy by nature.
An apricot cloud adorns the sky
just there behind the birches
the silhouette of leaves in odd array
one stem a slender trunk
is like a pencil streak
with decorations on the tips
and Skorve sits there dressed in grey
it is the end of a summers day
pale blue the sky up there
beyond
so far away
the salmon on a plate of blue
in the lake of space
its crown
above and out that vacant stare
we watch the passage of that fish that changes shape just there
so seeming near
the scene it dominates in green
so many variations
of colour shape and size
the lupins look surprised
M. Ann Waddicor 1st July 2020
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 11:10 AM UTC
I have no golden crown to cast
no diadem
no halo's there at all
perhaps a mask
to let me see
but not be seen
no trappings go when I do
and where I go
is not for me to understand
perhaps those bearing crosses
can see what I cannot
maybe
but when my hour is up
there's no return
to earn a place in heaven's grace
alone
the dark brown sod will be my home
where nothing can be done
as nature takes again
what she has sown
returns us all where we are bidden
by chance
its willing hand
that holds the key to every door
to everywhere that's hidden
M. Ann Waddicor 30th June 2020
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 11:08 AM UTC
What's it take
These days
To write a poem
That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest
Is it those excessively long words?
The ostentatiously loquacious
Platitudinous ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?
Is it perhaps...
the "creativity"
of varied spacing
or... could it be..... the lack
of capitalization
the loathsome little letters
screaming out
hey, look at us!
... or maybe it's
the punctuation marks,
littered, haphazardly
through the text
(whether used correctly)
or, theyre not?!
despite worrds mispeled
and a grammar might is broken
can these gimmicks increase interest
though miswritten or misspoken?
Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
(or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
Praise for which we
Privately, desperately
Pray
Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism
Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes
Well, maybe not...
those gems are often ignored
cast-aside, unread, even abhorred
Why?
Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
of "the right way"
to write
to speak
to act
to live
to (fill in the blank)
No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!
And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Altered
Adjusted
Changed up way
Line
After line
Of synonyms
over
and
over
and
over
again
-----
What's it take
These days
To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?
But more importantly:
What's it take
To make my poem go viral?
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 4:54 AM UTC
Bed where now I am
is good to sense
to feel the sheets against the skin
and know that soon
all thoughts can cease
and meditation
blend with dreamed scenarios
unbeknown to present consciousness
a song sung in the vacuum
of invisible night
a light that shines unseen
a dream so curious
so strangely shaped in space
that isn't space
in nowhere where
it seems alive
intense until we wake
and know that it was not
Margaret Ann Waddicor 6th March 2018
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
I write a poem about anything
a friend
a beggar or a king
each subject has something interesting
a challenge to my feelings
every time I start
it's natural
some call it art and art's a general word
whatever becomes
comes into being
there it is
good or bad
that depends on when in time
you're making marks
on life's waiting empty page
Margaret Ann Waddicor March 2018
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 4:51 AM UTC
A poem is
a diary of things seen
memories woken
the moment in the brain
when these things correlate
gel into a thought
become synchronised
a symbiosis
of all that one is at the time
an expression of existence
in the now of life
personified
described
intensely controlled
subtly born
Margaret Ann Waddicor 30th August 2017
A poem isn't
A banal expression of every day life
it isn't a substitute either
or a cure for some disease of the mind
it isn't an alternative to anything else
it isn't a final solved statement of reality
an equation fixed
it isn't meant to be other than itself
and within it are meanings it hasn't got
only those it engenders
it cannot define life
although on studying it
you can find a hypothesis of life
a meaning that might resemble others
ideas of life but isn't the whole story
it isn't what it isn't
or what it is expected to be
it just is
like music
measuring moments
concretising glimpses of that life
the life of one individual
a poet
Margaret Ann Waddicor 11th September 2017
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 3:31 AM UTC
Blown away the wind was today
no breath among the leaves
only the stir of little sounds
as we passed up the paths
padding the softened earth
the stones and roots between
so quiet among the firs
their pillared trunks
the light in the dark scene
moss and toadstools
sprouting from each dead or fallen tree
stripes of white shone through the gaps
and at the top the widened view spread out
in sunshine Oslo the fjord
the sky the house roofs parks and trams
so far below
no rattle no screech of brakes
just silence
broken only by the falling leaf
its landing recorded brown
Margaret Ann Waddicor 10th October 2017
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
As I climb into bed
snow is softly falling
diagonally blown by breezes north
a layer of uneven crystals forming
on veranda tiles
an apricot sky of even hue
the only visible sight
the birch
its tresses gently rising
shaking
pointing down south west
I’ll let the weather carry on
as I must sleep till dawn
know that night is passing there
without the curtains drawn
Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th November 2017 ©
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 7:35 AM UTC
I see you there
suspended for a time
between the shadow
and the light.
You look pale
but peaceful,
in a dream state.
I rest awhile,
a shallow sleep,
then I awake
knowing…
without words
my mind whispers
it’s time
I gently wipe your lips,
brush a stray hair
from your forehead.
It’s all I know to do.
Then I sing
a cherished lullaby
hoping you hear me
hoping it wraps you in love
as my arms wrapped
around you
as a child.
I hold your hand,
kiss your forehead.
In that instant I see
and feel all you’ve been
all that is you
tiny wrinkled infant
delightful, smiling six-month old
curious toddler
proud school age
struggling teen
loving adult
realizing
we're losing all of these,
all that you've been
all that is you
then
I feel your spirit leave…
for that brief moment
I’m overcome with a calm
I can’t describe.
A gift rare and precious –
as I was there
when you entered the world
I was with you
when you left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough."
Rabinadrath Tagore
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
If Easter is a celebration for some
it is a quiet time
when spring is waiting to become
when birds start fretting building their neat nests
and sing their arias to the sun
hammer rhythms on the tall dead trees
we even here the sound of buzzing bees
shy flowers rise from sodden brown black earth
lifting their heads to open wide
little faces of light to show their place
the air is damp and bright and fresh
we open the windows take a deep breath
we're still alive to see to feel to sing
so lets rejoice now lets begin
Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th April 2017
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC