She poise
Her presence commands respect.
She doesn't quickly respond when under attack.

She dress elegant.
Then can dress accordingly.

Some refer to as lady of dignity.

She reserved.
Hold truth to her word.
Up hold the honors of all women.

And when she speaks so divine with words.
Many can't even believe it's her.

But when noticing her.
They soon come to the conclusion she's a lady of dignity.

The excuses made by religious ideas 
break the monotony of the days, 
brighten the expressions of love to one another,
colour the thoughts with rainbows
gleaned from the subconscious.

The enlightened man sees all in beauty,
everyone in beauty and kindness,
walking through life in a euphoria of well being.

These placebo pills, the fairy tales of the grown ups
made into an everyday occurrence 
within the patterns of their lives.

Untouchable, 
unrock-able dedication to the illusion,
bound by the power and the glory,
after all, life at all is a most magical beautiful thing,
the words receiving a diadem of diamonds,
The Word phenomenon!

And now I learn that the majority of our thoughts 
and actions are guided by the so-called subconscious, 
this tallies with my own thoughts 
on the subject of joy in living. 

Take away a man's memory and there is nothing left. 

What the frozen head people think 
they might get out of life in a next life, 
finally defrosted by whom- I don't know. 
Does the memory defy ice and live on?

I'm tempted to yell
Beneath the waxing moon,
Call to the hood whistler
To whistle a tune I knew.
Just one I could recognize,
One to identify;
But it's well above zero
On this shortest day of the year.
My compassion over-rides
The duality in the airs.
Still there's no inkling
Of whatever he's whistling;
I can't locate
Where it originates.
He'll be inside soon,
As we move to hibernate;
I sincerely hope he's there,
Whatever tune he airs,
Come Spring.

The night is here,
a deeper hue.
I'm in your veins,
my host is you.

The forests howl
and seep into
your lungs to me,
my host is you.

Following the waving trees, 
the same direction as the breeze, 
as if a thermal element 
was wafted with my gait,

as blown along beside the river, 
downstream with it's flow, 
I felt a kind of impetus, 
impulsive like a joy, 
that grabs the psyche, 
swings the spirit in high gear,

a thrill of moving onward 
through the day and year, 
as if time were anonymous 
and I a mere convolvulous, 
that happened to be flowering today.

Ann Waddicor August 2013.

I drew your heart on a piece of paper
and painted it with pastel colors
It's sad,
because,
you wanted it to be vivid
But darling I held my brush,
again,
against the palette

27 YEARS
No spoken word

27 YEARS
No written note
You come at me, now
Saddened I wrote

27 YEARS
Not in a moment of time

27 YEARS
Not in my dream
You come at me, now
Alone do I scream

27 YEARS
Not a second goes by

27 YEARS
Not a minute to spare
You come at me, now
Your heart does not care

27 YEARS
Now do you cry

27 YEARS
Now do you wonder
You come at me, now
I sit alone and I ponder

27 YEARS
I don't know why

27 YEARS
I don't know the game
You come at me, now
Guilt or no shame

They called it the shallow graves, the place where death plays
Spin the broken needle. it snows in July under here.

Under the bridge they huddle in their cardboard palaces ,
psychedelic moments followed by the falling in to oblivions grasp.

They slept in their depthless tombs, blankets hiding that moment
Of alone time where that last hit was the one that hit home.

I watch as so many lives that once were, are now gone, this
Place of broken syringes and dreams. Sleeping in hollow mounds.