one shall never a proper poet be...
save by those that look upon thee,
however, it is their perception, see;
thought & feelings through words set free.*



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Love is the touch of one with another,
the breeze blows the frond to brush the face
we experience the sensitive stirring of the cells
they send a message to the brain
that translates them
sometimes into this state we call love
because it is up to us to be sensitive to love
it is the sense of existence that gives us joy
fills our sense of well being
with something indescribable
makes the world a place of understanding and beauty
makes life worth living.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 3rd February 2015.

A star fell down from heaven, was it you? 
A leaf fell from a tree, a little letter just for me, was it from you? 

A feather from the nest took my spirit in an arabesque, 
the birds, their voices singing through the dew, 
my dreams of you come true.

Take heart, we are apart, so long, yet messages come through, 
in such ways as only those whose sentiments 
touch nature's traits, decipher them, read what she says, 
such blessing is one's heightened sensitivity, 
when love flows with the river through this life of many joys,
awakened to all subtle things that change the light, 
colour the view, charge the psyche with new visions, 
teach us to create and recreate.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 5th July 2013

Love the greatest teacher,
she teaches us to understand ourselves, 
to reveal that love is not an outer thing, 
it’s deep within.

Before we can receive, we give,
and giving find the jewel of human worth, 
we have this trait from birth
like many things,
quelled by the laws of adults in their ignorance.

Born with the bond that ties all spirits close,
and when it manifests its magical sensation,
goaded by our state of mind,
we revel in its complete attention, 
to details sensitive and full of joy.

Her soft caresses touch our quick, 
her ties established hard to break,
her empathy with all that lives and breathes,
she is our welfare, our religion, our raison d'être.    

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th November 2013.

The bar is quiet tonight.
Just a few regulars
tearing at the stress
that grows like cancer.
She fixes her lipstick.
Dark red like blood
The blues wailing
from an alto sax.
I catch her eyes
And pay for her shot glass
bo be filled.
She is beautiful
Yet I do not care.
All I need is to drain my loneliness.
Perhaps if we had met
The first time she put on lipstick.
And life was new and filled
with limitless possibility.
We reach my small flat.
Snowflakes melt on her eyelashes.
They look like tiny teardrops.
I don’t use her for the ***
I had planned.
She is vulnerable
And the snowflake
thing has touched me inside.
We fall asleep
She holds my head
Onto her softness
It felt better than ***.
I fixed her coffee in the morning.
And said she looked beautiful.
She smiled and  kissed me softly.
as she left for her work.
And I think that was
the exact moment I fell for
the lady who became
the love of my life.