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?

Kina poetry på gjesthuset en kveld i regn (Norwegian)
Korean poetry about a guesthouse one evening of rain.

Høstregn senker seg over gjestehuset
kaldt utafor, rolig natt med lampe
trist inni meg, sorgfull i rom
i hjertet en munk som mediterer.

Autumn rain sinks over the guesthouse
it's cold outside, night is calm with a lamp
of sadness inside me, a room of mourning
in my heart a monk who meditates.

Ch 'oe Ch'iwon. Korea

also by him with my attempts at translation:

Høstvind bare sang bittert
knapt en venn kjenner min lyd
regnet siler ute i mørket
fra lampen min går hugen langt.


Autumn's wind sings bitterly
hardly a friend knows my voice
rain pours down out in the dark
from my lamp memory travels far

The red chair sits at the table
the black one is dining there too
their repast is of pencils and paper
the odd flower
the used glass
a *****

they seem to converse
I can't hear it
their animated chatter
so low

swallowed by night
its dark shutters
as the sun sets
and dims down the light

It is evening
they'll be there tomorrow
their banter
the rolling of wheels
in time with the squeak of the door
but when we're gone
they'll be there no more

Exist, exile,
when set aside for that last mile,
a trial at close of day,
why me, not you,
'tis for the few
to end at break of day,

my life not easy,
trouble free,
and yet it had its way,
through times of joy
and times of sadness
times of freedom,
times employed,

twinned the two halves
joined in gladness,
mother, father's seed
developed into me,

what magic that we live at all,
mysteriously understood,
the chemistry of matter,
solids, particles,
bones and flesh,

changing places over years,
blood and consciousness,
include a formula,
that random took its place,
in present times, its power,
its grace,

when we understand the whole
loose face,
the universe
so vast a form in flux,
like glazes in the white hot kiln,
their unpredicted fusion,
clay and rocks reformed
as glassy liquid,

soon to be a solid surface
hard,
and we, the human race
are only shards.

We wonder at this world,
we wonder what and if, and but,
and never come to words
that can describe the whole,
only the tiny part that we ourselves impart,
and then not even understanding our own art.

We try with this and that,
we see how all takes part,
and realise that's all that we can do,
to sense those others,
just the few,
that we can see and feel,
their needs and ours entwined,
in this a life
as human kind.

Taking thy cross reyna
When thy cross is to heavy to bare;
Tis I am thine soulmate, that shalt forever be there.



©Brandon Nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)

'Take your dream as far as you can'- tear up the 
roots of the dead flowers, grab the branches 
above you and swing into the unreal vision of 
reality, breathe the air of spaces unknown, 
carrying with you the experiences of pressing 
thoughts, the sudden surprises of youth, the 
views that, with a flash of excitement, open up 
great wide vistas, and magnetise your senses 
to fly into their psychedelic embrace. 

Float along on the streams of life, like the 
autumn leaf, after dipping and diving, 
as it finds the calm of a lake's edge 
and oscillates in the quiet breezes, 
gathering the last rays of the setting sun, 
before it sinks, to become new life. 

Dance to the sound of the song bird, 
the drip of the rain, the swirl of the clouds 
and the dramatic movement in an opera when 
all voices join, and sound their messages 
out to the universe of stars and planets. 

Feel with your hands the shape of the future, 
smoothed and polished, slippery and textured, 
bumpy and sharp; become a new form of 
yourself, create something out of your own 
arsenal, using your whole being.
 
Touch the page with the tip of the brush, the 
full wash across the hand made paper, the 
colours of all nature, the scarlets, the azures, 
the emeralds, the golds, in hallucinations that 
are real, mysteries that metaphorically express 
the quick of your spirit, and are seen to be art.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th October 2012.

Written the same day... On my way home the dry Autumn leaves dancing cart-wheels past me, and did tap dancing on the tarmac, it was quite loudly they rattled past and flew away ahead of me as if like a flock of chattering children, rust brown and ochre colours doing their kind of wind dance, how wonderful all these percussion-like noises nature makes; just like the ice on the lake where the children were throwing blocks onto the hard surface, the sounding - box of the lake itself making that eerie kind of clang of sound that at first I thought might be some strange bird. I took up a video on my iPhone, but **** it, having fingers that were near frozen they didn't manage to push the tiny lever over from pure photography, so, to my great disappointment I when I got back there were only photos of it. Such is life!!!

That which exists 
exists in our minds 
our consciousness defines what we see 
each conscious person defines reality in their own way 
each thing or person is only there 
by there being other beings
with which to interact compare or touch 

each sense its different description of what is 
what is is as much what we make it 
as our lives are 
we make our lives 
parents try to mould and guide us
but if we are strong enough 
we judge for ourselves what is
and what to do about it.

Margaret Ann Waddicor April 2015