We poets calmly expound ideas and theories
filling them with rhyme and reason
expecting enlightenment 
to beam across the world 
like gods revealing the temple of our minds 
to all
unclothing hidden thoughts 
gleaned from the
coffers of ideas

lifting the lids of treasured phrases that inspire 
dramatic waves of foam from poets 
before carrying on across the sands of time 
into supposed infinity

Many end up in dusty books unread 
or in the loft among forgotten dreams 
and untidy experiences
the drawings on the wallpaper 
of other's lives 
now covered with new fashions of papering
obsolete and sadly ignored

each individual person has their own philosophy
their own unique vision of reality
each utterance describes us 
in more potent ways than pictures
our sense of feeling alive
expressed in neat patterns of symbols
forever changing meaning as time passes. 

Margaret Ann Waddicor September 1st 2014.

We wish - we wish we were someone else
something else but we're we  
I wish I were a lioness but that is not to be
I wish - I wish the stars and moon  
don't you - face in the mirror
are you my other self
my soul - my heart beats - smile
but I'm only the cat that sits on the shelf
looking pretty I admit it myself  
but now I've met my other self
the one that fits right next to me
no longer full of wondering
fulfilled and happy in my dream
life's brighter than it seemed
and now the future's there
as always it will be - to fill with love and care
let down my hair - give you my heart
spin a life that's now - our art

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th November 2015
Written for Charlotte and Anders for Christmas

Into the tunnel, not of love,
not of ghosts, but MRI,
totally still you must lie said he with a squint, 
with needles for this and for that
to control the peristaltic movements,
one lies to be heated by fire from beneath, 
in a terrible sheath of metal
to weigh down your middle, 
then it begins the booms and the blows

your breathing you suppose is as normal, 
sweet music plays in your ear phones, 
(and strangely enough in the key of the booms)
as you slowly get stiller and stiller, 
and feel you will never recover, 
your mind wanders here and there
out of the funnel to friends,
but you're there all alone so alone,
and wish to go home.

a sudden boom hammer like thunder, 
you feel you're down under the sod
in your cylindrical coffin from God.

all at once you're dragged out, after the hour,
yes we've got all we want says the man,
get up if you can, but you can't, 
as all is stood still, even will won't work,
and you walk on your way heavy footed and dizzy,
befuddled and muddled, but glad that its over,
its no dance in clover, oh no, 
but just something one has to go through.

Our consciousness paints the view,
colours the flowers,
touches the cotton grass's softness,
its sturdy thin stem sways with our heartbeats
in the freedom of the mountain air,
and we know then that we are, we exist. 

Margaret Ann Waddicor

the rhythm of my life has changed o’er time
from hectic to considerate to more relaxed
things that pressed urgently in previous years
now suddenly can wait a bit, and without fears
that anything important might be missed

the wisdom of maturity, or just the laziness of age,
allows me now to cast a much more probing look
on our daily world, watching events and people
with more distance than in younger days

whether this is a  blessing in disguise
I dare not say, I’m not the sage
who tells you where the long-sought treasure lies
but just a greying man who tries to figure out
what his life and the world are all about

Flatdal mist swathes the valley
lifts Skorve mountain in air
glimpses of dark crags and shining rocks
a thin sprinkling of snow
the trees hang clusters
of autumn tinted leaves
like decorations in a row
the meadows green below
in silky subtle dress
soft blues all shot with yellow
the lady birches swing their weeping fronds
over the mirror-like black ponds
as silver light plays
on the surface of the still lying lake

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2015

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)