The sun comes visiting from crack of dawn
fills all the sky with light
evaporates the single clouds
that formed in black at night
no shadows hide except in valleys
down beside the lakes

the spring is here the spring has come
we must go out and celebrate
shake off the dust walk briskly on
into this growing year
catch its essence sing its song
join the birds
and spread good cheer

Margaret Ann Waddicor 21st April 2016

And now and then
and when we think we know
we tell the world
the people all around
we shout our views so loud

but all we know
we know from others then
a little from experience
ours  

we know so little of our universe
we think we know so well
but when the next year comes around
we find new knowledge spawned

so what we know
we only know right now
that's how it is and always will be
how we learn anew
and learn anew again

Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th April 2016

The wood lay quiet as I passed
those thin wan trees in semi dark
their twigs are missing due to lack of light
they stretch up high to see the sky
a chorus group in brown
perhaps atop they have some leaves
when it is summertime

but now they're entertained
by flowers of blue and yellow celandine
when winters gales take hold
they're made like instruments to knock and crack
or through their branches
winds create a sound of mystery
aeolian harp  

I do not know
but when I stand and sense their presence close
they seem to whisper peace to me
those strands of coloured trunks
and so I meditate in line
as if I too were one of them
on the fence inclined

Margaret Ann Waddicor 7th April 2016

Wherever he is
he makes it a special place
that's the nature of the poet
each venue has its aura
its particular atmosphere
it's interesting phenomena
and if it is banal
he finds something to be inspired by
a dead leaf
a lone dog
a chimney
and writes something exciting
to entertain his mind  
unless in meditative mood
he lets the scene become its own theatre
make its own poem
living in the now of existence
creating

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th April 2016

I feel awake at four o'clock
it stares me in the face
my restless limbs are hot
is it the spring that bothers me
or is it something else
I turn to left and right
but find it doesn't help
what shall I do tonight
just write a poem
that's alright
and now I'll say goodnight

Margaret Ann Waddicor 7th April 2016

Its leaves like autumns gathered leaf on leaf
a pile of thoughts put into words that make a whole
a series of pages full of meaning
of expressions full of art
of shaped forms called letters

once written by hand
flourished
holding a birds feather
a plume
where each word was an aesthetic creation
a characterful statement made by the author
containing nuances of inner meaning
that no printed word can contain
save in our own hopefully fertile imagination

and now a digital page
in a parallel electric brain
in fonts of different character  
anonymous and yet communicated to the world
to many eyes that see
in graffiti on walls in cities
flown by in the sky
how all has changed since Dickens lit his candle
wrote his screeds

Margaret Ann Waddicor 6th April 2016

Easy flow the waters
of the river passing by,

though we straighten them with walls
and narrow them in time,

and lace them up with bridges
to bind them where they lay,

still the waters, like a lifetime,
slip their bonds and pass away..