Margaret Ann Waddicor

Margaret Ann Waddicor Sep 2016

I hear the river flowing in my mind
it flows forever
ever mine
my ears produce the sound
all day
all night
all the time

if I translate it into something
outside me
make it come from the sap
that rises in the tree

or like the rivers never ending flow
ride its vicissitudinous path
to where
I do not know
and yet it is a continuity of music in my day
I have to sing beside it anyway

Margaret Ann Waddicor 9th September 2016

Tinitius, if one allows it to sing in one's consciousness, dominates all, but luckily we can banish it to the subconscious and hear all else.Do any others have this? And how does it influence them?

Margaret Ann Waddicor Sep 2016

Bury me

Among the nordic hills
where wild waterfalls
resound
and flowers cling
in the cracks
of granite rocks
mosses carpet
the forest floors

in moon or sunlight
tall firs make
revolving sundials
telling time
time that's now
and time that's past

time to see
what life it was
being me
among those
with foreign tongue

at home
for home for me
was where I felt
the now
as now it is gone
its meaning
stretched into forever now
no longer when
but then

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th July 2016

I aint dead yet though!!

Margaret Ann Waddicor Sep 2016

A SATURDAY

The day was hot
the sky was blue
the river flowed
the wild flowers bloomed
the warbler sang his bubbling song
the chaffinch too

this heat took out our energy
our walk was shorter
lunch was on the lawn
then in to find the cool
with cakes and ratatouille to follow
walk the dog and sleep until tomorrow

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th June 2016

On holiday, I worked a lot, but I also wrote poetry.

Margaret Ann Waddicor Jun 2016

The clouds make a picture

A bird with wings outstretched
seen partly from the side
white against the blue
wining westwards into the setting sun
its fan of feathering
its definite head and a beak
it flew there for some minutes
gradually disintegrating
becoming anonymous

perhaps we too become anonymous
we have our hour in the sun
look whole and beautiful
until the eve of our descent
fly over the land with outstretched hands
glide past the villages of life
until we lose our presence in the now
dissipate into the sky like dust
golden in the light of the setting sun

Margaret Ann Waddicor 7th June 2016

Because the theme is so like one of the last sent poems, I send this. last evening I noticed the shape in the sky, it was so like a bird flying across over the view, beautiful.

Margaret Ann Waddicor Jun 2016

One seagull under the bridge

Pure white in flight
brown rivers rush
a seagull

Swooping under the bridge
a pure white flash
seagull

Brown river flowing
under the dark bridge
white gull

Seagull swoops
under the bridge of brown
pure white flash

White moment
an arched shape of pure white
seagull

White flying flash
in the shape of an arc
a seagull

Under the bridge
one white flower blooms
spring

Below the dark bridge
an anemone flowers
full moon

Brown waters
the river flows fast
one wood anemone

I caught sight of a seagull swooping under the bridge, the moment I leant over to look down into the brown water flowing fast, it seemed a moment I wanted to record somehow, so I thought the short haiku-like poems would do. Do you have alternatives?

Margaret Ann Waddicor Jun 2016

Cool grey blues

Pastel the sky and land
with green pointillist patterns in the fore
one black crow on the tree
that's all that I can see today
as the sun gets up

we're promised thunder later on
but most things are lying still
only leaves on the hanging branches
slightly sway
prelude to this hot day

Margaret Ann Waddicor 7th June 2016

Just the view again.

Margaret Ann Waddicor May 2016

The knock of the North wind

It drove the leaves of spring to dance
tossed the tree tops hither thither

made the puddles shudder dither
oscillated the telegraph wires

threw sporadic raindrops
onto surfaces that strummed

like drums

knocked the gates staccato locks
disturbed the willows by the brook

spun the weathercock quite wildly
north and south got lost

turned the paper ******* over
summersaulting on

to thwack against the pillar box
the flagpoles wimple flapping

the strings against the pole repeated knocks
copied the currents in the river

though unseen
save for the waving of the crops

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th May 2016