An apricot cloud adorns the sky
just there behind the birches
the silhouette of leaves in odd array
one stem a slender trunk
is like a pencil streak
with decorations on the tips

and Skorve sits there dressed in grey
it is the end of a summers day
pale blue the sky up there
beyond
so far away

the salmon on a plate of blue
in the lake of space
its crown
above and out that vacant stare
we watch the passage of that fish that changes shape just there
so seeming near

the scene it dominates in green
so many variations
of colour shape and size
the lupins look surprised

M. Ann Waddicor 1st July 2020

I have no golden crown to cast
no diadem
no halo's there at all
perhaps a mask
to let me see
but not be seen
no trappings go when I do
and where I go
is not for me to understand

perhaps those bearing crosses
can see what I cannot
maybe
but when my hour is up
there's no return
to earn a place in heaven's grace
alone
the dark brown sod will be my home
where nothing can be done

as nature takes again
what she has sown
returns us all where we are bidden
by chance
its willing hand
that holds the key to every door
to everywhere that's hidden

M. Ann Waddicor 30th June 2020

Bed where now I am
is good to sense
to feel the sheets against the skin
and know that soon
all thoughts can cease
and meditation
blend with dreamed scenarios
unbeknown to present consciousness

a song sung in the vacuum
of invisible night
a light that shines unseen
a dream so curious
so strangely shaped in space
that isn't space
in nowhere where
it seems alive
intense until we wake
and know that it was not  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 6th March 2018

I write a poem about anything
a friend
a beggar or a king
each subject has something interesting
a challenge to my feelings

every time I start
it's natural
some call it art and art's a general word
whatever becomes
comes into being

there it is
good or bad
that depends on when in time
you're making marks
on life's waiting empty page

Margaret Ann Waddicor March 2018

A poem is
a diary of things seen
memories woken

the moment in the brain
when these things correlate
gel into a thought
become synchronised

a symbiosis
of all that one is at the time
an expression of existence
in the now of life

personified
described
intensely controlled
subtly born

Margaret Ann Waddicor 30th August 2017

A poem isn't

A banal expression of every day life
it isn't a substitute either
or a cure for some disease of the mind
it isn't an alternative to anything else
it isn't a final solved statement of reality
an equation fixed

it isn't meant to be other than itself
and within it are meanings it hasn't got
only those it engenders
it cannot define life
although on studying it
you can find a hypothesis of life

a meaning that might resemble others
ideas of life but isn't the whole story
it isn't what it isn't
or what it is expected to be

it just is
like music
measuring moments
concretising glimpses of that life
the life of one individual
a poet

Margaret Ann Waddicor 11th September 2017

Blown away the wind was today
no breath among the leaves
only the stir of little sounds
as we passed up the paths

padding the softened earth
the stones and roots between
so quiet among the firs
their pillared trunks
the light in the dark scene

moss and toadstools
sprouting from each dead or fallen tree
stripes of white shone through the gaps

and at the top the widened view spread out
in sunshine Oslo the fjord
the sky the house roofs parks and trams
so far below

no rattle no screech of brakes
just silence
broken only by the falling leaf
its landing recorded brown

Margaret Ann Waddicor 10th October 2017

As I climb into bed
snow is softly falling
diagonally blown by breezes north
a layer of uneven crystals forming
on veranda tiles

an apricot sky of even hue
the only visible sight
the birch
its tresses gently rising
shaking
pointing down south west

I’ll let the weather carry on
as I must sleep till dawn
know that night is passing there
without the curtains drawn

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th November 2017 ©

If Easter is a celebration for some
it is a quiet time
when spring is waiting to become
when birds start fretting building their neat nests
and sing their arias to the sun
hammer rhythms on the tall dead trees
we even here the sound of buzzing bees

shy flowers rise from sodden brown black earth
lifting their heads to open wide
little faces of light to show their place
the air is damp and bright and fresh
we open the windows take a deep breath
we're still alive to see to feel to sing
so lets rejoice now lets begin

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th April 2017

When we grow up
can we be wise
I wonder
I doubt it

and yet
there are some who do
some who don't
some we don't know of

no it is hard to tell
even oneself
how can we measure it
how do we know it

yet we know when we see it
or feel it or sense it
we know it

Margaret Ann Waddicor 17th September 2016

Unawares time passes rivers flow
the heart beats on its continuous mission
we live a life not knowing the end
not knowing what impact we will make on it
on others
on ourselves
on the environment

hoping it will be well spent
helping others to live theirs
only totally aware part of the time
the rest is carried out by the automatic
functions of the brain subconsciously

we lean on the walls of reality
some support us
some fall as we touch them
it is all trial and error
try once and evaluate

to judge this existence is not possible
only partially aware of it we surmise its quality
equate its harmony
and finally fall into the bliss of oblivion
none the wiser for having lived

Margaret Ann Waddicor 8th April 2016

They never set foot on earth again
you know 
just like the animal and ant 
they go 
we feel our conscious selves as indestructible 
you know 
and yet we never meet their like 
although some human traits continue on 
you know 

we are not more clever 
nor more bright 
than we were when man was dressed in skins 
you know 
but what it is that gives us life 
we'll never know 
you know 

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th August 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drifting particles of mist
drifting
drifting across the window pane
through fresh leaves of birch
over the greenhouse
attaching itself to the glass
making silver shapes on the grass
drifting in clouds of dim dull grey
what a damp day in the dark

a morning in mourning
so sadly opaque
that's why I'm awake with a gentle headache
but the air's good to breathe
so I'll wait to get up
when the clock reaches seven
I'll drift about in my room
getting dressed all in blue
to celebrate you

Margaret Ann Waddicor 22nd May 2016

Along the valley
mist goes on its journey to the lake
silhouetting trees with white behind their shapes
they're green
but that's not visible today
as all is dressed in grey
since the dawning of the day

now later
when the invisible sun went down
all turned a blue
such a strong pale colour
its aura framed the view
we felt as if we were in an ocean wave
drowned by this apparition
its delicate embrace

Margaret Ann Waddicor 22nd May 2016

A grey day
and I shall meld into the background
in my grey cardigan

grey on grey
grey on white

like blossom against a white sky
as now the crab apple has decided to flower
its delicate light in this grey
is beautiful

compensation for my heavy head
and troubles causing pain
helping to raise the spirits
till I am back again

Margaret Ann Waddicor 23rd May 2016

SPRING RAIN

Perfume of blossom after gentle rain
it permeates my senses
breath on hold
as fantasies of wondrous gardens fill my mind
or meadows of wild flowers

my step is lighter
my smile is brighter
my psyche takes a ride
into the world of joy
its heady intoxication

the drops of silver on my face
my new cosmetic
my cheeks are pink
my hair
each strand their little jewels
no other decoration needed

now I'm ready for this day
a thursday in the month of May

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th May 2016

I watched the sun
a rose of gold
his beauty petalled bright
reflecting suns and moons from space
it spun eternal light
that touched each surface of this globe
where man and beast reside
a presence from which no living thing will hide
for he is the reason we exist
the reason we survive

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2016

To the drone of the washing machine
we are rocked into dreamland
out into the wide pale sky of evening
the clouds of grey are barques at our side
the trees
anemones that sway in tact with the tide
as all when we start falling into sleep
gets mixed

perhaps we're even upside down
who knows
our bodies rest on beds
but who's to say what's in our minds
that spin their yarns
of gossamer and silk
to bear us up to spheres we know not of
by day
unchanged
this theme we cannot alter in any other way

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th May 2016

The moon is there
and yet we cannot see it
instead a grey black curtain
hangs its charcoal blush across the sky

impenetrable void
its subtle sheen is ominous
no word
it is an unwritten slate
for some anonymous scribe of night

if we could see the stars
their path describes its everlasting screed
in fits and starts of spinning light

such velvet darkness floats about
like some extraordinary cloak
of silent dust

Margaret Ann Waddicor 14th May 2016

I've had a life like the fan of two moth wings
their patterns my joys and sorrows
the one side my youth
the other my old age
each with its facets of subtle tints and shades
rich in its simple manner
soft at one end
fringed at the other  

oh thank you dear moths
that have brushed me during my lifetime  
it is you who enriched it
you who gave it nuances of colour
you who remain dear in my heart forever
as long as I have consciousness

and when I die
it is you I shall think of
and take to my grave with
not sadness
but full of happiness

Margaret Ann Waddicor 10th May 2016

Some people in this life
are here to be looked after
others made to be the carers
I think I am here for the latter
complex minds are born
and clearer simpler minds too
like man and woman
soft and hard

we differ
but in the interchange of time together
grows a harmony
a music of happiness
that forms around ones aura
and makes all things seen through it
beautiful

Margaret Ann Waddicor 10th May 2016

The sky of yellow
palely pastel'd    
the hills blue grey
their shapes so stark
against the coloured heavens

the tree
with delicate hanging fronds
breaks through the two
a black against the forests monotone

as if one note was blown
that never ends
dreams take form in the subconscious mind
those elements predict the atmosphere
set the stage

what shall I dream tonight
armed with this sight
I'll probably never know
they dissipate in morning light

Margaret Ann Waddicor 3rd May 2016

Blown cracked
the bone of contention
split in two
each shard searing the sheet of calm
the broth
its murky mixture
stirred in the stench of disagreement
odours that clamp the nostrils
stop the breath

gasping
we grasp at dripping black branches
that close in above us
as we sink slowly into the quagmire
and disappear without trace
into the abyss of despair  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th January 2016

Bring in the cool of forest breath
the sweetness of nights perfumed air
its fresh bright glittering intensity
permeates the mind
the body feels a calm
a quiet peacefulness  
that lasts until the depth of black 
turns out the light 

only stars are witnesses 
as they so constant send their flashes far
while we revolve to see again
our life giving star the sun
morning steps out new 
and in the dew her feet are washed 
as beams of heat touch tops of hills and woods
to slowly reveal our world its evergreen coat
and all becomes awake

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2016

We speak of living stars
of stars created by black holes
as if we correlate life such as ours
with theirs

we too come from stars
so why not let them be the creators
of the universe we know
for those that possibly exist outside our galaxy
are as yet to be discovered proved

we fantasise as we do those gods and devils
we fantasise other living parallel worlds to ours
out there beyond the reach of telescopes and flight
a million
no millions of millions of light years away

so far
that if we stretch our minds to understand  
our concentration falters
in the hedges of the labyrinth of our brains
this way of living we have made
gets in the way
beliefs and other odd ideas pollute the thoughts
we strain to see and yet we cannot see

Margaret Ann Waddicor 4th May 2016

Here we are again
in the deep of days dying
the sky in tiers of greys
charcoal shades creep in and change the mood
as rain proceeds its rhythmic fall on house and park
and knocks at doors and patters on all cars

wet the way
its weathered edges gurgle like a stream
sun heated surfaces begin to steam
all moisture celebrates existence in the hour
while most they run for shelter
I stand in my free shower

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th April 2016

Swooning in the suns rays
smothered in praise
beautiful blond ladies swagger about
like birds in heat
their feet in high heeled shoes
tight skirts

with swanky hair do's  
they eye you with intent
expecting compliments
applause
no pausing due to doubt
so confident

the stars of film and song
there's nothing they do wrong
or that's what they think
give me that other drink

Margaret Ann Waddicor 1st May 2016

Wandering snowflakes
seagulls flying inland
pollen blown from birches
light caught on the evergreen leaves
the houses over the lees
light under the clouds
foam patterns on the oceans waves
or in the rivers catching twigs the bubbles at the edge
the surface of the lakes serene when lying still
the cobblestones in frost and snow
the stripes in woods of trees
the bleached driftwood on the shores
the shells that oscillate in eddies
the heavens in the mist
all the whites where colour unites as one
over the moon and under the sun

Margaret Ann Waddicor 28th April 2016

What was it jogged my memory
what was it filled a gap
when as I sat and ruminated
this forgotten thought came back
from long ago when I was ten
I stood alone outside
the stars were coming out
the Jotunheimen land of giants
was lit by northern light
far off their ghostlike splendour
fair took my breath away
such mirage-like illusions
were real for me that day

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th April 2016

Night its quiet
my brain begins to write its thoughts
forgotten from the day
its rhythm stolen from before
its intent banal
and yet theres always something new
that gives it yet another view
I hadn't seen before

in dreamed circumstances
created by the mind
its subtle memory
of unnoticed things
as if I lived quite blindly
unseeing
among unseen people
enacting a parallel life
some recognisable
others not
always entertaining
this other me
this other you

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th April 2016

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

Again the pencilled greys
permeate the valley view
the evergreens veiled

a breeze that comes and goes
waves the willows wands

one bird hangs on
rides into the day
its feathers all one way

the sky is not
it left with light
though paled

the only stars  
are those of houses
where ****** of colour
create their own terrestrial Milky Way

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2nd April 2016

The inkwell black of night
holds its soft glove of evening
up against the window

as you open it
a gentle cool curls in around ones neck
and on ones face
soothing the wrinkles of day away
stilling the heart beat
silencing the mind
and plunges  your whole being
into its embracing void

the breath becomes slower
and sweet air fills the lungs
you sigh
and stand quite still
time stands still with you
it is your friend
your ally
your closest understanding

your present reason for existence
where more or less doesn't exist
nor up and down or sideways
all is whole
contained
yet there is no container
no form to this whole
it just is

Margaret Ann Waddicor 23rd March 2016

Hanging in the cupboard
at the end of the row  
it was pink with ******* spots
short and tight
like a mini when she wanted
roomy above
three quarter length sleeves
high at the neck to hang a necklace

it lived there
in that old dilapidated wardrobe
with the hinge just holding
layers of dirt on the top
she couldn't reach up to that

once in a blue moon
there would be a use for it
she could dress up again
show off her cherished garment
feel new and young again
walk taller
although she was already bent from arthritis

when she arrived last time
someone said
oh you've got that old thing on again
she blushed bright red
and shed an inner tear

one time a gentleman said
what a charming dress you have
and then she glowed all through with happiness

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th March 2016

The ochre
rust
the grey
of stone

this planet
has a crust of loam
stone the majority

scattered
broken from the hills
building up the land

above
below
the sea

the paths we take through life
are paved with their solidity

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th March 2016

Going for a walk with a dog
one feels there are two minds looking
thinking
and sometimes wonders what the dog is thinking
or perceiving

he/she sees from a different height
is closer to the bluebells
the snail
or the mouse hole
perhaps these give off a perfume  
her sense of smell is stronger than ours
she has other knowledge than ours

I wonder as we walk slowly past things
what she is looking at
and this influences how I look too
we sense each other
absorbed each in our tasks

the one creating poetry
while the other is contemplating
the library of perfumes
and maybe fantasising he dogs
or perhaps just being
being a dog
as I sometimes am
just being me

Margaret Ann Waddicor 22nd March 2016

I stand
I see the trees
the sky
and all the things
that make up my environment

between them
and I
is nothing to distract
no knowledge blocks
the path of my experience
no human division

the rose attracts me
as it does the bee
its colour
shape
and smell

and when I touch its petals
soft and smooth
its shine as well

a thrill of joy runs through me
that touches every sense
I live
I love
I'm free

Margaret Ann Waddicor 23rd March 2016

Its sharpened rock point up
towards the space around our planet
the azure blue
we watch
as summer warms its craggy forms
a row of witches hats
their brew the clouds
their voice the icy blasts
or whistles through the cracks

remote
aloof
its presence unperturbed
it lords the valley from above
below its ample weight
small houses made of wood and painted red
among the grassy greens and darker firs

Margaret Ann Waddicor 16th March 2016

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