Snowy sentiments silted up
the soft sediment of my senses,
sifting silently my dreams
of sensitive seduction,
solely to send my thoughts to shores
with coloured sands and stunning steep sights
with sweeps of sea, that swell so high
the sun scintillates the surface spray
shimmering and shining,
spreading over the horizon,
as the soughing of the wind swings seagulls,
swooping serenely southwards,
past the slabbery seashells
and slap-happy waves that swish up the beach,
soporifically smudging seaweeds
against the sleeping surface
of the smooth glacial rocks,  
spattering silky foam in spots
of saffron-tinted shapes, over their structures,
surreptitiously sinking into the saline cracks.

Margaret Ann Waddicor February 2013.

The birches branches
are blown to the north
on Christmas Day
on Christmas Day

no snow this winter
no snow
no snow

the clouds obliterating the view
so low today
so low

they're making my head feel bad
when it's time to be glad so happy and glad

oh why do the elements cry just now
hang like a shroud
instead of a rainbow

send us a rainbow
right now
just for now
to cheer up our trees
and our lakes in the view

for others
for others
for me
for you

Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th December 2015

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

'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!!!

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.

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.

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

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

He sat there sad, 
his tree alight with silver ***** and trinkets, 
alone this holy night, while others gather round, 
resound with songs of joy, 
here silence reigns, his frosty panes describe the star.

Now passed away, his friends, his family and foes, 
he meditates, their atmosphere, 
so dear, so fresh, 
so faded in his memory of other times gone by, 
they leap, a flame, a candle in his mind, 
and opened a bright drawer, 
where lay the rosary his mother wore, 
and taking up this precious chain, 
of litanies and prayers. 

He heard his mother's voice again,
he saw her face, 
felt solace in his fears; 
now all the years of health and youth have fled, 
now bled the veins of beating hearts 
that gave him sustenance and sentiments so pure, 
devout; their ether filled the air, 
it was as if he'd taken flight and all his family was there.

A knock awoke him from his dream, 
his magic reverie, 
he was just sitting quite alone, 
who could that stranger be, 
a little boy, just like himself, stood smiling on the mat, 
he sang his favourite Christmas carol, 
his little box for charity held high for all to see, 
but when the penny dropped inside, there was no boy at all.                

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2010.

When we step into silver and gold
disguise all our sorrow
see faces of joy on each girl and boy
the stars shine much brighter
their magical twinkling light
full of rapture our spirits
with laughter good food and gifts
all wrapped in fine papers that crackle and tear
a sound filling hearts full of awe
at this life in the middle of winter
as we wait for the thaw.

I looked out,
Christmas decorations were already hung up in the sky,
even the frosting floated about
with the lights of the town dwarfed below,
such a glow, each ***** of a star,
the hills, hulks of stone, seemed warmed,
ready for celebrations,
annual explanations of our psyche and its exaggerations,
where the simple tale, just like the one stella, bright,
enacts its cycles in the dark of night.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th November 2014.

NATURE’S "CHRISTMAS"

Along the length of river’s rush
the sudden booms of stones in floods
the softened mossy sides and broken trunks
all moistened by the rains of days in grey attire
the padded path now red with needles
rocks with maps and lichens
bilberries now gone,
unless a wizened one hangs on,
high up above the flow
the waterfall
where logs were gathered long ago
a strange incongruous work of art
hangs above the roar in blue and white
as autumn’s voice falls silent
on the wings of faded leaves
she dots her constellations all about
in yellow flecks that decorate the trees
not decked for Christmastide
and yet
this could be used
we nature’s solstice celebrate.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 26th October 2014.

FLOWERS OF SNOW (Christmas roses)
Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th December 2012.

Flowers of snow,
they blow about the sky like birds in flight,
a sight that sends the senses in a spin,
for deep within our hearts
we love this dance,
this ballet-dance of nature,
as all is frozen, stilled,
and movement only comes
when winter wishes are fulfilled.

We wish, and wish, and wish again
for lightness in the dark,
for moments by the burning grate,
warm sparks of orange bright,
the contrasts of the darkest nights,
with stars of ice, that ******
****** bells on forest trees
of rainbow colours, fired.

For presents below a fir,
the reds and blues with ribbons silver, gold,
as Christmas comes and goes,
the hellebore, its ****** bloom
is plucked from frozen earth,
and brought right in
to Lord the full decked table,
celebrate Messiah's birth.

Following the waving trees, 
the same direction as the breeze, 
as if a thermal element 
was wafted with my gait,

as blown along beside the river, 
downstream with it's flow, 
I felt a kind of impetus, 
impulsive like a joy, 
that grabs the psyche, 
swings the spirit in high gear,

a thrill of moving onward 
through the day and year, 
as if time were anonymous 
and I a mere convolvulous, 
that happened to be flowering today.

Ann Waddicor August 2013.

Comes to fetch us
her shadowy form presents
it will be too late to relent a life
you will be lifted up
and placed upon a saddle of gold
and as you're sitting down
the earth will glow like magic
whisk you to the sky of no return

stars escort you
as they did the ancient ships of man
the elements of water air and fire
will swirl and with them help your last dance
as the music of the spheres
cradles your thoughts
and brings you through the gates of home

the name of where we all belong
becomes a part of us
a symbiosis of all we represent
grand and great will be the blaze
as night again fades into light
so bright you're out of sight

Margaret Ann Waddicor 20th December 2015

And yet we never know
we cannot tell the hour
time will pass
and time will go  
like the breath of evening changing slow

evolving night takes hold
the brightness fades
and into gloom of darkness we glide

which star above us shines
what moon is in the sky
or are there none that see
just when I die

life its ebbing slide
its silver slippered ride
towards the sea of matter
we now divide our beings
that coincide with fate
the breath stops its music

it's never too late to fly
yes fly into the sky
of subconsciousness and see beyond
into the beauty of existence
its own eternity
to take part in life's patterns
its infirmity

Margaret Ann Waddicor 20th December 2015

I am to have Star Wars treatment,
placed in ******* in my space, 
laced and strapped and branded, 
ready for initiation fires
to permeate my skin, purge my sin, 

enter in to places undesired, 
exercise the halls that have inspired, 
pacify the devils now within, 
banish, excommunicate their whim,
starve them, beat them, flail them, shrivel them,
send them packing fast, 

save the rest a cavernous shell,
glean the remnants of my soul, 
change the negative into positive flow, 
a strange enlightenment method, 
so brutal, so brave, transformed, 
perhaps deformed and changed.

A row of letters
written
attracts other words
as in all else
I strive to make a whole

like ants around a heap
they gather in my mind
some put on hold
as later they will come to use
but not before they're weighed
judged apt

then they're considered
their rhythm
rhyme and meaning coincides  
a flash of recognition gives them impetus
they play their subtle game
running round the corridors of my brain

then out they pour in unison
a choir of  random thoughts
gels into a poem unexpressed
the letters gather on the page
to my surprise
I recognise their message
develop it  
to sit back and sigh
was it truly I who wrote it
it must be a new life before I die

Margaret Ann Waddicor 18th December 2015

Now the year will soon change to a new one
and take us with it on its inevitable journey
in what we call time

we roll on in the changing weathers
and changing fortunes
gathering new impressions of the whole
but never coming to the conclusion

like time
it goes on forever
we cannot know it all
we cannot fathom the reality of this universe

only create our hypotheses
and hope that they give a frame of thought
that can guide us
through its vicissitudinous spiral
from birth to not being

although we never leave
as there is no space around us
nowhere that there is nothing
even if we tend to call it air
as that too has its chemical compound
and is full of invisible particles
of which in the final analysis
we are a part of

Margaret Ann Waddicor 17th December 2015

A poem is like a gem, the saturation of a text,
so complete, and being shorter than prose text,
beautiful as such.

In the readers mind, while reading,
it dances in unison with his own thoughts,
his gathered knowledge, his word associations,
his joys and sorrows.

He uses this symbiosis as a harmony,
or marriage of perception, that gives his reader,
a different experience, just as the poet himself,
has had his own unique experience in the writing of it.

Hidden in poetry are meanings we don't understand 
feelings explained
embroidered on the everyday shirt of life 
each individual song its special message  
sewn with a delicacy of stitch in silver or gold 
iron or steel wire 
stitched into our minds with invisible threads
joining the synapses of emotion and imagination
taking us on a journey through past present 
future and no place in time yet studied
stretching its long fabrics
far into the horizons of our perception 
forming shapes and patterns 
that have the same magic as music 
inexplainable joys and sorrows 
that burden our senses with sadness and sheer ecstasy

Margaret Ann Waddicor 1st April 2015

We entered the wood    
losing all weight
in the silence

Friends are like moss
on stones
softening the way

I walked
and walked, 
and walked into the snow of winter's years
my hair though slow turned white
the way 
the way just like today
was warm
the way I've trod since I was born
but now
see how its contours disappear
its shapes familiar are not there to see  
no more cries of memories
joys to see

I walk 
and walk as long as I can muster strength
at length 
the track is whisked right out
with winds of fortune
summer's drought

and now I'm here
where walking shakily
I fear
I am about to disappear

all clothed in snow's white gown
go on and on
no steps to see
no dark form,
no shape to follow
on into oblivion's white curtained emptiness
of nothing
no thing
no tangibility
no staff
no tree
no bird,
for all is white
and now
I'm out of sight

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2012

And a drop of moisture
falls from the leaf
plops into the puddle
beneath
and oscillates
in the reflection of sky

moving water
all is moving
the earth itself
is moving
and changing

we hang
in the present
hammock of existence
swinging to and fro
in the winds
of fortune

finally rocking
to sleep
for a long time
in the tides of memory
that wash the shores
of our consciousness

rings leave its centre
and reach
the circumference
of infinity

Margaret Ann Waddicor 14th December 2015

The wrinkles
they are a bit faded
but have a gentle presence
that fits with the folds
of the 16thC altar cloth
once ****** white
but now stained
through years of use

bread and tears
or wine
and tiny rice biscuits!

The Christ on the cross
is very old  
made of painted wood
and the altar is surrounded
with a fence
of turned table-leg like posts
pale blue
as is much of the interior
perhaps denoting Heaven

and as the psalms
waft music round about
we look through the windows
to the listening hills
and streams
the old birds
wise
will sit watching too

and all the people
will suddenly feel their age

wow what a display of flowers
the church was as full of them as people

I put in the only black dress I had with dark pink roses on it too and I cut the rim of a black felt hat that had cost only Kr. 10.- in scollops and diamond cuts around the crown as it was too big for me.

Then I walked down to the valley to the church, and when I entered was ushered to the very front pew, I said there must be more important family members than me to be seated, I could hide in the balcony or something but he insisted. So I had a good view of the proceedings!

It think several hours waiting the ***** playing quietly in the background and finally things began to happen.

I sat next to a black man, he was already dressed in black!!! The white robed "prest" came into view and with his powerful voice sang twice as loud as the congregation.

After all the flower sashes had been repetitively read out, we left the church following the coffin to its final resting place.

And just as had happened in the church the priest mentioned the sun and its rays came through the windows, and as he threw on the "earth to earth, dust to dust," it broke through the grey clouds again and lit up the gay flowers, the frame of black and white onlookers many in tears watching.

Margaret Ann Waddicor

Shall I wear my new wrinkles
to the funeral on Tuesday
or should I wear the old ones
passed down from my ancestors
in the eighteenth century?

But

why not?

I have even got ostrich feathers
to put in my black hat

but then I should try to be inconspicuous

should't I?

Can I, that's the question!

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2014

Poetry is an extension of emotion
a reaction to the phenomena of this world
and to the manifestations of our species
an exaggeration of the mind
drugged by the beauty
or the horror of reality 
an effort to recreate in words
the sensed visions of our consciousness
and express them in tangible
understandable
symphonies of thought

Margaret Ann Waddicor August 2015

Carrying the tears of winter’s long refrain
the autumn leaf that lodged between some twigs
took flight to reach the earth again
its life now savouring the last of rites
to fly in spirit to another world
where in the mould of many years uncurled
it changes into something else
but in its heart are days of sun and rain
days of happiness and joy
among those other moments sad and dour
its stories from the tree its library
as written deep within the loam
are tomes of history

Margaret Ann Waddicor 1st May 2015

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

This morning when I woke was grey
I thought the night had stolen day,
but no it was the snow that bore the light
so soon after Christmas night
when even stars were hidden
and clocks of white spun down
around our sleeping heads
making softest sounds
in hushed quiet mounds
no sudden flight of doves
but all the messages invisible
between the living things
made pure telepathy in winter's ear
an atmosphere resembling the devout,
as we looked out

Margaret Ann Waddicor

This morning when I woke was grey
I thought the night had stolen day,
but no it was the snow that bore the light
so soon after Christmas night
when even stars were hidden
and clocks of white spun down
around our sleeping heads
making softest sounds
in hushed quiet mounds
no sudden flight of doves
but all the messages invisible
between the living things
made pure telepathy in winter's ear
an atmosphere resembling the devout,
as we looked out

Margaret Ann Waddicor

Flip out, life's begun when you're seventy one,
nothing's not done,
you can eat how you like, wear what you like, if you like,
kick all the traces, go out on a binge,
roll all around in the bed,
there's no one to scold because you're so old,
all the powers that be are now dead,
so look on the bright side, go out have some fun,
there's nothing to gain sitting down,
your body needs exercise, move anyway,
you'll be younger and younger as day turns to day,
find out what you can and pursue it,
because if you don't, you'll know that you blew it.

Margaret Ann Waddicor November 2011.

Crown my Venus mountain 
with your fruits of summers sun, 
their ripened glow of colours 
fill my cup, 
as does the bee its visit honeyed sweet, 
our hearts meet in nectars so complete, 
charges passions flames 
with heat of forest fires 
that satiate the peak of our desires.

Such autumn blaze 
of red and gold, 
pierced leaves unfold 
and grip the branch with fervour 
like the flight of moorland birds 
their sudden rush strikes screams of fright, 
and sighs of love, 
its powers unleashed by blasts of fuming flows, 
tumbled waterfalls 
deep down to depths unknown 
you crest my senses flung.

None the wiser
are we 
were we 
will we be

after the before
going through that very door
to where 
a better place
a haven
a port of call
is that all

or is there more behind that door
stop up and listen
what was that
only my feet on the mat
and yet I thought
I heard
or did I
no

its silent here 
just like a landscape full of snow
the only sound
a stream down far below. 

Margaret Ann Waddicor. 6th October 2013. C

My leg on his thigh,               
my breast on his arm,
I gaze at my partner, 
his face is so calm,
his eyelids are shut,
his breathing is even,
how peaceful is sleep,
hope deep in his dream,
my body feels comfort, 
far greater than pain, 
its warmth is my cradle, 
in life its refrain,
the song we all long for, 
and all wish to hear, 
away from all troubles,
protected from fear,
how great is this feeling, 
right next to my dear. 

10th December 2010.
Margaret Ann Waddicor

It is still down here
where mists curl round the trees
and people sleep in early morning dim
their rhythmical breath
as turning in their beds
they sigh
at winter's darkness
long into the day
while up there near the sky
clouds do their morning dance
the summits catching on the damp
and tossing it
they watch in stoic still
movements in and out and through
as life unfolds
to fold again and dissipate like dew

Margaret Ann Waddicor 5th December 2015 C