Let's oftener talk of noble deeds
and rarer of the bad ones,
and sing about our happy days
and not about the sad ones.
We are not made to fret and sigh,
and when grief sleeps, to wake it,
bright happiness is standing by
this life is what we make it.

Let's find the sunny side of men.
Or be believer in it
a light there is in every soul
that takes the pains to win it,
Oh; there is slumbering good in all,
and we perchance may wake it.
Our hands contain the magic wand,
this life is what we make it.

Then here's to those whose loving hearts
shed light and joy about them
thanks to them for countless gems
we ne'er had known without them:
Oh; this should be a happy world,
to all who may partake it.
The fault's our own if it is not
this life is what we make it.

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

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

WHITE DOWN

White down
so high 
and yet so lowly, soft,

your flecks of light
where brown turf darkens 
damp,

so innocently growing
'spite the weather;

torn clouds,
against the blue or grey,

beside you green of moss
stone, heather, 
grasses, hay,

Not lauded, 
given honours like the rose
but there the mountain knows
your sweet repose. 

M. A. Waddicor
10th sept 2011.

Translated into Norwegian...

MYRULL
 
Kvite dun
så høgt på strå
og likevel så kravlaus, mjuk.
 
Lysa dine logar
der torva mørknar
fuktig, brun.
 
Du veks uskuldig, rein
trass uvêr,
rivne skyer
mot det blå og grå.
 
Ved sida di er grøne mosen,
stein, lyng,
gras og vier.
 
Ikkje lovprisa
eller gjeve heidersteikn, som rosa bar;
men fjellet kjenner til
din vakre kvilestad.
 
            M. A. Waddicor/ Gjendikting ved Åse Lilleskare Faugstad

COTTON GRASS YOU WAVE

Waving at the sky,
you tufts of downy white,
your presence in the marsh,
or standing on the cracked dry earth,
the bottom of a bog.

So delicate you are,
in such a place,
where winter blizzards blow,
and icy waters, snow, 
cover your bed. 

Yet there you always are, 
a faithful friend to travellers,
a light where grey skies dull,
a flag to show where not to go 
in rain.

As pretty as a poem tossed 
on hardy stems
not pictured in a painting
yet as dainty, beautiful 
and free, 
as any bloom can be. 

M. Ann Waddicor 
10th September 2011.

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

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

I hear the wind 
I hear Wales whispering
its cool fresh air seduces my memory
touches my sentiments
lulls my troubles entertains

pictures long lying 
in archives of my mind reappear 
enact snapshots of happenings 
both happy and sad 
high on a hill 
where I spoke alone with my dad 

such brush of things 
from decades gone before 
knock on the doors of the now 
becoming part of it somehow                  7th March 2015

Love the greatest teacher,
she teaches us to understand ourselves, 
to reveal that love is not an outer thing, 
it’s deep within.

Before we can receive, we give,
and giving find the jewel of human worth, 
we have this trait from birth
like many things,
quelled by the laws of adults in their ignorance.

Born with the bond that ties all spirits close,
and when it manifests its magical sensation,
goaded by our state of mind,
we revel in its complete attention, 
to details sensitive and full of joy.

Her soft caresses touch our quick, 
her ties established hard to break,
her empathy with all that lives and breathes,
she is our welfare, our religion, our raison d'être.    

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th November 2013.

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

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

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

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.

Life is beautiful - and yet
life is strange
life is tantalising my mind
its elusive jumps and starts
give it an impetus
as I unwind from nature's wonderful excess
undress and offer myself - soon
not yet
I expect you're wondering
as I am too
what will happen if I do
we'll have to fantasise it
because - as yet - we haven't met

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th January 2016

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.

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.

MY ART

You are my royalty
my queen
my swan
my red red rose

you who float and rock my sea
lying there beside me
as I dream

the figurehead of my ship
your presence
dominating the scene

you are my sun in winter
my rainbow
in the heat of summers brighter skies

the iris of your eyes
reflect their colours
green and blue

you'll never know
how much I love
love you

my sweetest scent
you're heaven sent

swinging in the branches
of the trees
where nightingales
sing their songs
of sensuous tones

I'll sweep you off your feet
and ride with you
the stallion of the breeze

we'll never part
you are my love
my art

Margaret Ann Waddicor 14th December  2015

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

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

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

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

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

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 morning misty white
winter's night turns through blue to pink
a delicate porcelain haze
diaphanous scarf of silk that floats
above the sleeping hills  
this season
like a dream
creates the beautiful scene
that decorates the window every day
of which I never tire
an ever changing kaleidoscope
of colours shapes and sounds
but now
all is cloaked in snow in mounds

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th January 2016

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.

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

A star fell down from heaven, was it you? 
A leaf fell from a tree, a little letter just for me, was it from you? 

A feather from the nest took my spirit in an arabesque, 
the birds, their voices singing through the dew, 
my dreams of you come true.

Take heart, we are apart, so long, yet messages come through, 
in such ways as only those whose sentiments 
touch nature's traits, decipher them, read what she says, 
such blessing is one's heightened sensitivity, 
when love flows with the river through this life of many joys,
awakened to all subtle things that change the light, 
colour the view, charge the psyche with new visions, 
teach us to create and recreate.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 5th July 2013

Love is the touch of one with another,
the breeze blows the frond to brush the face
we experience the sensitive stirring of the cells
they send a message to the brain
that translates them
sometimes into this state we call love
because it is up to us to be sensitive to love
it is the sense of existence that gives us joy
fills our sense of well being
with something indescribable
makes the world a place of understanding and beauty
makes life worth living.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 3rd February 2015.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'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!!!

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

Under the bleached bluff
sea shells shape the bay
the grey and white
like seagulls
shines in sun

each tuft of grass is hardy
rough
tousled by sudden wafts
of salty gusts
that ride the waves towards the land
where
free as air
the litter flies across the sands

swung in the sky
the birds are tossed
their cries
those far off saddened screams
that make the coast their theme

a contrast to the balmy days
when summer winds are warm
and breeze
a welcome sense of calm

the tide comes in
now challenging
its rattle of those shells
percussion in the out of doors

a band that takes repeats
encores
for granted
while it roars

until the change relieves its chores
receding back again
to join the great wide ocean main

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th December 2015

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

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.

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

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

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Diagnosis cancer
what goes through the mind
am I left behind
on the dump just rotting
cast out no longer viable
my bodies not reliable
its growing funny things

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Its growing funny things
perhaps I'm growing wings
so fly me up and out of it
can't stand its din get rid of it
this mood that snatched my breath
I'd like to take a clout at it
it could cause my death

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Let doctors fry and poison me
they've done it once before to me
I'm knockin on the door of doom
shut in an MRI its boom

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Its beat, its heat, its feat complete
rotting on the ******* heap
shouting like a lamb its bleat

Baeeeeee

Cut me, slash me, burn my bones,
I'l be new. I'm going home
home where I belong...

I'm still here to sing my song

BOOM BOOM BOOM
SCREAM.

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

Spiralling the thermals in the wide blue sky
I fell towards a meadow full of flowers
the colours multiplied as I descended
this spinning in a dance
upended    downside up  
upended   downside up

sizzling in the heat of summers day    
I landed in some hay
lay there to meditate on what I should do next
getting quite perplexed   quite perplexed

was it you who came right then
seduced me in my den of corn
the reason why my daughter’s born    
today
is singing in her bed of feathers    
rolling on the floor

picking up and putting down    
picking up and putting down
life is turning round and round
I'll do that till I drown    I drown  
tomorrow    time that doesn't come  
I'll learn to borrow   learn to borrow

thrown about in troubles with my health
never one to come to sudden wealth
crawling through the gates of hell with stealth
never on the shelf    never on the shelf
out the other side where dawn brings in the tide
across the sands of time to touch my toes

what future lies ahead    nobody knows 
no nobody    nobody    nobody    nobody knows.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 16th October 2014.

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.

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

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

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

Floating in the day
today
it is today
the first day of the year
in blue
so blue
so blue
so blue
the sky is full of cloud
a roof of dew
of dew
of dew
the trees like silhouettes of black
although a darker green
of green
the houses hiding in the mist
they almost can't be seen
be seen
the weeds that stick up here and there
make arabesques up in the air
the air
and all seems in a dream
a dream
a dream

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.