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

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

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

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

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

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

Poetry is concentrated thought, 
the essence of an experience put into words. 
A moment in a persons life, 
crystallised into one expression. 

A personal communication with other people, 
almost on an intimate level, 
being something inexpressible that is hinted at, 
and only those who are close to, 
can understand what it means.
 
Human experience, nature, life, 
all stirred in a stew *** of knowledge, 
picked out to taste and savour, 
or to incite new ideas. 

Meditation is concentrated thought/no thought, 
and in some ways poetry is produced by this same quiet, still, 
where searching through our minds we catch at straws 
and find that which interests us, 
we develop this thread into a series of sounds and meanings, 
that when complete, expound one vision, 
one aspect of the diamond we call life. 

Each poet, her/his own creed of conduct, manner, dance, 
to fascinate our friends and fellow lovers of the word, 
with all its myriad meanings and inspired sensations, 
recorded, neatly bundled in the cloth of knowledge 
and taken on with us like a tramps sack, 
into the road that is the rest of our lives.

I agree that love is the most important,
but it is after all an idea, a figure of speech,
like time, also a non existent element
which can be bent and extended
according to circumstances in the mind.

Love is an expression of a sentiment,
we give it it’s worth,
each in our own individual manner,
being different and yet the same,
each expressing their love,
which after all is self love too,
as without the capacity
to love oneself, one cannot love another.

Falling in love is only an emphasis
on those feelings that create our sensations
of need and giving to a hyper sensitive state
which permeates our all and in some way
takes over our common sense in its fervour,
there, to goad the ****** functions
to reproduce the species; that is the grand puzzle,
why do we wish to reproduce ourselves?          

Margaret Ann Waddicor January 2013.

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

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

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

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

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 horses are restless
the dogs run about
the birds all a flutter    

what was it

the children are screaming
and laughing so loud
the cars and the busses
the usual fusses and bangs    

how so

I don't know any more
my minds in a turmoil was that it    

or not

my own psychological state
goings on in my pate
or is it too late to address it

this stress I am feeling
in hurried state running
from what    

I know not.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 1st November 2014.

Today the sun burst through grey clouds
and sported great cumulus
sailing high up in the blue nordic ocean of the sky

below
resting on the earth
the indigo of the hills shading to infinity
strange distant escape routes for the mind

storm shadows shading the picture
slowly encroaching on this idyll
in ominous grey-black layers
silhouetting the colourful lupins

ah lovely contrasts
how they lift our spirits from the mundane
and send our imagination into celestial dwellings
we only see in our dreams

now the dawn of another day
has come
and gone
and evening light dwindles
behind the winding sheet of the weather
that earlier hid the bright sun

a sense of quiet
permeates the atmosphere
birds have disappeared
they were peppering the birch tree
most of the day
clouds
small puffs of damp
some of which have been stark white in the sunshine
have become pale blue-grey

all is spread like a water-colour wash
beneath a slightly pink pastel powdery paper sky
the hills close their flowers
hush their hawks
streams carry on their gurgle and chatter
among the rocks
and the firs stand upright
to reach a better view of the valley

while we shut out day
and stare into the dark
becoming a part of it

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th December 2015 (edited then)

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

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

I caught your spirit in a rainbow one day
and with it I painted your likeness in my heart
the temperature of the colours
synchronised with the beat
we dreamed we'd never meet due to circumstance
now far away I sense you look my way
as if your soul were nearer to my side
your words unspoken sing to me inside.

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

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 caught your spirit in a rainbow
one day
and with it I painted your likeness
in my heart
the temperature of the colours
synchronised with the beat
we dreamed we'd never meet
due to circumstance
now far away I sense you look
my way
as if your soul were nearer to my side
your words unspoken
sing to me inside.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 15th October 2014.

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

Its pencilled etchings on the breeze
its gentle pastel tints and tones
its magic crystals falling
celestial celebrations in the sky
the wistful hoof of deer
or hop of mouse across the snow
the sculpted thin arrangement
of the reeds and grasses sticking through
conducting a stilled soliloquy  
in quiet of clearings among trees
where dancing snowflakes come to rest
the hiss of frozen moisture on the run across the lakes
the thuds on sheds- the crunch like sugared icing
on the paths - the swish of skis and sledges passing by
the echoing booms as the lakes lid cracks
the whistle through of the wind whisking out the tracks
a symphony in grey and white well into night
when deeper tones of brown and black
make background shadows in the woods

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th January 2016

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

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

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 ©

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

Gods and devils are created by humans 
they are the comforters
that little children take everywhere
with them and which they feel
they cannot live their lives without.

A kind of fetish with describable attributes
and predictable thoughts
conjured up by ourselves  
to compensate for being out on a limb  
alone in the great hall of matter  
an anchor to stop us from disintegrating  
a book of word- a work of art 
into which we can meld our dreams  
and feel energised and at ease  

a 'being' to goad us into joys  
and a scapegoat  to blame for all our ills  

a figure reflecting our own individual cravings  
that move parallel and within ourselves
akin to the blood that courses through our beings  
supporting our bones and tissue with its imagined presence                    

Margaret Ann Waddicor 4th April 2014.

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

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

Will I see another dawn
another night 
another way 
for now I'm ticking slow 
and I'd very much like you to know 
that I love you 
I think you know 
but I'll tell you so

the moon is low 
the summer's gone 
my autumn's come 
farewell to you 
farewell to every one 
my life is done 
my own particular heaven won
I see beyond 
into the dark 
into the light 
I'll die tonight

Margaret Ann Waddicor 5th September 2015

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

Each human searches for the passion that suits them best,
to feel at ease and happy with their lives;
they need something,
just something that is beyond them,
an aim out of reach.

For a woman, a man,
for all religions, a philosophy,
a leader to worship and adore, follow and copy.

When in love this is the same passion
that guides our feelings
and establishes so deeply the sense of love,
that it lasts forever, or doesn't.

The same self-suggestion of passion we nurture,
cultivate, breed in our minds and lives,
because it gives us meaning, an aim
and at the same time sensations of joy
that are unsurpassed.

It creates great arts,
great expressions of man's wonder at the universe
and all its explanations that,
greater than ourselves, pace about this little planet,
out there in the unknown depths of nowhere.

Of course we exaggerate, enhance what is of pleasure,
shun that which is of pain,
yet those two define each other,
without them they wouldn't exist, we wouldn't even exist.

This kind of enhancement can take many forms
using the whole gamut of human methods of expression,
passion and powerful intoxication,
not unlike alcohol or drugs,
we do not become more intensely intelligent
or aware under their influence,
quite the opposite, we loose ourselves, our rational minds,
and plunge into the depths of this other world,
parallel to our own mundane existence,
into the euphoria of pleasure.

Throughout the history of man
are numerous examples of this over indulgence
in things, seemingly giving high pleasure
to our minds and bodies.

To take only one example, the Romans,
we all know how the fall of Rome
affected the world of pleasure seeking human beings,
and yet we would not be without it.

It has produced everything we have created,
it is close to the spark of life that generates life at all,
we may look at all things with seemingly
rational, serious researches and make exact machines.

But in the end it is the leaps of intuitive creativity
given birth from passion,
that produces the wondrous machines
of our industrial existence.

Forced into this concrete, iron, built up world
by our own choices,
we long for the simplicity of nature's
own ways of existence, and look to her to yet again.

Embellish our chimney'd cities
with things almost forgotten,
our longings can turn to nature,
to discover the such-ness of all things found on earth.

A direct contact with the spirit of the world
which clothes itself in mysterious theories,
or expounds itself yet again in religious ceremonies,
all trying desperately to find
the hidden gem that explains it all.

This we shall never find, because we are what is,
only our minds weave patterns never ending,
thoughts and fantasies, dreams and visions,
Utopias's and heaven's,
hells, gods and fiery demons -
oh what a rich and magnificently
embroidered life is this life we live,
on this beautiful blue planet.                  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2011

I walked barefoot onto the roofs of the village 
treading on the white shaped stepping stones 
across the sea of daytime into the distance
where the sky melds with the earth in grey mist 
a fur coat ground of huddled bushes covered in snow 
with twigs standing out like signposts to the unknown 

bright specks of yellow light mark the centre of the way 
the dark forms of fir trees accompany me uncertain of direction 
lost among the houses in man's patch of loam 
a crazed puzzle following no rhyme or reason  
created at random by the movements of animals 
this hamlet in its own valley here in the map of the world                               

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2nd February 2016

Happy summer touch your window
as you meet her perfumes free
the clover on the lawn its magic galaxy
the roses on your path
make soft the fall of footsteps
gently sounding with the bee
the dance of insects in the shade
each blade is made to shine
in the showers that came at night
a cool that nature covets
when the stars have lost their light

Margaret Ann Waddicor 8th July 2014.

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

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

Into the tunnel, not of love,
not of ghosts, but MRI,
totally still you must lie said he with a squint, 
with needles for this and for that
to control the peristaltic movements,
one lies to be heated by fire from beneath, 
in a terrible sheath of metal
to weigh down your middle, 
then it begins the booms and the blows

your breathing you suppose is as normal, 
sweet music plays in your ear phones, 
(and strangely enough in the key of the booms)
as you slowly get stiller and stiller, 
and feel you will never recover, 
your mind wanders here and there
out of the funnel to friends,
but you're there all alone so alone,
and wish to go home.

a sudden boom hammer like thunder, 
you feel you're down under the sod
in your cylindrical coffin from God.

all at once you're dragged out, after the hour,
yes we've got all we want says the man,
get up if you can, but you can't, 
as all is stood still, even will won't work,
and you walk on your way heavy footed and dizzy,
befuddled and muddled, but glad that its over,
its no dance in clover, oh no, 
but just something one has to go through.

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

Breath of dragons fill the vale
curling round the trees
carding on the mountain firs and pines
the wool of lambs still strung on barbed wire fence
their eerie horns of rusty iron
among the bramble thorns
no smell save that of pungent leaves
or rotting timber piled
where wrens and robins nest

this damp parade so often comes at dawn
the cows sit silent even yawn
their patches matching those
of moss turned brown on stones
while up above the dragon hides in pale blue skies
his mocking laugh spills daffodils of sun
he's having fun at our expense

while damp our eyelids weigh
our heads bowed down
we critters in the towns
the fog horns blow their melancholy drone
lost is the world we've always known
changed by mysterious theatrical mists
into a mosquito bliss
preparing battle swords to tap our blood
when sunshine sallies forth and lights the flood

Margaret Ann Waddicor 4th May 2012.

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

As the night
wanes
the heart beats carry on
my mind's awake and cannot sleep
at four
the hour before the dawn of summer days

but it is winter
and the snow's not yet begun to thaw
outside our door
where little birds find crumbs
out in the ochre coloured dim
purple thoughts float across the bland of sky

an even petal-smooth roof for us below
where lying in our beds we sigh and yawn
soon light will creep along the view
touch the fir tree tips
and make a warmer scene
as we come out of this times dream

Margaret Ann Waddicor 30th December 2015

Strange music
from the wayside shrine
wind
the wind at prayer
'tis in the mind
creative brain
mankind 

belief in devils
gods and kings
all kinds of things
mankind

dare devil deeds
and sudden wars
misunderstandings
mankind

polluted forests
human waste
fills all the waterways
rots vegetation
blind
mankind

dreamed Utopias
when our earth is one
soon to be gone
mankind                                  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th May 2013.

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

In the boldness of stepping out into the unknown
we meet our challenges
darkness hides unseen dangers
some of which we expect

the ocean of thought
that man has written about through the ages
is equally daunting
if all things are seen as complete barriers
we shrink from knowing of them

instead they are meted out in smaller doses
so as to awaken our curiosity
inspire our minds to find out more
and goad our own creativity
into making its own decisions about life
and what is worth knowing selectivity being a key word
for how to become a well educated human being

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th January 2016

We are the elements toys 
played with by the will of the winds 
our seasons come and go as theirs do 
we are fruitful in youth
matured in old age 
sometimes we fall too soon 
before we're ripe 
at other times we rot on the tree

we have almost as much say in the matter 
as an apple 
our very nature 
governing much of what happens to us 
freak meetings 
from them develop blights or flights of fancy 
swinging with the patterns of the seasons 
fixed in the mud of convention 

unless we're free 
free of the world's moral codes 
yet keeping to those of worth 
existing as best we can under the heavens 
on this beautiful crust of earth 
until we meld into 
and become again 
a part of its make up 
in harmony with its ecosystem

Margaret Ann Waddicor 15th September 2015

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.

Flung  
flailing about aimlessly
dancing like an autumn wind
switching back and forth in urgent gusts
we
like leaves on water bend with the flow
no choice
to go against is futile
shortens life
makes hard the path we tread
from birth to death

in a breath it is done
over
past
in a gale of dimension
we twist and turn
plunge and surface
eels of existence
on a solid stone planet of fire

gaunt shadows give night
or people the shape of silence
with jagged forms
that cut our psyches
squeeze us through the mangel of time
onto the plates that comprise the whole
small beings in a vast universe

Margaret Ann Waddicor 30th December 2015

The darkness folds in outside here
not to lighten
before nine in the morning
slowly turning to light again

nights are pitch black
beautiful onyx nights
that carry on their cupola
stars
just as the ceilings
in ancient Egyptian graves

silence fills the void
almost an uncanny silence
that makes one stop up
to listen

in the woods
the moss has grown so thick
and green
it almost resembles snow
passing through the many trunks of trees
we marvel at its coat

some beautiful rounded stones
making imaginary secret chests
a tiny fir growing on their velvet tops
one stone is the shape
of a pointed kind of pyramid
with moss at its summit
looking like a miniature mountain
with clouds on top

Frost fingers all in mesmerised still
bright crystals decorate like candied sticks
all is clothed to act this winter's solemn dance
through our imagination
trees bustle in the valley their heads of palest grey
while hills in heavy moleskin coats mimic the clouds
those cumulus shrouds that drape our season all in white
so cold - so desperate - a sense of nature's sleep
petrified each straw - left like sculptures bent
and when the dawn its blue turns soft sweet pink
we gasp - how beautiful the view as if 'twere new

Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th January 2016