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.

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

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.

It is the mystical evening
when Christmas is rejoiced
carols too are voiced

all to celebrate a man
who lived so long ago
yet only recent in our history

we do not know
his date of birth
but like to think it's now

when winter's s dark
turns into light
and lights up all the snow

this magic story still inspires
and makes all children
feel it's glow

cheers the spirits in the dim
satisfies
our every whim

life's a dream
or so it seems
yet we are in control

Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th December 2015

We poets calmly expound ideas and theories
filling them with rhyme and reason
expecting enlightenment 
to beam across the world 
like gods revealing the temple of our minds 
to all
unclothing hidden thoughts 
gleaned from the
coffers of ideas

lifting the lids of treasured phrases that inspire 
dramatic waves of foam from poets 
before carrying on across the sands of time 
into supposed infinity

Many end up in dusty books unread 
or in the loft among forgotten dreams 
and untidy experiences
the drawings on the wallpaper 
of other's lives 
now covered with new fashions of papering
obsolete and sadly ignored

each individual person has their own philosophy
their own unique vision of reality
each utterance describes us 
in more potent ways than pictures
our sense of feeling alive
expressed in neat patterns of symbols
forever changing meaning as time passes. 

Margaret Ann Waddicor September 1st 2014.

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

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

Stilled the mind 
trees dissolve into the ether of day 
they are 
but they are what
we are 
but we are what 
no different 
and only here when day presents its being 

others say their meaning 
are we here 
if nothing else were here
we would cease to be 
we're only here as a complimentary
opposite
to not being

as all is such 
no words describe what is
they're abstract 
all in the mind of humankind 
concocted letters composed in rows 
or backwards
upside down 
our stretching out of thoughts to find a truth 
that never can be found
our psyches continually confound

Our consciousness paints the view,
colours the flowers,
touches the cotton grass's softness,
its sturdy thin stem sways with our heartbeats
in the freedom of the mountain air,
and we know then that we are, we exist. 

Margaret Ann Waddicor

In clay from ancient times
our tread has deepened faded
graded its declines
those patterns of our gait
translate the size and height
our stance
we rise to walk upright
seize weapons of the hand and mind
our troubles multiply
our brains try hard to understand
have we
do we ever progress
we think it so
we know
and still we make the same mistakes
that man made eons ago

Margaret Ann Waddicor 18th November 2011.

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
Written for Charlotte and Anders for Christmas

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

Flatdal mist swathes the valley
lifts Skorve mountain in air
glimpses of dark crags and shining rocks
a thin sprinkling of snow
the trees hang clusters
of autumn tinted leaves
like decorations in a row
the meadows green below
in silky subtle dress
soft blues all shot with yellow
the lady birches swing their weeping fronds
over the mirror-like black ponds
as silver light plays
on the surface of the still lying lake

Margaret Ann Waddicor 2015

Day she dawns a distant blue
mixes with the lamp
becomes a purple hue
this days water colour
bathes itself in early year
not perfumed washes
only that of musk-like scented snow
its face is open wide from hill to hill
stretched out across the sky
to fit our village lying still
this february morning
this february dim
as mist dissipates
and sunday is led in

Margaret Ann Waddicor 21st February 2016

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.

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.

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

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

Nobody's reading  
not this tome of words
that flows from brains that soak up sounds
and meanings every day  
they toil and boil the thoughts that singe the mind  
their unheard wisdom in disguise
through eyes of night and daylight showers dimmed  
skimmed from the cream of human kindness

swimming on the surface of the globe  
in green dresses - robes of silk and satin
sliding down the abysses deep and dark  
yet they'ignite a spark of truth for some  
when read at midnight by the candle in our beds  
our heads inclined this way or that  
their knowledge taxed to breaking point
a fact that seams the sheets
about our beings when we're dead

so what - the lark she sings - the mole  
he digs his den deep down in loamy earth
no sight his feet his guides his nose  
his feelers stand the test of time  
no tunnel is too long to reach the line of no return
we burn and at both ends  
we spit a life into the embers
as others make amends for strife and worry
seared from flesh and bone  
a home a house with man and mouse         3rd February 2012.

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

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.

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

The willow wrote my thoughts
on the surface of the river
remember them then she said
but I did not
they flowed on down into the sea
of my other thoughts
and mixed up in its melting ***
churning and turning about
in the weeds at the bottom of nowhere

we catch glimpses of our old thoughts
often inspired by something that moves us
and if we don't write them down
they go on and are forgotten
this is part of what poets try to capture
the moments that have stirred the mind
into sensing something special
something out of the ordinary
and so a poem is born

Margaret Ann Waddicor

Time is given - time is measured
time is short  and yet we can stretch it out
if we are aware - know what we are about
touch the quick that time's threads spin in air
catch them - tame them - for they are everywhere
sense the spaces in between
swim right through them as if you dream
meditating on the theme
of something that isn't really there

stilled in a view of sky and sea and land - you'll understand
relativity stood on end - if end it has
as that too is an idea - as much else in our lives
we think we've grasped the wand that takes us to the beyond
far and wide - when
all the time we're sitting here
on this wooden chair
watching naked time in her despair

Margaret Ann Waddicor 28th January 2016

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

Spring is come and spring is going
and no word from my love is flowing
down the page of purest white
with ink so black as darkest night

winter thaw has finished now
and spring took over with the bough
all dressed in coloured petals all
fit for the hall of a wedding ball

so give me sign that you are there
where the brook is purling fair
in that very secret place
I want to stroke your sensitive face

so well I do remember then
when we sat and watched the wren
sing his song so piercing loud
like a cheering teenage crowd

as we sunk together down
on the grasses golden brown
found each others tender dream
as flowers floated on the stream

ah would that that time come again
so now could be and not a then
the wren he sings but no one's there
except my thoughts as ever ware

time passes like a drifting shawl
across the sky and we enthral
like memories that light our sky
of lying there just you and I

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th April 2012.

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?

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.

The drone of a plane
across the pale blue sky in winter's white
where sunlight touches trees on hills
warms the walls of houses  
packed like cards
their roofs like shards all placed at angles
tilted lights
a still that calms the senses
as one gazes at the view

Margaret Ann Waddicor 16th January 2016

Friends are like moss
on stones
softening the way

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

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

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

Revolving, evolving
this earth its changing coat
a flower

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

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

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

We entered the wood    
losing all weight
in the silence