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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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 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

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.

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 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

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

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

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

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

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.

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 bed still flowers
where your ashes were spread 
now seven years after your death 
the breath of the wind and the rain
still falls on the pond
making rings rings of time 
silently rippling memories 
they tell the old story again 
how you used to laugh dance and sing 
full of life full of joy 
I see your face as now you smile 
you've done many a mile in the dark 
but your spirit still hides in the park

Margaret Ann Waddicor 26th May 2015
About Roland Michael Harvey, my father.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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 ©

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