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

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

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

Margaret Ann Waddicor

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

Margaret Ann Waddicor

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

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

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

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 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

'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!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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