it's soaring through flaming green hills
your heart races with the curiosity of discovery
it's dancing on a secluded mountaintop
with the drunken energy of a motorino zipping.
it's the endless time spent laughing
lips tingling with wine and philosophy
furiously awaiting l'autobus
and saying basta to the pasta.
the hazelnut aroma of hot cappuccini,
and suddenly you have the bravery
to get lost alle tre in Trestevere.
it's watching sunrays part mountains and Corinthian columns
and sparkling on salty waters
and you inch toward the edges of cliffs
just to catch a glimpse.
it's the comfort of friends and Nutella
when Ryanair lands and Rome becomes Home
and life, and death, and carbs follow you.
it's the homeless and the hungry
sleeping in the strong arms of St. Peter
and disappointment and shame
consumes you.
it's sobbing when you are alone,
foreign, and strange
and sobbing when it's time to say
arrivederci
it's when you fall, your stupid heel caught between cobblestones
that you realize you're in love.

The bricks lined up
Like jigsaw pieces
Every step I take
Was not my decision
My thoughts are so reckless
I’m afraid of my conclusions
All questions in my head
Are left with no solutions,
I hold faith in the hands of a stranger,
I pray I’ll be led away from danger,
I know I’m supposed to be where I am
But for how long can I trust these hands?

Where do homeless hearts go to rest
With no sheets to cover their skin
No blankets to warm them
No pillows to hold their head
In dream like trances
Life dances in a parade
With their broken valves
Littering the way
and though they may pray
Only eternal slumber
Will ever let them sleep
In a peaceful way

As I go through all my past poems I realize my heart never listened to my mind and it never will

Everything written about him is littered with the signs of emotional abuse yet I can never escape 

Breaks my heart and tells me he doesn’t love me yet I still hold him and wipe his tears as he cries

Each tear dripping down his face reminded me of each girl he talked to

I wanted to be appalled by his touch, his eyes, the overgrown scruff on his chin

But I wasn’t 

Begged him to hold me, begged him to stop the ******* car, Screaming fits that shook the Window
s
Begged him to kiss me and hold me on his lap

I wondered if I was always looking into the eyes of a sociopath, if I lied to myself about it the entire time

A year and a half

A year and half wasted built on lies screamed right at my face

I just want to be loved 

Yet I walked right into the hands of a man that wasn’t capable of ever loving anyone or anything

I gave him everything in me, every single inch of myself

Stayed in shape, lost friends, isolated myself, did whatever he asked me to whenever for fear of him getting angry 

I wasn’t enough 

The worthlessness I feel drips from my eyes and mouth, a constant feeling of Nausea stuck in the back of my throat 

Now I’ve got a reason to despise the holidays just like my father does

Couldn’t have asked for a better present 

Merry Christmas to me

It's nights like these
that make me wish my hands were bigger.
These life-lines aren't long enough
to recite all these lines of life
that'll be running through my mind
even after time stops.
There aren't enough trees to cut down
for all the pages I need to pen these
soliloquies and sonnets.
No, I didn't ride in
on Haley's Comet
but the plan is to still go out in a blaze of glory.
And why do my friends
seem to only hear "Blaze" in that?
Hallucinogenics and Narcotics
Psychedelics and Hydroponics
These are our four fathers.
Oh but by all means
"Try the tonic"
Watch the ***** infect your seeds'
Pipe dreams!!
And so they gleam
sipping moonshine
And whisper shadows of yesterday
Onto memories of tomorrow
While you try and find the rhyme.

Unspeakable, the acts performed.
Purity devoured in the darkest confines.
Honesty unspoken, a product.
Denying what one experienced,
Either physically or internally,
Feeding deception,
A life with little reality.
Nothing to hold that's real.
Possessions, material a refuge,
But consistently fading.
Replacing what is incapable of enduring.
Realizing the only thing I can feel is real
Is myself, also fading, aging.
Should I stress over what I was
Or what I'm becoming?
How I looked or will look?
Never appreciating what I have currently.
Of all the things I can't control,
When everything else is lost,
Shall I find and keep myself,
Til I be valued by another

WHITE DOWN

White down
so high 
and yet so lowly, soft,

your flecks of light
where brown turf darkens 
damp,

so innocently growing
'spite the weather;

torn clouds,
against the blue or grey,

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

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

M. A. Waddicor
10th sept 2011.

Translated into Norwegian...

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

COTTON GRASS YOU WAVE

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

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

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

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

M. Ann Waddicor 
10th September 2011.

I love my little garden, Lord
Which you have given to me
I thank you for this haven
Where you can set me free

I pray each night to give me strength
To sow more wondrous seed
And for you to bless the pretty birds
Who fly right in to feed

I bless you for my sight and smell
To enjoy the flowers so
And all the bees and butterflies
Who gently come and go

So bless my little garden Lord
It gives me peace and joy
For I have prayed each night to you
Since I was just a boy

Keith Wilson
Windermere, UK 2016

Your style of clothes will end up in a museum
and if you sign the forms, some of your body parts could keep on living in persons unknown
your memories you will take with you
and you will remain in the memory some others
your generation will be remembered for all its stupidity, and for its striving to reach out to a brighter future however feeble the efforts have been. All will be exhibits in some ones collection of curiosities.