"waddicor" poems
The wrinkles
they are a bit faded
but have a gentle presence
that fits with the folds
of the 16thC altar cloth
once ****** white
but now stained
through years of use
bread and tears
or wine
and tiny rice biscuits!
The Christ on the cross
is very old
made of painted wood
and the altar is surrounded
with a fence
of turned table-leg like posts
pale blue
as is much of the interior
perhaps denoting Heaven
and as the psalms
waft music round about
we look through the windows
to the listening hills
and streams
the old birds
wise
will sit watching too
and all the people
will suddenly feel their age
wow what a display of flowers
the church was as full of them as people
I put in the only black dress I had with dark pink roses on it too and I cut the rim of a black felt hat that had cost only Kr. 10.- in scollops and diamond cuts around the crown as it was too big for me.
Then I walked down to the valley to the church, and when I entered was ushered to the very front pew, I said there must be more important family members than me to be seated, I could hide in the balcony or something but he insisted. So I had a good view of the proceedings!
It think several hours waiting the ***** playing quietly in the background and finally things began to happen.
I sat next to a black man, he was already dressed in black!!! The white robed "prest" came into view and with his powerful voice sang twice as loud as the congregation.
After all the flower sashes had been repetitively read out, we left the church following the coffin to its final resting place.
And just as had happened in the church the priest mentioned the sun and its rays came through the windows, and as he threw on the "earth to earth, dust to dust," it broke through the grey clouds again and lit up the gay flowers, the frame of black and white onlookers many in tears watching.
Margaret Ann Waddicor
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
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.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 7:47 AM UTC
Some people in this life
are here to be looked after
others made to be the carers
I think I am here for the latter
complex minds are born
and clearer simpler minds too
like man and woman
soft and hard
we differ
but in the interchange of time together
grows a harmony
a music of happiness
that forms around ones aura
and makes all things seen through it
beautiful
Margaret Ann Waddicor 10th May 2016
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
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.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
If Easter is a celebration for some
it is a quiet time
when spring is waiting to become
when birds start fretting building their neat nests
and sing their arias to the sun
hammer rhythms on the tall dead trees
we even here the sound of buzzing bees
shy flowers rise from sodden brown black earth
lifting their heads to open wide
little faces of light to show their place
the air is damp and bright and fresh
we open the windows take a deep breath
we're still alive to see to feel to sing
so lets rejoice now lets begin
Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th April 2017
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 5:23 AM UTC
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
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
Following the waving trees,
the same direction as the breeze,
as if a thermal element
was wafted with my gait,
as blown along beside the river,
downstream with it's flow,
I felt a kind of impetus,
impulsive like a joy,
that grabs the psyche,
swings the spirit in high gear,
a thrill of moving onward
through the day and year,
as if time were anonymous
and I a mere convolvulous,
that happened to be flowering today.
Ann Waddicor August 2013.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
The birches branches
are blown to the north
on Christmas Day
on Christmas Day
no snow this winter
no snow
no snow
the clouds obliterating the view
so low today
so low
they're making my head feel bad
when it's time to be glad so happy and glad
oh why do the elements cry just now
hang like a shroud
instead of a rainbow
send us a rainbow
right now
just for now
to cheer up our trees
and our lakes in the view
for others
for others
for me
for you
Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th December 2015
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
FLOWERS OF SNOW (Christmas roses)
Margaret Ann Waddicor 24th December 2012.
Flowers of snow,
they blow about the sky like birds in flight,
a sight that sends the senses in a spin,
for deep within our hearts
we love this dance,
this ballet-dance of nature,
as all is frozen, stilled,
and movement only comes
when winter wishes are fulfilled.
We wish, and wish, and wish again
for lightness in the dark,
for moments by the burning grate,
warm sparks of orange bright,
the contrasts of the darkest nights,
with stars of ice, that ******
****** bells on forest trees
of rainbow colours, fired.
For presents below a fir,
the reds and blues with ribbons silver, gold,
as Christmas comes and goes,
the hellebore, its ****** bloom
is plucked from frozen earth,
and brought right in
to Lord the full decked table,
celebrate Messiah's birth.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
Life is beautiful - and yet
life is strange
life is tantalising my mind
its elusive jumps and starts
give it an impetus
as I unwind from nature's wonderful excess
undress and offer myself - soon
not yet
I expect you're wondering
as I am too
what will happen if I do
we'll have to fantasise it
because - as yet - we haven't met
Margaret Ann Waddicor 19th January 2016
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
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
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
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
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
Hanging in the cupboard
at the end of the row
it was pink with big black 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
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
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
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
Poetry is an extension of emotion
a reaction to the phenomena of this world
and to the manifestations of our species
an exaggeration of the mind
drugged by the beauty
or the horror of reality
an effort to recreate in words
the sensed visions of our consciousness
and express them in tangible
understandable
symphonies of thought
Margaret Ann Waddicor August 2015
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
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
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
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
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:50 AM UTC
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
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
A star fell down from heaven, was it you?
A leaf fell from a tree, a little letter just for me, was it from you?
A feather from the nest took my spirit in an arabesque,
the birds, their voices singing through the dew,
my dreams of you come true.
Take heart, we are apart, so long, yet messages come through,
in such ways as only those whose sentiments
touch nature's traits, decipher them, read what she says,
such blessing is one's heightened sensitivity,
when love flows with the river through this life of many joys,
awakened to all subtle things that change the light,
colour the view, charge the psyche with new visions,
teach us to create and recreate.
Margaret Ann Waddicor 5th July 2013
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Pastel the sky and land
with green pointillist patterns in the fore
one black crow on the tree
that's all that I can see today
as the sun gets up
we're promised thunder later on
but most things are lying still
only leaves on the hanging branches
slightly sway
prelude to this hot day
Margaret Ann Waddicor 7th June 2016
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
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
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
I looked out,
Christmas decorations were already hung up in the sky,
even the frosting floated about
with the lights of the town dwarfed below,
such a glow, each ***** of a star,
the hills, hulks of stone, seemed warmed,
ready for celebrations,
annual explanations of our psyche and its exaggerations,
where the simple tale, just like the one stella, bright,
enacts its cycles in the dark of night.
Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th November 2014.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
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
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
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
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
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.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC