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I AM AN OPEN BOOK

"I AM AN OPEN BOOK"
Margaret Ann Waddicor December 29th 2010.

I am an open book,
and yet behind the page,
between the lines
resides,
a deeper Ann.

And deeper still,
in pools so black and hard to see,
reflect there wisdom,
understood,
of all that interests me.

The cache of senses precious,
not hidden by the will,
stir in their nest so coveted,
when new ideas fill
their liquid rippled rings.

And make new bright connections,
that make her heart just sing.

Not bound and fixed in colours;
at the ready for a change,
to cover the full range of,
of what might be.

A break through for her mind,
to see beyond the murky dark
of ignorance, to be,
to claim intelligence
in knowing what to leak,
and what to speak.

Within that balance,
lie gifts of communication,
apart from family and friends;
how far to go with hidden information,
how to avoid the things
that could offend.

Ever on our guard we fence
our thoughts,
in fields of understanding new,
only the few can tell the difference,
between the vision and the art.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 

Comments

Well written, easy to follow, good message.

Respectfully,
Rett
"If all printers were determined not to print anything till they were sure it would offend nobody, there would be very little printed. " Ben Franklin

yet another well crafted poem as i have come to relate with your other fine creative writes..

Wishing you and your beloveds a great New Year...

warmly..

raj (sublime_ocean)

It is a fine line we tread - you speak the truth with eloquence and beauty.

Lovely poem

Love Mand xxxxxxx

And dancing into the Newest Year
the only one we have at the moment,
I don my glad rags and do a wild dance of thanks
for you all above,

so intoxicating your comments
I hope it doesn't turn my head,
and if it does that that is in a good direction!

I love you all, you are so positive to me,
and write so well yourselves,
that I am blessed to know you,
and communicate with you.

Rock on the year
and with good cheer
we'll meet again
as day meets day,
or is it night,
but anyway
we're here to have our fun
and new things are begun
so join me at this BALL
such decorations from you all,
you poetry adorns the walls
and me enthrals.

Takk from your friend Ann
in the palest greys and white of a snowbound Sunday,
the SW wind 'diagonalising' the weeping birch tree's
thinnest branches like the swaying of a curtain.
Waving to you all.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

If I understand what you mean, then I say you either have it from birth,
or are lucky enough to have parents and teachers
who teach one how to respond to other people....I don't know the answer to this?

Love Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

I love this verse;

The cache of senses precious,
not hidden by the will,
stir in their nest so coveted,
when new ideas fill
their liquid rippled rings.

to me this is truly a sense of ones self, in relation to the connection with others. because once we know ourselves. we need not judge, because what people say or do is not about us. but what they see in themself.
it's not easy to become undomesticated by the whispers of others, the freedom of recognizing what is and is not for us is truly the first gift we were given, "CHOICE"
thanks for sharing such a look into your thoughts. Wonderful!!
Eddie C.

LIFE ISN'T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS
IT'S ABOUT LEARNING HOW TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.
VIVIAN GREENE

Well said Eddie, well said. Yes!
Love and thanks Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

how far to go with hidden information,
how to avoid the things
that could offend..........

What a joy Ma'am
Each word spoken or written
That emanates from a mind divine,
Twill be a pleasure
To treasure,
Those in my mind,
Hope to some day it refine,
If only ma'am once again can forgive
This silly egoistic
Ass of a poet
of my kind

loved

No time for ma'am

to even acknowledge

the knowledge

she shared with me ,

its a trait of misery ,

she ordains for me

or is it?

loved

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