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Now it's past history
the mystery 
of what its all about, 
was it about,
were we about,
and why we are about it,
and while we're about it
I shall say it out loud: 

Christmas has passed us by,
by the by,
and here we still are,
by the way,
yes we are.

There's always a sigh 
after celebrations, 
a kind of eerie silence, 
not necessarily beautiful, 
just fact. 

The excitement
died down 
in each of those little coloured boxes 
spread about the landscape outside, 
there where there are
lots of little stick people 
with bones and flesh, 
moving about, 
ever going places, 
or just sitting. 

A still, a quiet, 

I can hear them breathing, 
can you?

And the sky grey, 
its been grey all week, 
like a sadness, 
crying rain on us in fits and starts, 
the sun trying desperately
to peep through its greyness, 
its highness his/her gown 
spread over us
to tell us its winter, 
and not for fooling with. 

Her skirts torn here and there 
from wear through the year, 
her cold breath
in sudden desperate gusts, 
as she settles to a bland wash of black 
mixed with white snow 
that slowly bled into her, 
and rendered her a statue, 
an abstract painting, 
hanging there. 

The curtain 
of two thousand and thirteen, 
will lift, 

Will it be blown away? 
Will it reveal anything? 
Will it evolve into something else? 
Will it make us happy, 
or sad? 

We don't know. 

We probably will never know, 
until the future, 
that isn't there, 
and its only a dreamed bag of thoughts 
that hasn't been finalised, 
or solidified, 
shaped just to fit, 
or maybe it won't fit, 
or maybe it will fit, 
who knows? 

Nobody knows...
and yet we get deja-vu revelations, 
as if we had lived before, 
or backwards in time, 
its all a mystery, 
and so exciting as such, 
even if it brings things bad, 
so what.
We have to ride through, 
take a deep breath 
take the plunge 
into the icy waters 
of January... 
and SWIM.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 26th December 2013.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 


Always like the sense of optimism you have put there though, I thought a bit of culling here and there would prevent the reader's occasional distraction.
Thanks for sharing dear Ann.


Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words ........Robert Frost☺

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Longer, deeper and darker than your usual work. I like it very much.

Is this a change of direction for you or a strange, much appreciated, aberration?

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I said a few weeks ago your writing some amazing stuff this needs a tiny bit of aesthetic work but its a breathtaking poem I lost myself in your words and it inspired my poetic soul I may just write a while tonight thanks as always for the inspiration

take great care of you it was wonderful to hear from you

much love always Jayne-Chloe xxx

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats

You aint seen the half of it, my writing, I sent this ONE; have been even writing five a day, not to impress myself in any way, but they come, they insist, so I give in.

I hope I am never predictable Jess, even though I do a number of poems on similar themes, and always nature's whispers dominate, however I walk through life.

I am the same in painting, one would think they were from many different people, and yet not, as nature gets through there once again.

This was just a tumble of thoughts that came just then. Yes I think I have worked a little on it already. I wondered about the clichés but Christmas is one big cliché isn't it? So the seasoning seemed appropriate.

Thank you Rula for the comment that helps goad my mind into doing something more with it. And Jayne for letting me know that I inspired you, I love to do that.


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

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