A rose by the chair
In the overgrown garden
I know they were there
Author: A. Gouedard
Falling
Falling
I hurtle through space
velocity pushing my breath back
choking on air, falling, eternal spin.
Seven aeons, seven hundred,
Seven days, seven minutes
No sense of time or a reason
I land in a world of stone,
hard and unforgiving.
My left wing broken, unable to fly
I lay on the rock alone.
She comes to me with a scalpel blade,
unpicks every stitch in my wound
with exquisite, fine pointed precision
lost in space, I roll from the rock
drifting downward in free fall
the earth rises to meet me again
old greeting, old paths, old ways,
days barely remembered
this land of archways and doors,
doors open, doors locked, a mystery
I escape from this place
to the trees by the river
where the castle shadow still falls.
Staggering I fall to one knee.
I try to hold on to what’s left of my heart
tired, broken winged, exhausted.
Time and space don’t matter to me
I wish only for peace, tenderness,
to know that she will remember me
Hollow
Hollow
Above the frozen water meadow winter sunlight flashes
frail birches stand in line, a guard against the traffic,
their silvered arms outstretched above the dying rushes.
Icy wind blows bitter from the east, fills my eyes with tears.
The trees, in faint whisper, sighing, leaning,
speak of vanished woodlands they will never know
Far away, in the West, two hundred miles and more,
a brook bubbles, dancing, sings in a hidden hollow.
Twisted oaks, clothed in moss and lichen, entwined with ivy,
born of wilful acorns, rooted in ancient rock, remain undaunted.
From dawn to dusk, the air is full of bird song until the owl hoots.
Peace surrounds, enfolds, and, with night, bewitches.
I stand on this path at the side of the road
gaze at the birch trees, the sunset spread behind them.
This place is so empty.
Escaping from the Tower
Climbing the mountain, trying to reach the tower
Confronted by a dragon, endlessly asking me riddles,
While a great storm gathers all about us
Thunderbolts roar, lightning reflects on my shield
(“What do you do in that room all the time?
What are you thinking about?’’
I stop to get the food
And gather the rubbish that needs to go out)
I am losing my footing on the slippery rocks.
The dragon flashes his eyes with desire
I have to succeed, cannot be overpowered,
I call on the rain to quench his fire
(“Always off in imagination,
What’s wrong with you?
You spend hours on that
And it’s not even true’’)
I answer the final riddle, the dragon steps aside.
My way no longer barred, I struggle on up the mountain.
The tower reaches up to the clouds
Eagles circle above, come to help me in my troubles
(“I know you have talent?
Why don’t you use it?’’
“I work too!’’ i say
“You could work more!’’ says she)
The eagle carries me up to the princess, we hover.
She reaches out to me. I swing her onto the eagles back.
My arm circles her waist, her hair flies in my face.
She leans back on me in relief.
(“You always were some other place,
Even as a child. No different now than ever.
Why can’t you just be normal,
And stay in reality?’’)
We circle together above the now sunlit valleys
Looking down from above, we avoid all the cities and castles
And land in a summer meadow by a softly singing stream
She adorns herself with flowers, I dream
The Music Room
two notes echo
still
near the piano
they hover
middle C, B flat
a warm scent
jasmine and almonds
hangs in the air
footsteps
softly retreating
I remember that
whenever I think
of the music room
the passageway
door to the garden
open a crack
the window
looks out to the sea
where the tides
roll out and back
washed over grey
to the distant blue
Ghazal – Not the Moon
When happiness eludes us in the dark,
dying in the wane, forsake not the moon
It will wax again, shine its silver light,
the turning tide will ache. Not the moon.
When spring is young and full of love, the sun
brings pleasure, gladdens day, wake not the moon.
The morning chorus brings us new born day.
Birdsong floats above the lake. Not the moon.
It is dawn above the soft horizon
that will our tenderness untimely break. Not the moon.
When Venus orbits high above, my love is in
my arms again, the night, delight, take not the moon!
Good Evening
Good evening
The day of death comes when it comes
that’s the sum and the wonder of it,
it teaches us how we should live.
If I find the wait for departure
too gruelling, or late,
I won’t stand about on that grey platform
in the cold, without a companion,
huddled up in a worn out old coat,
my collar turned up and shivering.
So tiresome!
When all is prepared, right and ready
I will die with delight
on a bright moonlit night,
clear stars filling the sky,
I will hold up my soul
to the moonlight above.
I will tell the world
how much I have loved it,
give thanks, state my intention.
strip off the old coat
and accept the warmth
that comes with the cold
in a garden at night
very old.
The rest will be history
written by others
if written at all
in a never ending story
Morning ~ a rubaiyat
Morning ~ a rubaiyat
impatient for your arms again i rise
to sit and watch your secret sleeping eyes
what dream is this that keeps you lingering there
with smiling parted lips and tender sighs
what joy in sleep so fills your captured heart
while i wait here alone, to watch apart
and gaze upon your much loved gentle face
more lovely than a work of perfect art
i wander in the garden late at night
to gather perfumed roses, pink and white,
while I my patient lovers vigil keep
to bring your morning wonder and delight
the dark, the stars, the moon are gone away
across your sleepy pillow sunbeams play
in this new world refreshed, renewed, be mine
awaken to another golden day
Girl on the Tube
Girl on the Tube
through hot walls
echoes of balconies,
city of hushed shimmering steps
flying limbs, jumping, crashing,
a horny animal noise in the haze,
imagined necks,
stretched out and glistening,
metallic clatterings, birds in the iron of rails,
misplaced booms and magnolia,
floating bicycles, no air,
impersonal muffled faces,
hearts, feet, sharpness,
meaningless cheap sex hotels,
sweating relief on the stairs
under the river
.
i saw a girl
with the eyes of endless clear days,
a stranger,
the curve of a rose,
she stood, awake
by a door painted blue,
plain and complete
she must be new here
Hidden Rooms in Secret Houses
Secret rooms, hidden behind walls,
books, red cushions and a chair,
visited in dreams, well known.
Narrowed passageways and stairs
climb above the twisted chimney stacks.
They rise like curling smoke, a spiral.
Doors that open inward lead out to
the dove cote, fountain, walls of mossy stone,
pathways, apple trees and pears.
At last I leave this house.
Beyond the gate
the island, slate and jagged rocks,
a swaying broken bridge in sighing wind,
a fragile home of glass and salted timber.
High tides beat against it, retreating in a spray.
A window cracks. I am not afraid.
The lighthouse calls out through the fog,
receding echoes that return again,
a sound that swings around the bay.
In dreams, when I am swept away,
the waiting house remains.
The Dreaming Path 