Author: A. Gouedard

Stones in a room

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A collection of seven small horses have been gathered into a herd. I dust them when I must but rarely change their positions. Quite often I dust them too late.

There is another horse in this room, a tired horse in a painting, ridden by a knight. His armour has turned to rust. The horse has a drooping head. The knight is reading a gravestone with words I can’t translate.

The plants here are all artificial. I am not sure when that happened, but I confess to finding it sad. There are far too many cushions. There are books all over the place. There are stones I have silently gathered, each from a special place.

water and stardust

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why are you weeping?
the music of water sings to the stars
and falls to the earth in the rains
seek out the rainbow
satisfy thirst
rest when the sun sinks in the west
the fire is still lit in the hearth
night becomes day soon enough
we are made of water and stardust
we must go with the flow
water will find it’s own course
nothing will stand in the way
dry all your tears and shine
open your heart to the source

The Cow Chorus

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i have found cows to be very sympathetic creatures and so enjoyed reading this

Nimue Brown's avatarDruid Life

There are a number of fields not far from my home that have cows in for all, or part of the year. It’s not unusual to hear the cows of an evening. However, lockdown and reduced traffic noise have cast this in a rather different light for me.

It’s become obvious, walking in the evenings, that the cows are calling to each other. With far less traffic noise, it has become obvious that the evening cow calls are conversational. You can hear cows from one herd call and then a response from somewhere else – perhaps miles away. The sounds cows make turn out to travel well over distances when they don’t have much to compete with.

I suppose it’s possible that the different herds have been able to hear each other all along, but I suspect not. I have no idea what the hearing capacity of a cow is…

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The Big Floyd (in memorial of Chris)

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start the engines
clear skies
time to fly
sunshine blue
on the wings
rising fast
stratosphere
don’t ask why
have no fear
nothing real
is as it seems
pass the gulf
look back to earth
we’re flying clear
take control
start the dream
my soul is high
my heart is wide
feel the love
there’s no divide

swim

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

so strange this feeling of separation
locked in a bottle gazing out
floating on a shelf where you placed me
fixed in time, preserved perfection
can’t grow, explore or breath

uncork me, pour me out
a river will flow around you
an ocean of endless love
where the surf rises high
on the evening tide
swim with me
home at last

Day 30 – Entrenched Opposition

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You, foot soldiers,

who yell from your solid ranks

and dig moral trenches

embedding yourselves

in self-defined virtues

patting yourselves on the back,

won’t survive when the chariots come

with their innovations and rapid manoeuvres

and the flash of their wheels in the sun

if you don’t learn to adjust

and be flexible, knowing your failings,

your flailing, a horror to watch

you won’t survive this defeat

your offers of gifts won’t work

this is not a puritan country

rigidity of thought is never a blessing

if you don’t regroup or retreat

you will lose every battle

you must learn all these lesson

if you ever hope to return

Day 29 ~ Rumi, the well-named cat

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Contemplative, appreciative, grateful,

my cat Rumi, the best of our tribe,

knew how to thrive and survive.

I am quite sure of that.

As at home in a crowd

or in seclusion

nothing could phase this cat.

From the moment I saw him,

contentedly caged at the refuge, I knew

that this was a very calm chap.

When I took him with me

to my whimsical house,

where a hidden mirror

out in the garden

reflected a profusion of flowers,

Rumi gazed, with no consternation,

curled his generous tail softly about himself

and fell asleep there for hours,

but wow, and meow, he knew how to play

when the kids were around and ran wild.

Affectionate yes, never pushy,

he was the one who followed his duty

in sustaining the peace of our house.

I found my own centre

in watching him watching a trickle of water

run from drainpipe to gutter

with close attention

and the eye of a silent saint.

He showed me the importance of flow.

He had no need to know where it came from

and didn’t much care where it went.

Ah the purring of Rumi, a mantra.

Rumi was heaven sent.

postcard from the ledge

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i am here alone my darling,
here without you,
right on the side of a cliff
very high up on a ledge
watching a sunset
with no one to hold my hand
lost in my head
losing my rhythm and reason
not breathing as i should

in two senses
i am very close to the edge