words are not enough
i could draw a line of dots
expanding into O’s
each one larger, broader, wider than the last
until they spread and shifted shape
into one gigantic throbbing heart
to embrace us in its grasp
Author: A. Gouedard
Disconnected
The black mirror you stare at so long and so hard
Has attached itself to the palm of your hand
To show you the breeding of chaos worldwide
And all that doesn’t belong to you
And all the things you want to own
And all the things you never will
As the moments pass by
The black screens flicker
Thousands of words and images fly
Bewitching your eyes
Numbing your brain
With half truths and lies
And glimpses of thoughts you’re too busy to grasp
As you peddle on cycles inside the gym
No sun, no rain, no air, no wind
You’ve forgotten where the real roads begin
You never look in anyone’s eyes
Be Lost
First be lost
And know that you are
Know nothing at all
Except what is wrong
Strip down to the bone
Let delusions be dead
With vanities and falsehoods
Flung to the floor.
Be a blank canvas,
Innocence restored.
A clean page
refreshed and renewed
after troubles, by age
With vigilant care
be sure where you tread
A clear path runs
Directly ahead
You have to be no-one
To see who you are
Vanished
Children believe they can vanish
As long as they can’t see the world
I go to the window curtain
I don’t look out on the world
The curtain flows to the floor
I wrap it around me and softly I sing
A new song of wandering words
My voice feels held in the curtain
It’s warm and it’s so secure
No doubt there’s a child shaped mass,
Wrapped in the velvet drape,
And my feet poke out on the floor.
I have no awareness of that,
Only the warmth in darkness
And the song of the wandering words.
I don’t exist anymore.
Beatific in Oxford
To use a trite phrase,
Everything’s coming up roses
This isn’t a brief, illusory phase
Everything’s flooded with light
It’s new life, everlasting and bright
The coffee is stronger
And certainly sweeter
Out here on an Oxford street.
The man on the corner is looking at angels,
I can tell by the smile on his face
And nothing seems out of place.
My own heart is beating, gently repeating,
Taking wing to the clear skies above.
Your message is beeping again on my phone
Reading your words, and answering you,
I smile at the angels too.
I observe the flight of a dove,
Stone wall to old tower,
Tower to tree top, swaying above.
The branches burst into flower.
This is the morning of love.
This is the magic hour.
Day 30
In Old Lore
When politics sucks
Principles fly out the door,
Those values enshrined in our myths,
Those things the old heroes fought for,
Honour, valour, trust,
When the knights always stood up
In aid of the downtrodden poor.
When we created these stories
We already knew, we were sure.
Virtue was not often practiced
But it was enshrined in old lore.
When did we change the story?
When did we tip the scales?
When did our idea of justice
Fundamentally change?
When did the villains gain praise?
Isn’t life very strange.
Advice to a Very Young Poet
Forget the alphabet of facts.
Savour sensual sound,
roll it round and round,
feel it on your tongue,
let it be your guide.
Use the harshness of the axe,
use the gentle kiss,
whisper, sigh and shout.
Cast ideas out,
dream and quest,
forget yourself,
follow words where they lead,
open wide your mind
and let the image in.
Turn beauty upside down.
Make the ugly beautiful.
Make beauty out of darkness.
When summer comes, rejoice,
jump up and down and sing.
In savage waves be sure to drown,
lose your breath and meaning,
experience every feeling.
Ask what life’s about,
seek the truth,
accept no less,
make an honest, brief beginning.
The Bards Legacy
By the river the blossoms are falling,
Disarrayed by unseasonably storms,
And worn weathered gravestones outside the church
Are granite grey, cold, threatening forms
Sheltering ash of anonymous dead.
Under stained glass windows inside the church
The genius poet lays his sweet head.
Rosemary’s remembrance overcomes age.
Words unforgotten repeat his own tale.
Across the long years his thoughts pace the stage.
Ill fated fortunes are storms we must sail
and love can win through to make good amends.
Love overcomes all that savage time ends.
Seaside
On the footpath by the sea
the tourists come and go.
the summer flowers gleam,
salt breezes softly blow.
On the footpath by the sea
the children run and play.
Pirate games and treasure maps
sweep their hours away.
On the footpath by the sea
tadpoles swim in drying streams,
the dogs lap all the puddles up
while walkers eat ice-creams.
On the footpath by the sea
here come the volunteers
to clear away the plastic
and gather mermaids tears.
The Dreaming Path 