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.
Author: A. Gouedard
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.
Miraculous Mare
On a burning hot day
in the shade of an oak
a chestnut mare laying down,
chewing on buttercups, clover.
Young filly,
Arabian head,
with a star on her brow.
Essence of unicorn.
Blue sky, white clouds.
red horse,
vibrant green grass
nourished by summer showers.
Her skin quivers,
shaking off flies,
but it’s me who disturbs her
not they.
She raises her head,
poised to stand and depart.
I hold my breath and her gaze.
This magical moment can’t last.
Freedom
I was a painter.
I still am I suppose.
It’s the way I look at the world.
Light, form, colour and line
and all the spaces between.
But how do you paint
The scent of a rose?
Or the touch of your hand on my skin?
They both have some essence of pink, dusk, white?
For this I would rather have words
and the freedom to speak my own heart.
No Brakes
I saw you turn off the engine
but the car is gathering speed.
You took your hands off the wheel
and calmly rolled out the door.
I press my foot to the floor,
trying to steer from the back seat.
The tarmac is black.
Raindrops are filling the screen.
The baby is crying.
We begin to hurtle downhill
in a wandering, dangerous, freewheel, scream.
Through tunnels,
round bends,
I lean,
gritting my teeth and praying.
The inevitable crash never comes,
regardless of having no brakes.
That’s the power I still have
in this darkly recurring dream.
Leaving NY
I slept nine hours last night, she says,
I dreamed of you.
I asked if that was why she slept so long.
Only joking.
She laughs and say for sure it was.
Warm weather here.
Cold there.
Spring, how lovely.
Flowers and butterflies.
Yes.
I smile.
She always thinks of something pretty.
The taxi driver had a Brooklyn accent.
Like all the films, I think,
and remember Sophie’s Choice
Timbered houses, gables.
Tragic story.
Quick slices of happiness.
Madness.
Thinking of that I miss her next two sentences.
I come back to her.
Heavy luggage.
Last night was full of sirens and voices.
The Broadway shows cost a lot.
Traffic.
We’re leaving here soon, she says,
and I can’t wait to see you.
Everything is going to be so good.
Every word she says, is interspersed,
with saying how she loves me
and how she’s longing to be near me.
The Dreaming Path 