It’s raining sticks and old ladies.
The ice runs down my back.
I squint.
Wet is an understatement.
It’s as cold as a winter grave.
Author: A. Gouedard
Transported
The past returns
as I round a curve
in the path by the river.
On warm summer air
the scent of syringa,
sweet, astringent,
delicate, transient,
transcending;
I am five again,
in the garden
by the slope.
I run downhill
my arms outspread
Corporate Coupling
the lovers declare their mission statement,
outlining their mutually shared goals
to maximise human potential
through alternative methodologies,
– forgetting to say, I love you.
Developing compelling expertise
they interactively benchmark each other’s thighs
to rapidly integrate hyperscale schemas
in exponential progressive growth
and that’s just the start of their foreplay
they seemlessly undermine all systems
to accelerate ease of accessibility
until they achieve ultimate linkage
resorting to plug and play technologies
and agreed cross-storage content
with just-in-time metrics
and 360-degree feedback
they ratify resolution
and end with a corporate sigh
that ripples the water cooler
Joy
a closed padlocked door
is thrown open wide
sunlight and air
flood into the room
because of the promise
you made
you come
with your hopes
alight and aflame
and your dreams
that shine in the dark
you unbind my chains
you warm my cold heart
the secret is in your name
If Only
If we could, if we did,
If the time was right
If I understood all you said
If you had loved me more
If I had loved myself
If I had listened to you
If you had trusted me
If it had all been different
If only
If only the fates hadn’t conspired
and left us no choice and no power
we’d be somewhere else
not ourselves at all
and would that be better for us?
who can tell?
when I think of all that
it like hell
and no heaven in reach
only circles
they go round and round on themselves
If only
If wishes were horses we’d ride them
across the far planes
out to the wide shore
the landscape of all that’s possible
with no hill too high
like free birds we would rise up and sore
If only we could decide what’s best
If only – a phrase I despise
I’d rather live in the moment
and make an attempt to be wise
and learn from where we have been
Paranoia
we went out late that night again
the moon was full above the wood
our shadows stretched and shifted
we could have gone another time
it all could be quite different but
we went out late that night again
i wish we’d gone another way
i wish we’d gone the time before
our shadows stretched and shifted
before i lost you in the wood
you hoped to see the stars and so
we went out late at night again
the path we took became unclear
the moon was hidden by dark clouds
our shadows stretched and shifted
if you had trusted all i said
we would have stayed at home instead
we went out late that night again
our shadows stretched and shifted
Tick Tock
tick tock
tickety tock
clocks and tickets
tickets and clocks
connections and blocks
blocks to connection
contact is lost
but as the hands turn
time unwinds clocks
the coils spring back
solid as rock
the connection remains
dreams hang in mid-air
suspended in time
suspended, but there
in a place with no tickets
a place with no clocks
Furled Umbrella
I went shopping today.
I crossed that street we had crossed together,
The one close to the river
and the theatre.
You remember that day we met there?
It was cold and wet then
Just as it was today.
I went to the same cafe
and bought a coffee for one.
I hope for your return.
There is no promise you will come.
These days I wait for the sun
but hang on to my furled umbrella.
I Look at Faces
I see open eyes and closed doors
as I see faces pass in the crowd,
all those secrets within,
all those wishes and dreams,
the dark sadness so often seen.
What would they say
if I asked them to stay
and give all their secrets away?
Would they lie or tell me the truth?
Do we sing from one page?
Unfulfilled?
Whatever their stage,
whatever their race,
whatever the date of their birth,
are their feelings so different from mine?
And where is god in all this?
Does god even exist?
In our breath, in water, in fire?
We all die, but are we divine?
What I hear is one voice and one choir.
Making Tea
Making tea is not the easy task it may seem.
To make it alone is simple,
it’s a matter of getting up steam
and not stewing the brew
but keeping it fresh and delightful.
I keep a few blends by to heal me
and stave off the winter colds
(or so we are told)
but orange pekoe is best,
or simple assam, bright and dark,
they outstrip the rest.
I have loved them for years
since I was just a young spark.
Lapsang souchong may be more hip,
it’s aroma may be more inspiring
but i gave up after one sip.
We all have our preference
and that’s where the problem comes in
Must every choice be political
or a statement of ethical pride?
What pleasure does that enhance?
My cupboard has a full range
in case a friend should come round
and inspect my tea making stance
and state their own, to impress.
There’s also the sweetening question;
none, sugar or honey.
Such noble-hearted obsessions
backed with the full force of money
request what I cannot afford.
Be assured, I would if i could.
It was quite a relief
when my latest guest came
and asked for a cup of hot water.
I think she won the great game.
The Dreaming Path 