When the power of love takes over from the love of power, that’s when things will change
Author: A. Gouedard
On Wires (ghazal)
there are always birds on the telegraph wires
today i saw thirteen on the wires
the number gave me pause for thought
our fortune hangs on silver wires
life seems to come from the choices we make
but we swing like puppets on wires
we call our friends to discuss and debate
endless words are buzzing through wires
to try and untangle the troubles we face
we struggle to loosen the binding wires
you think we’re all alone in this world
but we’re all connected by wires
the birds in the evening fly away
moonlight shines on the wires
Upstart Crow
By the Avon, there was one,
always known as Stratford son,
who summed the world with liquid tongue.
Wisdom spilled and warmth of wit
keep his words forever young.
The paths he walked today are thronged
by wandering tourists, curious still,
about the story of our Will.
Above his grave,
pointing upward to the sky,
the shadows on the ancient spire
are swept by sunlight after clouds.
I said a prayer to please his soul
and left a sprig of rosemary.
By the river, under trees
through the graves, row on row,
I smiled to see an ‘upstart crow’
sauntering with dignity.
Hidden Daffodils
the day is dim and poorly lit,
clouds are gathering in the west,
the leaves are shivering on the trees,
my shoes are worn, my pockets thin,
there’s no money left again,
the forecast warns of storms and rain
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
the windows creak and draughts blow in
how bad can this old house become
there’s not much here to laugh about
this sort of joke is lost on me
the tap is dripping in the bath
the fire wont light, my cat is sad,
she’s curled up in a huddled ball
there’s nothing left to eat at all
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
counting blessings I find some,
there’s still a roof above my head,
i still live, i still breathe,
my head is full of memories,
i can think, i can dream,
and winter always turns to spring
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
Uncle Tom
on summer days
my uncle made
matchstick and paper boats
to float
on breezy bird bath currents
he was always smiling
but he wandered away
into the gloom
of the shuttered house
into darkness
where i overheard his story
told to my father
in faltering words
of shells
and bullets
and mud
and fear
and rotting feet
and friends
hung
like rung out washing
dying on the wire
i saw an old man
tears rolling down
a deep lined face
unashamedly
crying
Dance with the Pixies (Gong)
something merry for Sunday
Nine
nine is the final number my dear friend
a rounded shape with curling thrashing tail
nine is the final pause and sudden end
related to a question mark in scale
this cliff edge vista is of sails and shrouds
but give this precipice no troubled thought
the view i see is also sea and clouds
i see no reason to become distraught
we all come round again, when we aspire to naught
~~~~~~~~
(form ~ Spenserian nine line stanza….
Rhyme scheme: a. b. a. b. c. d. c..d. d
Iambic Pentameter
Last line Iambic Hexameter with caesura)
Opening a Little Shop
https://folksy.com/shops/FortunesFool
not much in here yet – just one Green Man
and no green bottles hanging on the wall so I am absolutely sure none can fall
Lemon
how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree
and change from green to yellow
and offer up my sourness to the sun
how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree
stretching slender arms toward the sky
lemon has a zest that’s never sweet
how lovely it would be
to be a lemon tree in Barcelona
Angels in the Hospital
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
in this place of many doors
those of us who blame the gods are only unaware
of angels standing at our backs when we are in despair
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
with all the instruments laid out bare
theatres ready, scrubbed to white,
as lives drift in and out of light
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
the anxious sad relations sip their cups of tea
the chapel here is open, silent, day or night
to catholics and atheists and sinners, all alike
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
down the low lit corridors
the trolleys come and go
with patients comatose
silent angels glide on feathered feet
don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
the final door awaits us all
some of us must morn
and babies will be born
silent angels glide on feathered feet
The Dreaming Path 