Author: A. Gouedard

Nine

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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)

Lemon

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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

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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

Omens

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i see it
through the window glass
the sickle of the moon
it curses me each month
my pockets always empty
but what can money buy
broken mirrors bring bad luck
fresh water from a running brook
will break that seven year spell
good omens come in threes
so do accidents
twice the deadly lightening strikes
i shelter by the oak
the owl blinks his saucer eyes
and I become the mouse
the full moon brings me blessings
strange shapes in fallen twigs
the book i learned to read
though i was slow to talk
the trees let in a flickering light
i take the secret woodland walks
i watch the birds for signs
the patterns of their legs
directions of their flight
the music of their cries
the rapture of their song
i have the old protections
rowan berries in my hat
fingers crossed behind my back
i have sweet dreams at night

Sweet Avon

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Under green summer willows my family walked,

Avoiding the shadows of serious talk.

As a child, without care, I ran on ahead,

Chasing the sunlight, alarming the swans,

Watching the ripples that spread from the banks,

I took all for granted, when time was my friend.

Now, by the Avon, I wander alone.

Clear in the knowledge that everything ends.

Now I find comfort in rivers and ghosts.

The Enigma of Anne

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While plague after plague swept through the city
Winnowing lives, like corn, without pity,
The gallows stood close, the axe was not dulled,
While I, by the peace of Avon was lulled.
The play is the thing, all life is a play,
Three days and nights on horse-back away.
All journeys end in true lovers greeting.
Where the bee sucks our pleasures were fleeting,
Violets, eglantine, sweet summer wine,
Came with their season and then he was mine.
Spring time is gone, winter’s cold, he is dead.
I dream in the depths of our second best bed.

Seasons keep turning, and little remains
but wise words from sweet Will, who won’t come again.

 

The Shrug

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the shrug,
one shoulder raised
a twist of the mouth
a hard crooked line
everything said
it sufficed
i never saw one of them cry
my mother, her mother,
my mothers aunts,
all had eyes that were dry
no funeral tears from them
over the years
the shrug passed on
mother to daughter
that’s life, so what,
suck it up
no point crying over spilled milk
they said
in denial of sadness
hiding their dread
leaving tears to be shed by old men
as the puddles spread on the floor

For One

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creamed clouds

whipped into azure blue

reflected

dipped in deep spun pools

on a day perfected

by quietude

stirred

with the tip of a swans feather

on a warm afternoon

cooled by the riverside breeze

beneath hundred years old trees

taken home

and consumed

as the light starts to fall

in a dark empty room

for one

Contemplating the end

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Alice sits still

Contemplating her knees

Fiddling about with her toes

While the birds in the trees

Sing what they please

To the words that only she knows.

 

Buttercups, daisies, all stand in line

And circle around her grass seat

From her head to her feet

She is very complete

In her sparkle of youth

And delight.

 

As she grows old she blooms like a rose

But only the Hatter knows

How lovely she is

And he’s mad.

She wouldn’t believe him

Whatever he said .

 

She thought the road lead

To the vale of the dead

Where all the daffodils die.

”Look at the bulbs”, he said.

”There’s a wink in the cuckoos eye.

The secret is – never ask why.”