I lost my father’s watch in the sea
When I wandered about on a beach.
It’s well that it rests there,
He wanted an ocean burial,
But the sea was too far out of reach.
We didn’t have time for arrangements,
Time flew by too fast,
but now he is rested at last.
My family heirloom lies on a sea bed of shells,
Corroded by rust,
Informing the fish of the turning of tides
As it drifts back and forth in the currents
Showing it silvered face
round as the full moon, in it’s season.
I lost my father’s watch in the sea.
He would be happy,
But time seems to have stopped for me.
Like a screen on TV,
Gone blank.
Author: A. Gouedard
Don’t Paint the Roses
she remembered she was falling
reaching for a cake crumb
swallowing a draught
that completely turned her head
she was running round the roses
painting red and white
challenging the chess board
to manoeuvres in the dark
she had a distant memory
of a love that struck a spark
but the tables all kept turning
when he tried to take her hand
in the horrors and delusions
that stalked this troubled land
he loved her all the time
but he had lost his mind
lovers often lose their way
whether they are sane of mad
all is topsy-turvy
when the news is always bad
they race around in shadows
tying to find a light
their dreams become a nightmare
ruining their night
but up above the stars shine out
constellations point the path
if only they could both sit down
gazing up at last
the roses never needed paint
he knew that all along
check mate only brings an end
to more that can be done
lovers only need to sit
and think what love’s about
and forget the silly games
that pull them inside out
It’s a Circus
When Toulouse Lautrec tried to paint them he woke each morning to find his canvas was blank. Hardly surprising, given the nature of the Circus of Dreams. They are restless and always move on.
You may ask why there is a door that seems to lead nowhere.
Even the Master of Ceremonies wonders about that from time to time and the fact that he can’t discover the answer is beginning to irritate him, just a little, after 150 years.
The dancers don’t let it bother them much, though it sometimes confuses their entrances and exits to and from the stage.
But the show must go on! – or at least they all presume that it must – so they perform every night whether there is an audience or not. If the whole thing ends in chaos who cares.
They dance! And that’s what REALLY matters.
Matlock the Hare
Loved the illustrations in this so much I went straight off and bought it.
“What readers need,” a portly editor from a major publishing company told me many years ago as he confidently struck a pen through great swathes of my manuscript, “is peril. Plenty of peril. A lot less of all this ‘character and emotion’ nonsense. Ideally, it’s a woman in peril. All the drama you need in just those three words – woman in peril. Saves readers having to believe in a character, see?”
The truth was, I didn’t ‘see’.
“How about,” he suggested, scribbling over the first line of the manuscript, “we start it with – ‘She woke up to a knife at her throat’?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, gathering the remains of my work before asking, “Do you think Gulliver’s Travels would have been published today?”
He blinked back, confused. “The bloke who gets tied up on a beach by some dwarves? No chance. Where’s the peril in…
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A Book Illustration
Rebecca Troyer has illustrated one of my poems (the copyright is hers)
Isn’t that just lovely ! Here is the poem
The Faerie Garden
Its windows blown by wind and rain,
down the lanes where no-one came,
an ancient ruined cottage stood
with tumbled walls, close by the wood.
The cottage garden growing wild
with warring flowers unreconciled
was all a tangle, intertwined,
with paths and borders undefined
Columbine closed up the doors,
Ivy crept across the floors.
The roses grew all over-blown
Claiming all the walls their own.
Delphiniums, for summer skies,
near the solemn peonies rise.
Hollyhock o’er-towers them all
and Jasmin scents the evenings fall.
In this riotous throng of flowers
the faeries come to spend their hours.
They crown themselves with daisy chains
as sunlight spreads its last remains.
As evening falls they make their way
with gentle steps at close of day
to the bed they much prefer
beneath the sleepy lavender.
In the Weather House
there was a time they were together
dancers on a music box
all was peace and harmony
as they turned in clement weather
now one by one they turn about,
one days there’s rain, another sun
they move about in thunder storms
she steps in, he steps out
i never see her look his way
he never bows or takes her hand
he steps out, she steps in
they have nothing left to say
they live to serve the weather house
he never sleeps
she never dreams
when he steps in she steps out
Sea Shells
here are we
curled and contained
in this room
high above the breathable sea
bathed in a shaft of moonlight
drifting in dreams
holding on tight as the world turns
our breath swells and sinks with the waves
sea shells follow the tide line below
left behind at the turning
bleached and beached on the white sand
time wears the solid rock to small grains
energy moves from this place to that
nothing is ever the same
but remains
and repeats
and remains
eternal
curled and contained
Voices
What i miss most are the voices;
the sleepy mutter at breakfast,
the shouting,
from one end of the house to the other,
and the slamming of doors,
see you later.
Those serious talks while washing up,
the flood of sound as friends burst in
welcome but unexpected,
the laughter and tales over dinner,
the distant voices out on the beach,
as the sun sinks in purples and pinks,
their words just out of reach,
then the quiet,
when all grows tender and hushed,
bringing the whispers of nightfall.
Brave New World
No poem today – just this …………..
I just saw a news article saying that Amazon would like to deliver our parcels by drone. The advantage of this, to the customer, is to get packages faster – I don’t need them faster. Amazon Prime is fast enough and what’s so wrong with waiting?
I like to meet the delivery guy at the door. I don’t want to live in a fully automated world with a sky full of drones. The kids love the idea of course, but me? NO THANKS!
This set me to thinking.
I grew up in a world where the sky was for the sun, the moon, stars, stars you could see clearly at night, clouds, rain, birds and planes. It wasn’t full of satellites bringing us bad news faster or surveillance cameras protecting us from what the world has become.
I am so glad I grew up in the 1950’s and 1960’s. I grew up in both rural and urban locations and it was always safe to go out. True, I did meet a couple of pedophile predators but my instincts on that were strong enough not to be lured and that instinct works face to face. There were always more vulnerable children of course but it’s far more dangerous to be groomed on the Internet.
A friend of mine, who is a teacher, recently told me that she read one of my poems about rural peace to a class of Hispanic urban teenagers. The nature images in the poem were from my childhood and were things they had never experienced or seen. One girl had tears in her eyes by the end of the poem. She said she wished she could go to a place like that. I wish she could too.
I didn’t have a mobile phone or Internet until my late 40’s and I communicated just the amount I chose to communicate. I even chose at one time in my 20’s to have no phone at all. I survived! Imagine! Fancy that! I didn’t die in an emergency or get stranded. I knew people. I had nearby neighbours who talked to me. The people in the local shops knew me. I was not in any way ‘cut off’ despite the fact I lived on the moors then and had to walk to the village.
I pity the children now with all their gadgets and computer games and no real freedom. Wandering the outside world with your friends or alone and taking an occasional risk is part of growing up. I suppose they will be better suited to the world ahead than I am but at least I know how to live when the power goes off.
It was also so much healthier to be out in the fields building hedgerow dens. In the summer holidays I was out with my bike or playing in the fields and woods from 9am to 6pm when I came home because I wanted my dinner and my packed food supply had run out.
When I lived in town I was in no danger either. One stabbing in our town was a major sensation, totally unheard of at the time. So, OK, London had the Kray twins and their like but criminals basically fought each other for territory and would never have taken an interest in the likes of me or the general public. Look at the world right now. Look at the gun crimes. The Kray Twins pale in comparison.
I think we have to admit that the world has gone seriously wrong and we can be sure that every bit of bad news will bombard us very fast while we are told so little about good things. Stressful isn’t it.
I am very sorry for the kids, but I am selfishly glad I am getting old because it means I wont have to see so much of the future.
I say ”thank you so very much for my childhood” because I am one of the last of the paradise kids.
Heatwave
It’s too sunny,
not funny,
I’ve spent all my money
on fans
and cool drinks in cans.
We’ll all overdose on vitamin D.
This weather may please you
but it really doesn’t suit me.
Set me free of this humid horror
And bring back the rain fall t’morrer.
I’d climb in the freezer
to make my life easier,
I’m really a winter time geezer.
Away with the heatwave,
Come thunder, come storm,
drop the temperature back
to averagely warm
or deliciously cold
out of season
before I take leave of all reason.
I’m addicted to ice.
This horrible heat isn’t nice.
It’s too hot!!
this weather is not
what the average Briton is used to.
The Dreaming Path 