Beautiful paintings
Author: A. Gouedard
FREE ~ The Raven & the Storyteller
This fantasy novel is free on Kindle from Saturday 7th until Wednesday 11th
If you like it please review it
NEW POETRY BOOK RELEASED
See Amazon ~ A.Gouedard ”Walking in Between”
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tell me your dreams and tell me them true
tell me of days when you were a child
i need to better remember you
when it all comes round again in a while
tell me your hopes, tell me your fears
tell me the paths of your ancestral home
tell me your journey through the long years
let our lives link wher’ver we may roam
meet me again on the other side
reborn again, a boy and a girl
stars will cross and circles collide
when we awaken anew to this world
we will be young, but we can be wise
let me see love again shine in your eyes
“Late Lament”, By The Moody Blues
Breathe deep the gathering gloom,
Watch lights fade from every room.
Bedsitter people look back and lament,
Another day’s useless energy spent.
Impassioned lovers wrestle as one,
Lonely man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up and suckles her son,
Senior citizens wish they were young.
Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white.
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion?
End of NaPoWriMo for this year
But I will be carrying on here as usual.
And the next inspiring event comes up later on – with the free on-line Poetry Course with the Creative Writing Dept at Iowa State University – when that date is announced I will post it (it lasts for 5 weeks)
Walking in Wales
It is strange to see the old branches there
Twisted with thorns on the hillsides, cloud swept
A hundred yards from the mountain peak
centuries cling together, cloud covered
We will follow the restless ravens flight
dark soaring darts as they pierce the hard rocks.
We were given a whole country to keep,
land is proof we insist on still living
The old harps, played in the far distant past,
Are memories dripping from hawthorn leaves
The moss covered seat is hedgerow hidden
Stone monument to old and wise story
I remembered all that I knew of you
As I followed the flow of the river
I’ll walk beside you over many paths,
though they will say you are not beside me
Nostalgia
I remember the smell of bran mash and horses,
steam rising in winter sun
the creaking of leather out in the yard,
saddles and straps, the welcoming whinny,
the course hair of manes caught in the brush
the sharp hollow ring of shod hooves on stone
echoing round the stables
the first time a horse stood on my foot
leaning shoulder to shoulder and pushing
feeling the strength of sinew
and above all the stable doors
the names of old horses, long gone
I remember the bluebells
blueness in scented shadows
fallen branches and fungi
the huge tree, blown down in the winter,
still full of life,
and the rooks crying above
to the echoing shouts of young children
we play hide and seek amongst the trees
until someone falls over
and it’s time to get them to bed
the days are still shorter than summer
I remember in summer, sweet jasmin,
the buzz of the bees in the hedgerows,
the heat of the day, a sizzler
the smell of sun warmed railway tracks
where the weeds grew up through the sleepers
the shimmer ahead where the sun met illusion
my sandal strap broken, mended with string,
when we sat on the banks
while the dogs raced away
to the river
I remember lovers
Autumn is gold with nostalgia
summer is over
it’s time for fires
fires on the beach
fires in the house
the chill air makes us snuggle
there is no need to go out in the evening
time to find last years old jerseys
and let them embrace us again
The First Monday
The teddy bear is home alone until tonight
An eternity of days spreads out ahead
The garden is forbidden until evening
The time for growing up has just begun
It’s time to say goodbye to childish things
The world is new defined and fenced about
The satchel, stuffed, sits heavy on the floor
Sharp pointed pencils and a clean eraser
The ruler for the measuring of lines
The uniform hangs new and pressed against the door
Faint excitement evaporates in dread
A sickening thought sinks into an empty stomach
The Monday morning sun has just arrived
At the Tower
Over heights in turning winds that swept the hills where gorse and broom, in golden banks, flowered amongst the thorns,
running on long legs he came, flying from the west, in rags, at sun sink hour
His coat tails torn, flapped and flew,
his hair dishevelled knots of midnight hue,
he called the dark of thunder in, he made the lightning sing.
He cleared the earth and fed the grain
with rolling storms, falling in torrential rain, washing dust away
and in his wake, the ravens came
their feathers tossed and ruffled wild, their cawing cries split the sky, calling up deep days and shallow graves.
They circle now above the Tower and cry for Bran’s return, to prophecy a wink in Odin’s eye, a star that heralds dawn
But all is quiet, all is still, this is not the time, this is not the hour. There is no awakening.
We can only wonder here and wait.
The Dreaming Path 