The trees outside stand sentinel
above the rain-shine rooves.
This house is old and stands alone
High up on a hill.
The rooms are full of photographs,
books lined upon the shelves,
twice read or waiting still,
some with shattered spines.
The carpets, worn,
by thirty years of passing feet
are faded by the sun.
Notebooks filled with dead ideas
and some of them begun.
Dark wood and walls washed white
contain this quiet place.
A painting of a tired knight
dominates the space.
Dreams are always real.
Author: A. Gouedard
Recorded in the Books
In the caravan of dreams,
at the back of the north wind,
in the wood beyond the world,
a conference of birds was formed.
When one flew over the cuckoos nest
they all thought they might die.
They left the tavern of ruin.
For bread alone they searched
beneath the sheltering sky.
They flew along the song lines
”Let it all come down!”
was their cry
The sand child, then,
was just a wink and a waft
of the jitterbug,
perfume,
from the djinn
in the nightingales eye
Spider
what is it about a spider
that i can’t get out of my head?
those scuttling legs
fill me we nauseous dread
I know that they’re creative
i watched the webs they build
yet something deep inside of me
yearns that they be killed
you may not be aware
when a spider enters the room
but i always see them instantly
a little black splash of dark gloom
i have tried so hard to like them
i have let them come so near
i even tried to touch one
but i cant overcome the fear
i am not a spider killer
i warn them when i can
but some are so determined
to sit just where i am
i cant stand a spider
even in a book
i flip the page with horror
i just don’t want to look
those waving legs alarm me
i loathe their nobbly heads
the ones that come with harvest
sneak up on the bed!
itsy bitsy spider climbing up the spout
if i hear him coming closer
i’ll flush the bugger out!
Deja Vu
In a dream of another time,
In a life so completely still mine,
The world had a soft glowing shine.
As I walked in the country lanes
My mind was rested in peace.
Beside the pathway, a seat,
Hidden by foxglove and meadowsweet,
Piled rocks from a fallen tower
Close by a bend, that in turning, I knew,
Would reveal a view of the sea.
I recall lifting you, to sit like a queen,
Wild flowers entwined in your hair.
In some scented hour long ago,
It must have been déjà vu
All the Roses
the red rose and the white
standing sentinel
on each side of the path
the red rose of passion
the white for purity
so it was told to me
with time the bud unfolds
they litter history
more stories must be told
how Alice met the mad ones
walking nervously alone
in there amongst the flowers
i pondered that for hours
the red queen and the white
would haunt my childhood nights
and then we went to York
and thought of Lancaster
and roses making war
i never saw such violence
shaking petals, thrusting thorns,
tattering the tender growing rose
and then the Tudors came
the doubled rose of white and red
its petals widely spread
holding all in thrall
with gold and iron rule
while it blossomed
a treasure, was The Rose
where actors took the stage
Shakespeare came of age
its name was at the heart
emblem of poets art
that blooms as nectar overflows
now, in the garden,
i plant my roses
i plant them for their scent
i plant them for all they mean to me
they guard my families ashes
i strip away the stories
watching as their gentle petals fall
full of passing glories
but every year repeating
shining out with soft simplicity
a sign of lasting love
given from above
that’s all a rose was ever meant to be
Mirror (a tritina)
Beauty seems eternal
When the evening light casts magic
Across the waters shining mirror
Mirror of the sky above,
Eternal stars reflecting,
This too, a passing magic
Eternal lasting magic
Can’t be captured in a mirror
Yet life goes on eternal
The souls eternal magic in not reflected in my mirror
Fragile Dust (a tritina)
like lace these fragile flapping wings,
new born from the chrysalis, pale butterfly
drying under a yellow sun, bright burning
full of life, vibrant, short lived, time burning
stretching out its virgin wings
clinging to a tender stem, this butterfly
climbing upward to your journey, butterfly
prepare to fly away, as I, burning
with desire to touch, with care, your wings
an awful thought, lost dust, wings burning, butterfly
Baking Bread
knowing you were coming home tonight
i resolved to bake you bread
and fill the house with warmth
i gathered driftwood from the beach
i rose at dawn to light the fire
so the dough could rise
i went down to the cellar
to find a fine red wine
i stumbled on the stair
when i came back the fire was out
the fire beside the stove collapsed
it needed swift repair
by the time i mended it
my hair was full of soot
i had to take a shower
i went out to the market next
i bought the finest cheese
and olives black and green
time was growing short by now
i sank my hand into the bowl
almost in despair
i slammed it on the board
i kneeded it, i pummelled it
and left it there to rest
i went out to the beach again
to calm my savage breast
a good bread must be blessed
the kitchen is a peaceful place
when baking scents the room
good bread is earthly grace
my mind filled with the thought of you
i conjured up your face
good bread is an embrace
returning through the garden
i picked one summer rose
to set beside your place
when you came the bread was there
with olives, yellow cheese and wine
mixed with salt sea air
blessed with love and welcome
and smiles to greet you home
good bread is like a 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.
Peaceful
it’s a quiet early morning in springtime
rooftops arise from a gentle grey mist
the dawn streets are in silence and empty
and all in the drowsy town are asleep
it’s then i go out, in to the garden
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, alone with the trees
it’s a quiet time of day in the summer
when the dusk starts to fade slowly away
the sun sinks behind the far distant hill
and the birds in their nests lower their songs
with an occasional voice they settle
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, my mind flies away
it’s a quiet autumn day by the river,
a mirror, shining, reflecting the sky,
where white swans silently glide by in dreams
and the willows bow, heavy-headed,
a soft breeze makes the calm water shiver
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, lost in the beauty
it’s a quiet winters day at the fireside
coals caverns burn in a cast iron grate
casting shadow as flames leap and fade
imagination wanders in landscapes
the world outside grows forgotten and dark
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace at the end of the day
The Dreaming Path 