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Author: A. Gouedard
Hawk and Hare (a San San)
A sudden hare, across the field,
Swerves and shifts, avoids the breath of death,
In shadowed cloud and sunlight leaping.
Against the light, dark wings revealed,
Downward sweeps, a shifting hawk,
A breath held tight in frozen time.
The hare escapes the talons keeping.
This life, this shifted breath, this joy, is mine.
The Head and the Heart
Journey in Ancient Hills
This is a found poem. Found using two index pages from Welsh Folk Lore and Folk Customs by Thomas Gwynn Jones.
Journey in Ancient Hills
The midwives pour milk and curd into wells,
with molten lead cures.
They bow to the moon,
mumbling magic.
The mountain hag is murdered
by trembling ghosts.
Naked infants, unknown,
with no names,
hear the night howl of dogs
predicting the omen days
of the one-eyed fish,
but no saviour remains.
Lost with my Otherworld lover,
we huddle with ravens
and brindled oxen
against the rain,
protected by trees
at the pre-historic hearth,
making offerings of pins and keys,
awaiting the reformation
and some incorruptible sign
of inseparable souls, at the last
Turn to the Tarot (a found poem)
it’s written by drawing two cards
it’s random
but so is life
far more than it ever seems
blocked doors
lack of will
no vision
confusion of purpose
no dreams
open yourself to the power
seek the Awen and the flow
let it flow through you to the world
focus, make yourself clear
trust and let go of your worries
snatch the magicians wand
unwise, with no direction,
hold the fool upside down
you see a hanged man
you’re getting out of your depth
freedom can be a prison
when you limit your mind
trust in your inner knowing
life is a serious business
but you can enjoy it too
it’s a journey of endless discovery
take to the open road
Escaping Jaipur
a rickshaw boy
with torn trousers
stops for rapid repairs
I am surrounded by monkeys
one jumps clear over a goat
another tugs at my hair
a guide tells me follow
begging hands reach out
a bell softly rings
beside the temple gates
around spiraling corners
each one leading in
we enter a bustling square
the stalls are piled with olives
oranges, spices and dates
marigolds piled on tables
garlands strung in the air
the tea-wallah cries out his wares
a radio blares in the distance
clanging, clanging, clanging,
ringing the sun, beating down
it’s madness and radiant sound
the heat is stifling, whirling
pigeons fly up in the air
against the blue sky above
kites are spinning and diving
hidden in gathering crowds
I catch glimpses of gentler eyes
fixing me with a stare
two brown dogs lay in the shade
beneath a flowering neem
I no longer want to be there
I close my eyes,
i vanish,
into a starlit pool
and slowly float away
Old House
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.
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
The Dreaming Path 