Author: A. Gouedard

My Prayers

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i wish i could wipe away all the tears
wherever they may come from

life is so often unjust
or do i not understand?

is some god only playing with us?
or are we so deficient in learning?

my prayers, so rare,
are always answered

but not in the way i expect
and not in the way i would want

my prayers are far too powerful
in the hands of a mortal like me

an unwitting player of chess
I can’t see ahead far enough

whatever is given to me
has been taken away from another

it’s worse when it’s someone i love
why must fate be so cruel?

the lessons so seldom are plain
i may never pray again

not until I’m on my death bed
with submissive thanks

what’s the purpose of prayer
when i can’t recognise the answer

In my eyes

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I may not deserve to be loved
but I have served my time
in the hard knocks school
maybe breaking some rules
but trying to learn

Too long I have felt as if nobody feels me,
wrapped in a bubble that touch doesn’t pierce
locked in a transparent vacuum,
surrounded by screens,
trying to silence my head

‘I see nothing but love in your eyes,” she said
Her words raised me up from the dead.

Melting Snow

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a summer breeze blew in today
it swept me off my feet
all the world has turned about
my madness is complete

but this is not insanity
it’s sanity profound
magic cast a sudden spell
and I’m still on the ground

the earth is still beneath my feet
the sun is in the sky
this perfumed breeze is one i know
from very long ago

love returns with brighter stars
above, around, below
this gentle, soft, return of love
has melted all my snow

Written Before Valentines Day – other moments

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it was valentines last Sunday
and then again on Monday
it happened several times
in the cold December snow
and many other times and dates
i don’t remember or regret
romance comes and goes
it’s never early, never late
it isn’t hidden in the roses
it wears no jewels or diamond rings
it doesn’t come in velvet boxes
or petals scattered on the bed
it’s a feeling and a flow
it’s an opening of hearts
and the moments that we know
that we’ve received a special gift
a passing moment, filled with love

Valentines

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sixty years of Valentines
since they had their first sweet kiss
through years of war and separation
and all their married bliss
the floral card was always sent
inscribed with love all through his life
”with love to you my darling wife.”

now he’s dead she places flowers
on the piano by his photograph
i hear her say, in tender words
”here’s to you, my old love.”

Measure for Measure

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In love

I used to give,

and ask for nothing

in return.

It was a selfless gift I shared

expecting no rewards.

 

Now I need a different love.

I’m tired of purity.

 

Now I stand and ask

for love,

the love that I can give.

 

Penelope Pritchard

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Penelope Prichard planned a grand party
she pondered upon who best to invite
‘only the best of the gentry delight me’
she thought to herself as she pottered about
and there must be pies of impressive proportions
plumped up with partridge, pheasants and phish
(spelled p-h- plus ish)
(Penelope never learned to spell anything totally right!)
she wanted to make an impact in her own social class,
and make it quite fast,
whilst denying the fact she was lonely

plenty of party food must be procured
there must be beer, and wine,
champagne and cider
something to suit every visitors taste
apples and artichokes, custards and cakes
delicious delicacies
edibable sculptures of jelly and ice
fancies and folderols,
grapes and …. oh,
to avoid a whole alphabet,
or a preponderance of p’s,
lets just say, everything nice !

so she collected her purse
and wore her best hat
bustled about
said farewell to her cat
and without further ado
trotted off to the shops

on her way she passed Peter
who lived by the docks
i have to admit
he wasn’t well dressed
his hair was a mess
he played a good flute
but to own a good suit
was beyond his reach
to tell you quite frankly
he resembled a person
who sleeps in a ditch
suffice it to say
Peter, quite simply,
had never been rich

he had a liking for Penny
he thought she might be
the sort of woman
he hoped she might be
the sort of woman
he probably needed,
one he could love,
but their eyes never met

he knew she was older
there was nothing from her
he expected to get
but he liked her walk
he liked her hair
he just wanted to know her
to meet her and talk
to get to know how she thought

she wasn’t playing hard to get
to her he didn’t exist at all
he was zero, nada, nothing, nought
he wasn’t a man who could pass her inspection
he wasn’t the type to invite to her house
she’d think his manners were sure to be bad
she never one glanced in his direction
this made Peter feel sad
her disregard made him feel small
he thought he had nothing to offer
nothing she’d want, nothing at all

but on her way back from the shops
Penelope suffered a terrible fall
she tripped on the curb
her shopping was scattered
she couldn’t get up
everyone passing by just ignored her
one of two stared but walked straight by
peoples reaction left her shattered
she couldn’t believe that nobody cared

but Peter rushed forward
and held out his hand
pulled her up
helped her to stand
gathered her shopping
spoke to her kindly
brushed her down

she looked in his eyes
he was smiling at her
he had held her hand
she couldn’t remember
the last time
she’d been touched
she found her self
not wanting to leave very much
she looked at him then
she didn’t look at his clothes
or his hair,
or his youth
she suddenly found
she didn’t care

he carried her shopping
back to her house
she canceled the party
she made him a meal
and now Miss Penelope
Miss Quiet as a Mouse
sings in the kitchen
and dances with him
and she’s learned how to feel
and less how to grieve
and Peters her lover
and he’s not going to leave

Dreaming Bob Dylan

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I fell asleep and dreamed a dream.
I was with my old lover, we lay in bed.
The things in our room were re-arranged.
I said, ‘The bed side table should be here,
there is nowhere now i can rest my book
and the shelf is gone, and your memory jar.’

To get to this place we had travelled far.
I went outside and i saw where we were.
We were in a hotel by the Taj Mahal,
the shining white palace of love,
and a river flowed right past our door.
‘I have been for a walk’ i said to you
you answered me with a warning smile
‘You cant be too careful with children here,
you must hold their hands wherever you go.”
I said ‘yes, it’s true, but our children are grown,
they have their own lives, and their own homes,
they are taller than me, the nest is flown”

You told me you’d been out the night before
and met a man who got you drunk.
You showed me a head that was covered in gold
it was huge and heavy but the face was kind.
You tipped it up and the liquor flowed
out of its neck and onto the ground.
There were shallow waters all around.

I heard a guitar and I turned about.
I saw Bob Dylan was standing there.
His face in the free-wheelin’ time of life,
a time when he shone like a new born star.
I listened to his songs as the river flowed by.
I sat by the river and talked with him.
He didn’t say much. He looked resigned.

My lover said ‘There’s a wish fulfilled,
You can tick that one off the bucket list.’
I said ‘Wishes are useless in times like this.
I think Bob Dylan’s time has come.
There’s no place left for us to run.’
It makes me feel lost, he’s a friend,
a friend I maybe never had
but i played music so long with him
blending his guitar with my violin
and now it’s the end of Bob Dylan’s dream,
a beautiful dream. It’s makes me sad.’

Portrait of my Mother

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here she is, playing tennis
powerful serves slice the air
the leap across the court to save
the forceful twack of backhand grace
her skin aglow with summers sun
dancing on the well kept lawns
her dark eyes, dark hair, her pixie face
lit with pleasure in the moment,
of care or trouble, not a trace,
her family are around her, close,

the world’s too fast
now her face is lined with care
her family history written there
years have passed, flesh has failed
long lost father, mother, aunts and uncles
her lover was the last to go
they surround her now in dreams
they gather to her in the night
her only pleasure is a book
with writing big enough to read
back lit by the Kindle light

The Game

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i don’t like fighting with angels

i wish they would get on my side

or if they are, as they sometimes seem

i wish they’d explain

the rules of this game

it’s far too complex for me.

 

i heard all the rules

plainly spelled out

but it’s never as simple as that

even good acts have consequences

you didn’t foresee or expect

and each time i learn the next step

they spin the tables around

what was right last time

is suddenly wrong

and what was wrong

is shown to be better

it’s never the same story twice

 

maybe they just want clowns

it must get boring up there

and who am i

in there great holy schemes?

good for a laugh perhaps