“To understand the heart and mind of a person, look not at what he has already achieved, but what he aspires to.”
― Khalil Gibran
Author: A. Gouedard
Acceptance
what peace there is
by the fire in the evening
as we sit in a circle together
what joy there is in simple things
late into the night
the firelight glows
i feel my heart expanding
in the blessing music brings
the stars shine high above us
and in all the eyes
i see all around me
that same light shines
after all, most of all
when all is said and done
the stars will all still be there forever
and life is the song that we all share
Wayfarer
when i am fire
i burn away anger
when i am tree
i bend with the wind
when i am water
i wear away stone
and know all the wise ways of flowing
when i am cat
i narrow my eyes
when i am dog
i am joyfully willing
when i am horse
i turn with the wind
this is my freedom in going
when i am hare
magic is mine
when i am raven
i watch still and clear
when i am wolf
i see who you are
this is the seeing of knowing
i will leap, bend and flow,
run, turn and go
return as i please
see what i see
magnetic paths pull above treetops
clouds cap the mountains that hide me
dark cool shadows in water
hidden things amongst leaves
as i make my own journey
i follow these old ways alone
water is a life giving blessing
the trees shelter us, breathing
the lone wolf protects the pack
energy runs with the horse
the world is mirrored in the eye of the raven
hidden, unhidden, bidden, unbidden
the hare runs the path of the circle unbroken
running fleet foot in pastures and hills
on horseback i chase the illusive hare
while the raven sits still in the oak
and watches, waiting for me
Travellers
From dolmen and hilltop in sunlight and rain
We travel the path as it opens again.
From mountain to ocean through woodland and glade
The way and the telling are already made.
The circle is whole and the pattern will grow
From time immemorial it’s always been so,
Sharing the joys of a journey that starts
In the melding of minds and the opening of hearts,
Recalling the magics that words cannot say
Finding the wending winds of the way
In the voyage of discovery we know who we are
As we follow the light of the mariners star
I will walk beside you as you walk beside me
Our story is the story that’s unbounded and free
At the Crossing
something has fallen in the river
it must have been some frantic release
the river bed is all whipped up
and the river looks like mud
some creature that was angry and scared
and doesn’t know how to swim has been here
thrashing about and making a stir
you can’t catch fish that way
falling in from the bank instead of staying there
in a far safer place, in the dry
if you can’t swim you should never jump in
unless you have learned how to float
no point throwing another rope now
the creature is gone
Behind the scenes
i cant resist reblogging this ……
In the Dock
‘remember you’re loved,’ you said
‘always remember that’
like a life-belt handed before a storm
those storms i never see coming
but what happens
on monday, tuesday,
wednesday, this week
until the weather is fine again
on friday, saturday,
sunday, next week
it’s not about words
but the lack of them
sink or swim
I can’t ask you the reason
you won’t speak
you are floating way off-shore
you leave me
to think
on dry land
to work out
what I did wrong
and when I tell you
you will say
‘no it wasn’t that,
it was this’
something i never thought
something i never did
something misunderstood
you held onto
and kept to yourself
this time i wont think
and you can tell me
or not as you wish
you can tell me
the magic is dead
it’s not dead in my head
it’s not dead in my heart
it’s not dead in the world
it’s sitting waiting
for you to come back
from your sailing trip
so am I
Dragon
i knew a dragon
as big as a wagon
he couldn’t hide anywhere
so i took him up to a mountain
as far as i know he’s still there
in a cave by a fountain
he is probably brooding
or doodling maps
to the treasure that he keeps
a quill held tight in his claw
as he thinks of old adventures
and the many wonders he saw
if you don’t dream of him
while he dreams of you
there is no need to fear his size
or the fire in his belly and eyes
he is a peaceful dragon
and this poem is full of lies
Me and my Shadow
thoughts of Peter Pan
his shadow shut inside a drawer
poor fellow, incomplete
no old companion at his feet
and what if all the shadows went
not just your own
imagine a wooded glade
no contrasts there at all
sun shafts and no shade
no place to hide alone
in sweet repose and rest
and in a darkened room by firelight
no shadows dancing on the wall
by shadows we are blessed
where would imagination go
with no escape from endless bright
and crystal clear illumination
I recall a walk long ago
at full moon with my love
as my shadow played with hers
crossing and blending in our path
I wondered if my shadow
was as happy then as I
a childhood friend to play with
my shadow made me think
and wonder at the world
it’s a link to see ourselves
it shrinks and stretches, grows,
depending where we go
my shadow makes me
more aware of light
it connects me to the ground
when the sun is bright
I never see it in my dreams
I wonder what that means
leaving me to sleep
it disappears at night
I wonder where it goes
no-one knows that truth
I only know that when I die
my shadow wont exist
nor me, not I
perhaps we vanish into light
The Elfin Artist
The Elfin Artist from The Elfin Artist and Other Poems, 1920 ~ WONDERFUL poem!!!!!!!!! how I wish I wrote it – but it’s by Alfred Noyes
In a glade of an elfin forest
When Sussex was Eden-new,
I came on an elvish painter
And watched as his picture grew,
A harebell nodded beside him.
He dipt his brush in the dew.
And it might be the wild thyme round him
That shone in the dark strange ring;
But his brushes were bees’ antennae,
His knife was a wasp’s blue sting;
And his gorgeous exquisite palette
Was a butterfly’s fan-shaped wing.
And he mingled its powdery colours,
And painted the lights that pass,
On a delicate cobweb canvas
That gleamed like a magic glass,
And bloomed like a banner of elf-land,
Between two stalks of grass;
Till it shone like an angel’s feather
With sky-born opal and rose,
And gold from the foot of the rainbow,
And colours that no man knows;
And I laughed in the sweet May weather,
Because of the themes he chose.
For he painted the things that matter,
The tints that we all pass by,
Like the little blue wreaths of incense
That the wild thyme breathes to the sky;
Or the first white bud of the hawthorn,
And the light in a blackbird’s eye;
And the shadows on soft white cloud-peaks
That carolling skylarks throw,–
Dark dots on the slumbering splendours
That under the wild wings flow,
Wee shadows like violets trembling
On the unseen breasts of snow;
With petals too lovely for colour
That shake to the rapturous wings,
And grow as the bird draws near them,
And die as he mounts and sings,–
Ah, only those exquisite brushes
Could paint these marvellous things.
The Dreaming Path 