Poetry

Different

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

as a child they said i was different
i am indifferent to their claims
i was one of the chosen thousands,
whose names i do not know

we were the classroom dreamers
the quiet, the shy, the lone,
the shamen of other lands
far from forgotten home

we sat in the corners of playgrounds
content to look at the clouds,
dragged from our hiding places,
chosen last for their teams

we became the clowns, smiling in our dreams,
for life is the ultimate joke
scrawled on a jesters jacket
to be read when he turns his back

Wolf

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Why would I,
poor mortal,
beg at your door?
when last time I stood there,
asking,
for one morsel more,
in the momentary pause
of one heart beat,
i was offered far less,
with the kindly suggestion
that this
was best
for my own peace and rest.
Now pride,
a thick lump in my throat
I can’t swallow,
and won’t,
leaves me with words
I cannot express.
I won’t even try.
I am not going to howl.
I would far rather die
than scuffle for scraps
or ask you again
for warmth at your fire.
I can find my own food.
I would share it with you.
You have no need to hide.
Keep your doors closed.
My wolf sleeps outside.
Accustomed to cold.

The Rocky Beach

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

beneath the tide
the mussels sway
in ranks of black and antique grey
in time their shells
become fine grains
to mingle in the rolling sands
while ancient bones
that marched from Rome
fall into silence and decay
merged into land, clad in stone
all things swiftly pass away
whether bird or fish or man

Balance

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I was with my tribe today.
They are often far away.
I know them by the smiles they wear
and the silver in their hair.
They don’t belong here,
nor do I,
but now and then we gather up.
We sing, we dance, we fill the cup,
then homeward I, alone, must go.
This is not sad. I like it so.

Outcast

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

i, the banished, outcast rook
in a crooked, twisted tree
from far away i see you there
you don’t look and don’t see me

i see your faces as you pass
i see your truths, i see your lies
your stories written in your eyes
all these things are clear to me

outside
always looking in
feathers ruffled by the wind
watching for a winter sun

the beauty of the world, begun,
hangs above the vaulted dark,
the certainties of fathomed night,
and there, see there….the flash, the spark

i see the twinkle of the star
the door still stands and swings ajar

MAKING PERSONAL VOWS

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

contemplativeinquiry's avatarContemplative Inquiry

On Monday I completed a Mindful Self-Compassion (MSC) course (1). It was not strictly Buddhist, but the teachers and all the participants were sufficiently Buddhist influenced to have had existing experience of both of mindfulness and loving-kindness practices. At the same time I believe that the overall approach can offer something for anyone concerned with the issues addressed.

One of these is making and living with vows. In this context, we make the vows to ourselves and there are two key criteria. The first is that the vow anchors an intention, rather than operating as a binding contract. The second is that vows flow out of our core values. Hence, we need to get clear about these values before making any vows.

The process for checking core values is a simple one. Bringing warm-hearted awareness to ourselves and our experience, we imagine being near the end of our lives and…

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Tissue Paper Frailty

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

nice poem

Adam Byatt's avatarA Fullness in Brevity - Adam Byatt

your tissue paper frailty
folded seven times
a simple origami of valleys
turned into mountains
tucked into your breast pocket
a shield over your heart

– tissue paper frailty

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Knight at the Crossroads

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Tired, he came to the crossroads,

to the place where his own dead were buried.

His horse halted without his command,

its head bowed down to the bone dry dust of the arid hostile earth.

Even the birds were silenced.

No water was here to be found.

 

His life had no purpose now they were gone

but still he must travel on,

seeking the grail as he always had,

for the grail was his last long hope.

Confessions

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Shawn L. Bird's avatarShawn L. Bird

I am at a poetry retreat, and I have just realized I haven’t posted any new poetry in ages!  Here is one that was prompted by discussion around the table last night.

Men are afraid that women will laugh at them.

Women are afraid that men will kill them

~ Margaret Atwood

Confession:

Inside

She is laughing

at his wizened, flapping sword

Ever appreciative

it is not slashing, slicing, dividing

head from heart.

Confession:

She desires his desire,

not his possession.

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