Source: Seven by A. Gouedard
Seven by A. Gouedard
Source: Seven by A. Gouedard
Poetry
Three Drops from a Cauldron: Issue Two
Three Drops from a Cauldron: Issue 13 (March 2017)
Controlling the movement of people
For the mediaeval serf, movement wasn’t an option unless your Lord moved you. If you didn’t like how your feudal master behaved, you could not vote with your feet. You had to stay where you were put, and live and work there your whole life. You could be moved of course if you were marched into a war, but you wouldn’t get any say in that, either.
These days we don’t need permission from Barons and Counts to move around – at least not within the countries of our birth. We generally need permission to move country, and countries want to control who can move where. Young, qualified, able bodied people are more welcome than others. The rich are always welcome to move and the poor are discouraged. Unless we need them for something. Plenty of industrial projects have been built on the backs of very poor workers. From the…
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masked by a smile
a dark cloud that blots out a sunset
a dead leaf that floats in the gutter
a discordant note in a chord
a door that groans on its hinges
a name I forgot in a dream
a bird that falls from its nest
a paper bag blown on the wind
a sticky mess, squashed on the floor
a face masked by a smile
a tree that fell in the storm
a fly i swatted away
a flurry of words that drown on a page
a cypher, a dot, stopped on the spot
a negative metaphor
all that i am
today
yesterday
whenever
has vanished away
as before
A Girl in a Yellow Field
the girl in the park squats down
her head almost down to the ground
she is taking close up photographs
of crocus spread out in the sun
i take a more distant view
i see a girl
in a field of yellow
that shines
i know her obsession well
she is oblivious to all that’s around her
focused on one yard of earth
i used to carry a camera
to capture that special light
it’s a study in glory
wherever it’s spotlight falls
now i carry a notebook
i enter the girl on my page
– another small study from life
the lovers sit on a wall nearby
wrapped in each others arms
lost in each others eyes and dreams
they notice nothing at all
after the park ritual in berlin
Liked this very much – especially, the gift of relevance
I know the sun is coming for us
I saw it try to mellow out
over the horizon
when we prodded at him
in a daze
remember herren means boy
and dammen means girl
that is my only advice
while I lay under your tiny
body
trying to recollect
piece together a
whatever this
is
when love and loss
merge in some sort of
coughing motion
like expelling
but inhaling
im not sure
I am sure but
if I could give you a gift
I think it would be
relevance
the power of always
I don’t think you are weak
please never think
you are weak
I think you are pure
like the last row of curtains
over a stage
or perhaps a low ley
moon phase
washing over
a tide,
I’m not certain..
– sheila cordova
for Naya, you know why and when.
Spark
The crocus on the frosted green
for six short decades I have seen.
I’ve gathered treasures to my store.
There will not be so many more.
My troubles are not any less,
I still have reason for distress,
and yet I feel my spirits rise.
This sudden light, a sweet surprise,
As spring reveals a summer sky.
Hope returns and does not die.
It’s raining now again today
but I remember yesterday.
I feel the spark of life within.
It trumpets loud – begin, begin!
Pot-lickers of the world, unite!
Like most people (I suspect) I was brought up knowing that there were rules about eating food. One of the rules was not to run your finger round the plate afterwards. Nor should a person sneak out to the kitchen and carefully run their fingers around bowls, saucepans etc.
I grant you that it doesn’t look charming, and ups the risk of getting food on clothes. But at the same time, it’s a manners system that tells us it is preferable to waste food by washing it down the sink, rather than run a finger round the pot and eat what’s there.
Every morsel of food out there exists as a direct consequence of the death of a living being, except perhaps for milk and eggs, where the death of living beings is indirect, but still part of the equation. Anything that had seeds in tends to be the death…
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passing through
her mind is passed beyond the door
her body, feeble, hovers here
she feels no fear as once before
her life is nothing more than dreams
she seems at peace, i ask no more
The Dreaming Path 