Poetry

My fathers sword (a haibun)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

In the mornings at breakfast my mother would ask ”Who are you being today? What should I call you?” It was an arrangement we had. I was an imaginative child and she humoured me. I would answer Robin Hood or Peter Pan or Galahad, needing breakfast before the quest. She kept to my names very well, but she much preferred her dogs.

you can’t go far in this life,
or do any good,
without a fantasy horse

My father never asked such a question. I was his carpenters mate, whoever I was. We didn’t talk much as he sawed and I held the board steady or passed him nails. I am sure he knew what I thought. He made me a wooden sword. It could strike a mighty blow.

in a powder of sawdust,
companionship
was always more than enough

i rode my fantasy horse
in the realm of dreams
but my father armed me well

Lost Watch

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I lost my father’s watch in the sea
When I wandered about on a beach.
It’s well that it rests there,
He wanted an ocean burial,
But the sea was too far out of reach.
We didn’t have time for arrangements,
Time flew by too fast,
but now he is rested at last.
My family heirloom lies on a sea bed of shells,
Corroded by rust,
Informing the fish of the turning of tides
As it drifts back and forth in the currents
Showing it silvered face
round as the full moon, in it’s season.
I lost my father’s watch in the sea.
He would be happy,
But time seems to have stopped for me.
Like a screen on TV,
Gone blank.

Don’t Paint the Roses

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

she remembered she was falling
reaching for a cake  crumb
swallowing a draught
that completely turned her head

she was running round the roses
painting red and white
challenging the chess board
to manoeuvres in the dark

she had a distant memory
of a love that struck a spark
but the tables all kept turning
when he tried to take her hand

in the horrors and delusions
that stalked this troubled land
he loved her all the time
but he had lost his mind

lovers often lose their way
whether they are sane of mad
all is topsy-turvy
when the news is  always  bad

they race around in shadows
tying to find a light
their dreams become a nightmare
ruining their night

but up above the stars shine out
constellations point the path
if only they could both sit down
gazing up at last

the roses never needed paint
he knew that all along
check mate only brings an end
to more that can be done

lovers only need to sit
and think what love’s about
and forget the silly games
that pull them inside out

 

 

Matlock the Hare

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Loved the illustrations in this so much I went straight off and bought it.

niffsoup's avatarNiff Soup

“What readers need,” a portly editor from a major publishing company told me many years ago as he confidently struck a pen through great swathes of my manuscript, “is peril.  Plenty of peril. A lot less of all this ‘character and emotion’ nonsense. Ideally, it’s a woman in peril. All the drama you need in just those three words – woman in peril. Saves readers having to believe in a character, see?”

The truth was, I didn’t ‘see’.

“How about,” he suggested, scribbling over the first line of the manuscript, “we start it with – ‘She woke up to a knife at her throat’?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, gathering the remains of my work before asking, “Do you think Gulliver’s Travels would have been published today?”

He blinked back, confused. “The bloke who gets tied up on a beach by some dwarves? No chance. Where’s the peril in…

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A Book Illustration

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

Rebecca Troyer has illustrated one of my poems (the copyright is hers)

 

In the Fairy Garden by Rebecca Troyer

Isn’t that just lovely ! Here is the poem

The Faerie Garden 

 

Its windows blown by wind and rain,

down the lanes where no-one came,

an ancient ruined cottage stood

with tumbled walls, close by the wood.

 

The cottage garden growing wild

with warring flowers unreconciled

was all a tangle, intertwined,

with paths and borders undefined

 

Columbine closed up the doors,

Ivy crept across the floors.

The roses grew all over-blown

Claiming all the walls their own.

 

Delphiniums, for summer skies,

near the solemn peonies rise.

Hollyhock o’er-towers them all

and Jasmin scents the evenings fall.

 

In this riotous throng of flowers

the faeries come to spend their hours.

They crown themselves with daisy chains

as sunlight spreads its last remains.

 

As evening falls they make their way

with gentle steps at close of day

to the bed they much prefer

beneath the sleepy lavender.

 

In the Weather House

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there was a time they were together
dancers on a music box
all was peace and harmony
as they turned in clement weather

now one by one they turn about,
one days there’s rain, another sun
they move about in thunder storms
she steps in, he steps out

i never see her look his way
he never bows or takes her hand
he steps out, she steps in
they have nothing left to say

they live to serve the weather house
he never sleeps
she never dreams
when he steps in she steps out

Sea Shells

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here are we
curled and contained
in this room
high above the breathable sea
bathed in a shaft of moonlight
drifting in dreams
holding on tight as the world turns
our breath swells and sinks with the waves

sea shells follow the tide line below
left behind at the turning
bleached and beached on the white sand

time wears the solid rock to small grains
energy moves from this place to that
nothing is ever the same
but remains
and repeats
and remains
eternal
curled and contained

Voices

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What i miss most are the voices;
the sleepy mutter at breakfast,
the shouting,
from one end of the house to the other,
and the slamming of doors,
see you later.
Those serious talks while washing up,
the flood of sound as friends burst in
welcome but unexpected,
the laughter and tales over dinner,
the distant voices out on the beach,
as the sun sinks in purples and pinks,
their words just out of reach,
then the quiet,
when all grows tender and hushed,
bringing the whispers of nightfall.

Heatwave

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It’s too sunny,
not funny,
I’ve spent all my money
on fans
and cool drinks in cans.
We’ll all overdose on vitamin D.
This weather may please you
but it really doesn’t suit me.
Set me free of this humid horror
And bring back the rain fall t’morrer.
I’d climb in the freezer
to make my life easier,
I’m really a winter time geezer.
Away with the heatwave,
Come thunder, come storm,
drop the temperature back
to averagely warm
or deliciously cold
out of season
before I take leave of all reason.
I’m addicted to ice.
This horrible heat isn’t nice.
It’s too hot!!
this weather is not
what the average Briton is used to.

Falling House

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

There’s a chair I will never sit in.
There are unread books by his bed.
There are things that I said
That I wish I said sooner,
Long before he was dead.
I am glad this house is falling down
It’s a fitting tribute
To the skill that kept it strong,
The skill of a father who’s gone.
Light spills through the cracks in the floorboards.
In the creaking timber I still hear his footsteps.
Let it fall, let it fall, let it fall.

The windows hang on frayed breaking ropes
Worn by the shifting years.
Now they won’t open at all.
The lighting rod, well earthed,
Serves its protective purpose.
The house is weathered by sunlight and storms,
Its wires inextricably tangled.
It’s hard to let go of memories.
It’s hard to let go of mortar and bricks.
It’s hard to let go of buildings.
It’s hard to let go of a father who’s dead
While his voice speaks clear in my head.