Poetry

November 5th ~ Fireworks

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

this is the time when salmon leap
strong swimmers against the flow
reaching the calmer pools

it’s rained all day, softly falling
soaking my old worn coat
silencing all the birds

November trees stand stark and bare
black against flattened clouds
where sodden leaves cloak the paths

when evening falls
the children stand huddled
shining eyed, gripping sparklers
in safely gloved hands
tonight the world explodes
a riot of colour
glittering stars in the dark
rockets reach high
past the chimney pots
bursting in bright mandalas
they fizzle and fall to the earth
acrid smoke fills the cold air
lingers and hangs, long into night
awaiting the grey of tomorrow

the rain keeps on falling
flooding the rivers
soaking into the earth

this is the time to kindle the fires
replacing the summer sun
before the winter comes

Faded

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

when you wake from a dream

into which you had drifted

if you sleep again quickly

you can dream it again

but it’s never the same

 

the scenery’s shifted,  it’s not as it seemed

where there were roses, there’s only a shadow

the windows are dimmed,  the doors won’t open

the music that played changed key long ago

 

the dream that you dreamed

has floated away

 

 

No Red Poppies for Them

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

this is not death in the trenches
this is not genocide
nor incurable disease
they have no poppy fields
no proudly treasured medals

they will never be heroes
in trouble and strife, they depart

our young men, so easily gone
in the aftermath of wars
in poverty, in aimless despair,
without hope
and with nothing to leave

they take their own lives
from a nation that has no heart

************

The #1 top killer of young men in the UK is suicide

Captive Carer

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

i see the streets from big wide windows

i wouldn’t cage a wild bird

i see the magpies perched

on nearby roofs and chimney tops

 

i haven’t left the house for months

except for weekly hurried visits

to the bank and back again

to pay the hired help who come

for one lone hour a week and leave

 

i look up maps of nearby woods

woods to which i cannot go

i have started planting trees

within the sheltered garden walls

i see the rolling hills so distant

the snow will come to cover all

the winter nights are drawing in

 

 

over and out

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

first there’s love
then there’s laughter
then more problems come after

the day has been long
all my words have been wrong
maybe you thought i was stronger

have your own way
have the last say
i wont ask you to stay

hitting the start button
logging off sweetheart
system shutting down

The House

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

eight years old
i stood and stared at the floor,
a mosaic pattern
of intertwined flowers,
the pattern always there,
leaning my back against the cold wall
as mirror, clock and chair
and box after box
went out of the open door

where laughter had echoed before
i heard the wind sigh in the rafters
and the creak of the wood on the stair
there was nothing but empty rooms

the flowers drooped their heads in the garden
as i did, in despair, in the hallway
at a death that had come to soon
i saw no adventure ahead
nothing remained
nothing bloomed
after the gardener was dead

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox – Solitude

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.