Poetry

In the Museum (version two)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The museum is full of wonders
Egyptian grandeur, ancient glories,
glittering gold and precious gems,
classical Grecian curves and lines,
ever thoughtful, express the divine
illusive time, slowly passing.

Medieval kings, Viking shields and iron swords
delicate work of Saxon silver,
celebrating natures grace,
reflection of a faerie glen

My eyes become so tired of looking.
My feet  ache from hard stone floors.

Passing through the Celtic collection
a tiny treasure catches me,
grips me, shackles fast my steps.

I long to hold it,
feeling it belongs to me,
smoothed in the hollow of my hand,
so small, so pure, so simple,
so emotional and loving,
grey stone,
no more than a pebble,
two lovers intertwined,
eternal, sweet embrace.

In the Museum

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The museum is full of wonders
Egypts’ grandeur, ancient glories,
glittering gold and precious gems,
classical Greek curves and lines,
expressing divinity,
intricate windings of Saxon silver
with the feel of a faerie glen

My eyes become tired of looking.
My feet start to ache from the floors
by the time I pass through the Celtic collection
where a tiny treasure catches me,
grips me, shackles my steps.

Entranced and longing to hold it
smoothed in the palm of my hand,
so small, so simple, so pure,
so emotional and loving,
grey stone, the size of a pebble,
two lovers intertwined,
in eternal, lasting embrace.

Balloon

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Love this poem – good blog I will be following with pleasure

JC's avatarPortraits of a Ghost

I have a ballon
Red, naturally
That follows
Wherever I go

I took to calling
It Lucy, and
Let it come into
My home

Now, I’m afraid
I’ve made the most
Grave mistake
Of my whole life

For Lucy won’t leave
She’s always hovering,
Right between me
And my wife

We tried having
A romantic dinner,
Just the two
Of us there

But Lucy
Just wasn’t having it,
So she rubbed me
And clung to my hair

Now, try to imagine
My wife’s distress
It left her
Paleand reeling

When Lucy
Came into the bedroom
That night and stuck
Herself onto the ceiling

“That’s it,”
My wife said,
“I’ve had enough!
This balloon has to go.”

She ran and found
A safety pin
But Lucy
Started to grow

She grew and grew
Until she filled
The room
And I couldn’t breathe

When my wife came back
And pricked her side,

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Calling My Sister (or, Women Observed in a Chat Room)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I saw the word
Sister,
full of light,
inscribed on an empty white page,
roundly formed and concise.
Such a lovely word.
It illuminated my night.

If I had a sister what would she say?
I would ask her to come beside me and stay.
I would see the world through her different eyes
and I’d hope that her words would be wise.
I would listen to her advice.

The world is full of ‘Sisters’
That’s what I hear them saying
“Sisters doing it for themselves”
Sisters, Goddesses, Earth Mothers
That’s what I heard them say.

They are better than you or I, little brother.
Little brother, we’re lost.

Yet I can’t help noticing something else.
I see them betray each other,
telling each other lies,
as they warmly embrace and smile.
I see their ambitions writ large
as they stab each others backs
and argue the details of facts,
dividing in feminist factions.
This is sure to be controversial,
But I’d hoped they’d be better than that.

If I had a sister I’d ask her to visit.
I’d hope she was kind,
I’d hope she was honest,
I’d hope she knew how to keep her own promise.
I’d hope she knew the right way, to be strong,
nor precisely the same perhaps,
but the same general direction
as you and I, my brother.

“The sisters of virtue they are not departed or gone.”
Those are some words from an old song.
Perhaps they will cease to subvert each other
the day we all stand up together,
the day we are all clear and strong,
clear, strong and united
with one word writ large on that page
People
against oppression.
People
who love one another.

Morning ~ a rubaiyat

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

impatient for your arms again i rise
to sit and watch your secret sleeping eyes
what dream is this that keeps you lingering there
with smiling parted lips and tender sighs

what joy in sleep so fills your captured heart
while i wait here alone, to watch apart
and gaze upon your much loved gentle face
more lovely than a work of perfect art

i wander in the garden late at night
to gather perfumed roses, pink and white,
while I my patient lovers vigil keep
to bring your morning wonder and delight

the dark, the stars, the moon are gone away
across your sleepy pillow sunbeams play
in this new world refreshed, renewed, be mine
awaken to another golden day

Apple Tree

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

you have stood on this ledge
in the mountains above,
on the edge of the forest,
ever since i was only an innocent child
listening to stories and scribbling poems
my spine rested against your strength

you stood, the same
in sunlight and starlight
in wild winds and rain
while I wandered about in the wood
finding the well trodden paths
getting lost but finding the way again

warm-hearted, abundant,
and welcoming still
I thank you for bringing me home

Summer Solstice

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

This short sweet night is full of stars,
crossing slowly east to west,
the circle of the ancient stones
by dark and moonlight blessed.

The air alive with music now,
soft steps and voices echo.
Through the tender bending trees,
They enter to the clearing.

The circling dancers, as before,
leave traces where their steps fall
on grass in silvered shining dew.
The dark of night is fleeting.

They come to silent rest at dawn
to stand and watch in awe
the line of light rise in the east,
grow swift to sun, uplifting,
to reclaim the turning year
in blazing light and glory.

This day’s the longest in the year,
tomorrows will be shorter.

Each moon passes swiftly.

Then we’ll dance into the dark
retelling the old stories.
We’ll sit beside our winter fires
’til summer comes, repeating

Little Rainbow

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

there’s a rainbow over the hill
in the distance
where I used to play music
with friends
under the trees, by a fire

do the trees remember me still
on quiet Sunday afternoons?

there is gold spilled on the ground,
between sunshine and gentle rain

 

The Well in the Wood

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

i have seen this well in the wood, long ago
my dreams are hid in its moss covered walls
treasures I secretly left there before
its slippery sides plunge down to dark depths
where water is constantly dripping
drip, drip, dripping,
into my thoughts

aware of the trees leaning over
dropping their leaves into the pool
hanging over the side,
feeling the coolness,
i drop in a pebble and wait

long falling before an echo
this well is old and deep

 

 

Renewing Alice

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

An ageing Alice sits in her room
Leading a simple life.
Her big adventures are done.

An ageing Alice sits in her room,
Her once pretty face losing its’ bloom.
This is the nature of time.

An ageing Alice sits in her room
Remembering, quietly smiling,
Making a note in her diary ~~~

”The Mad Hatter sees to the deeply crazed core,
The central heart of the matter.
When he dropped in today, escaping the rain,
I was thrilled and delighted to see him again

When you look at the world in a different way
There is wonder, adventure, in each new born day.
Mad, a bit sad, never bad,
He’s the dearest friend I ever had.

Next time it rains I hope he comes back.
He reminds me so much of something I lack.
It’s always good to have a long natter.
There is wisdom aplenty in tea time chatter.”