Poetry

The Road to Lincoln

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

without sleep beneath the stars,
stumbling through the darklands
we skirted round the adder woods,
out, through silvered parklands

a moonlight, starlight princess
ahead of me, perfection,
my blanket round her shoulders
with only vague directions

we found the moonlit way to town
she walked ahead on silent feet
with many quiet miles to go
my love was real, complete

a moment came with sinking stars
imagination opened, a bright illumination,
all was as it should be, never could be
a short glimpse of liberation

without sleep beneath the stars
love remained unspoken
all was as it would be
the stars sank down, a fading token

the mystic dawn rose gently, new,
a soft mist stretched across the land
her long hair crowned with sparkling dew
we took the road to Lincoln

without sleep and wide awake
the night was over, washed away
back in noise and traffic
the harsh realities of day

i was never really as i seemed
a little lost and moonstruck
i was always wondering,
without sleep beneath the stars

The Circus of Shadows

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

The big circus already came to this town.

It arrived with illusionists, grease paint and whips

It came with the grand puppet masters,

Playing with smokescreens and mirrors

Throwing shadows of terror on the tent walls

To reduce the audience to silence.

 

The newspaper seller, outside on the street,

Screams out the blaring headlines.

‘’Blame the poor, they’re all scroungers.

Put them all on benefit sanctions.

Confiscate their wheelchairs.

Stop whining you bastards.’’

 

The bankers have their own show to attend

You won’t see them here

in this part of town.

They like everything private

in their own pockets.

They continue to smile

and twiddle their fiddles

while food banks become the new fashion.

 

I hear my grandfathers turn in their graves

in a rage,

of heartfelt compassion.

 

Be Kind

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

I look at this world. It brings me to tears.

No changes, no choices, no power, no voice.

Our fears come true instead of our dreams.

Our words echo, reverberate, into a void.

 

I have a dream, just like that man,

the one they killed for speaking the truth.

I have a dream just like the one

that lead to a man being hung on a cross.

 

I wish the world was more like our dreams.

People could base all their actions on love.

I wish we could be all that we want.

I wish I could be all that I need.

 

I have nothing to offer, words don’t cast a spell.

Be kind to each other, remember this well.

 

 

Ballad of an English Town

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

It is long since i went to town,
necessity drove me today,
Into its well known streets and ways.
I expected it little changed

hey ho the merrio
and a hey down dillo
and that hey nonny nonny stuff

the last time i went into town
the local shops were all gone
replaced by corporate giants
with thundering crushing big stores

hey ho the merrio
and a hey down dillo
and that hey nonny nonny stuff

now they too have gone away
not enough wealth left in this town
to feed their hungering thirst
the people are all sucked dry

hey ho the merrio
and a hey down dillo
and that hey nonny nonny stuff

i watched the people shuffle along
their faces all looked grey
some had a mad look in their eyes
no reason to wonder why

hey ho the merrio
and a hey down dillo
and that hey nonny nonny stuff

the rich dont come to this town now
they used to come in their throngs
there is nothing left for them here
having eaten the town, they moved on

hey ho the merrio
and a hey down dillo
and that hey nonny nonny stuff

In the Forest

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

In the centre of a forest

I find myself alone.

I am truly lost.

I look behind the way I came;

Broken branches, sodden leaves.

I crashed through there in dreams.

 

Night begins to fall,

no sky in view above.

I stand transfixed,

the ground beneath my feet,

unstable now,

green leaves

above a pit.

 

I cannot move.

No footprints lay ahead,

no markers left behind.

I can only wait,

deserved and destined fate.

I call for help.

 

I hear no answer,

just the echoes of my voice.

I will stand here

in the night and wait

until an answer comes.

No choice for me in that.

Darkness gathers round.

 

In the morning  light will come

perhaps I’ll find 

a clearer, open path

 

On the Green Hill

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

She comes to me after midnight,

whispering soft in my ear

her face full of moonlight,

her dress is pale and blue

starlight glints in the weave.

I almost understand her.

I hear her whispered words

in a language i once knew,

or thought I knew.

She tries to tell me stories,

lost long ago in sleep,

stories lost in a dream somewhere

inscribed on a unicorns horn

and the print of a satyrs hoof.

I gather a word here and there.

I store them away with care

but all the next day

I long for her

and I cant untangle the words.

My heart is bewitched, enthralled.

I long for the night to come again,

the night on the hill in the wood.

Storytellers (a pantoum)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

when the power went out we were ready
the oil lamps were already filled
the white candles stood in their holders
all was comfort and warmth

the oil lamps were always filled
we gathered more brushwood and bracken
all was comfort and warmth
we kindled the fire, made it crackle

we gathered more brushwood and bracken
piling on driftwood and logs
we kindled the fire, make it crackle
the flames rose high as they burned

piling on logs and driftwood
we sat near the fire as it blazed
the flames rose high as they burned
we sat by the fire, telling each other tales

we sat near the fire as it blazed
while the wind rattled the roof tiles
we sat by the fire, telling each other tales
life went on unchanged

while the wind rattled the roof tiles
the bread was steadily rising
life went on unchanged
until the power came back

the bread was steadily rising
we flicked a switch on the radio
when the power came back
the world stepped into the house

we flicked a switch on the radio
bringing nothing of value to us
the world stepped into the house
the house grew instantly colder

bringing nothing of value to us
now all would be darkness and shadows
the house would grow instantly colder
there is no source of heat these days

now all would be darkness and shadows
I miss the wood smoke and firelight
there is no source of heat these days
I miss the stories we told

 

 

(this is a re-write of an earlier poem I posted – called Without Power – I rewrote it as a Pantoum to see if the form improved it – I think it has)
 

 

 

In the Garden

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I lost you,

somewhere in the garden,

where a path took a turn

downhill.

 

There’s a tangle of roses entwined.

Some of them have dark thorns

that cling to your skirts

as you pass.

 

The paths are a tangle, a puzzle,

twisted around like a rope.

I can’t  undo or decipher them

but I heard a distant sound,

amongst all the songs of the birds,

the gentle play of a fountain.

I need to slake my thirst.

 

I am sure I will find you there.

I met you once by a river.

By water I’ll meet you again

 

 

Backwards

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

and now, if we go backwards,

where was the beginning?

if we choose to start again,

what will we be losing?

would the end still be the same

despite a change in choices?

 

I’d go back for just one thing,

to hear again the voices

of those who went ahead,

the ever loving dead

 

Fes ~ The Theatre of 900 Streets

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 
the faces, of the local audience,
light up with sunny smiles
as the Europeans
make their entrance
into the narrow streets.
the stage is set,
the show is on,
the magical charm is awake

the old Medina,
a  medieval world preserved,
says the guide.
nine hundred streets,
folded into a map
in the tourists pocket,
too detailed to ever unfold

it’s not a stage set
it’s real and alive
it breathes
brimming over with sounds
superstitious minds
and watchful eyes

a river runs underground
smothered by stone
wherever the river is close beneath
paths echo with sharper sounds
as leather slippered feet
run down the time smoothed steps.
it has always smelled the same
coriander, cedar, wood smoke,
an undercurrent of sewage
where the river rises for air.

outside the apothecary,
where snake skins
and dead hedgehogs
sit side by side
with potions and herbs and bones,
the donkey brays loud in the sun
with plastic crates of American Cola
lashed to it sack covered back.

the tourist thinks
this looks out of place
amongst the hand made baskets.
the scenery is despoiled,
but he takes a photograph anyway
as an old man turns his face away,
to protect his soul

behind the scenes
as the tourists move on
turning the corner out of sight
the faces fall back
into time worn care
and long acceptance
of very few dirham today

in these months of endless drought
the young men sit and dream
of satellite dishes and motorbikes
and passports out of this place
but they rest their hands on their hearts
and bow