Poetry

Alchemy

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

Hearts are cast in spun gold,

life moves in reversal.

The cup closes in on itself,

hurt and loss, universal.

 

The brave knight risks all,

mapping the winding paths,

lost and confused, tiring,

he fights endless battles of old.

 

Rust turns gold to base metal.

 

There is no mystery here.

The philosophers stone,

well worn and smoothed,

tumbled by time,

rolled and burnished in tides,

lies at his feet unnoticed,

until he looks down and knows.

 

His armour thrown aside,

he sees through the eyes of kindness.

 

Enemies are only hurt children

grown and casting wild arrows.

There is no evil hiding in woods,

only  spirits, frightened.

The world has a deeper meaning.

 

Looking again he sees blessings,

losses turn into lessons,

the balm of a deeper healing.

Love was the key he needed;

the heart is opened by seeing.

 

Base metal returns to gold

 

 

Berries

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

looking out of my winter window
to ice cold streets below
i see huddled figures
trudging through the snow

the children skip faster in winter
that’s what we all should do
imagine the shopping centre
full of skipping people

then christmas shopping would be
a dance of joy so merry
flocks of people like robins
seeking the shining red berries

no promise

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

love is strength
caring is stronger than promises
promises are like butterflies
wonderful, even spectacular
but when you touch their wings
they cannot fly any more
i don’t promise
i care

Flame

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The world is full of blessings and light
And yet my feeble candle still stutters
Dark moths gather outside, escaping night,
They flutter softly against the shutters.
What is this feeling I cannot define,
What is the central source of this sorrow?
This darkness and loss can only be mine
I will send it away by tomorrow.
Over and over I send it away
Filling emptiness with music and song
Asking the angels to come back and stay
To help me feel I am here and belong.

Let moths burn in bright flame of desire
Transmute their wings to celestial fire.

Someone Elses Island

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

on a summer street

we exchanged a glance

turning back some paces on

i saw you look my way again

 

passing by

moving on

no words spoken

no knowledge gained

 

moving islands in a stream

a moment fixed in a gaze

if we had met

what might have been?

 

i don’t know you

you don’t know me

all that it was

it was meant to be

 

 

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/someone-elses-island/

Crossing the Bar

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

dreaming of shipwrecks

ragged rocks

pounding surf

wind turning fast

this ship rides the waves

as we aim for the Pole star

leading us homeward

watching for lights

and the beacons that blaze

no more cross currents

no undertow darkness

we are sailing for land

on a swell and wave

 

cutting through sea spray

the boom and the crash

of the thundering breakers

as we cross o’er the bar

from sweet tidal ocean

the moonlit path reaches

the beautiful river

and harbours embrace

bringing us back

where we are remembered

for just who we are

 

drop anchor

make fast

and sing of the sea

 

 

River Daughter

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

Oberon threw a web of stars
Titania washed it with the dew
Roses opened,
as they should

Gentle daughter of the Tamar
Titania sleeping, dreamed of you.
Oberon bought you here
to dance

He pulled you from the depths of river
Placed you on a marble bridge
Leaving all the rest
to chance

Puck is always quick to meddle
He loves to open lovers eyes
He pierced me
with his well aimed lance

The river never flowed so far
The world was never quite so new
All was peaceful
in the wood

Gentle daughter of the Tamar
Tender smile and heart that’s true
Magic shines
in all that’s good

Mandolin

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

this beautiful instrument of carefully chosen wood
its resonant round back sits warmly under my rib
its aged neck nestled lightly in the palm of my hand

it travelled with me to Ireland, Morocco, Poland, India, Spain
giving pleasure to strangers in wayside and stations
helping me find friendships in far away lands

i walked with it slung on my back in a desert valley
pausing as a strange music haunted my ear
looking about for the source of mysterious sound

the strings vibrated in response to a greater musician
the lone song of my mandolin played by the wind
it had no need of my hands. my hands long for it now

safely home, hung again on my wall, a thing of beauty,
resting, its grace and my love of it inspired hatred
one who wished to hurt me, hurt it in anger, vicious spite

while i was locked out, unable to reach you,
gone, a place under my rib left empty
no light glints on silvered strings

the wind will no longer touch them, nor i
one hundred and fifty years, gone in one moment
full of tunes played and tunes not written

all that remains, a strap embroidered
with roses and ivy entwined