sorrow sat on the chimney pot
in the form of a solitary magpie
joy flew in to join him
but it winged away
and sorrow followed after
a dove came to coo on the garden wall
adieu, adieu, adieu
Poetry
The Fiddler
twinkling stars above
pierce through evening mists
to shine on the fiddlers strings
this is a night of trysts
flowing with the harp strings, strummed water
the autumn leaves swim about like goldfish
awaiting winters frozen fingers, sore with playing
seeking, hunting, yearning, he turns to the lament
an autumn leaf falling, aimless, from the tree
brown scented, old wood, soaked in years of wishing
he lives to travel, moving, burning,
desiring, to be somewhere other than here
the tune plays on, long after he is gone
his music filled me up
gladly golden, red and green,
imbued in his sweet dream
remembered in the song
remembered in the song
Twenty-Four Shipwrecks ~ a haibun
How many wrecks in the uncharted depths? Century after century of shipwrecks, seaweed shrouded and armoured in barnacles, iron ribbed rusted skeletons of the vessels they were.
Sea born we are by that life giving ocean that can swallow men whole, drowning in storms, when dark clouds are broiling.
Lost sailors bones rest on the bottom at a depth that is deeper than the height of the highest of mountains ~ fish eat their flesh, their bones a part of the sea ~ they rest there from war, work, exploration ~ they rest there now in water rocked graves where no sunlight, starlight nor moonlight can ever reach in the ebb and the flow and the sway of deep tides.
stars hidden in cloud
winds howl darkness, no mercy
a wave wall, a void
sea throat swallows, whole,
spinning, deep to sea grave,
sand grains their worn bones
wind drop, empty light,
nothing there on the surface
tranquil cloud mirror glass
(the title Twenty Four Shipwrecks refers to a figure I saw online when reading about Trawler Fishing in Britain – twenty-four was stated as the number of trawlers lost each year)
In the Garden of the Gods
they are not far away, they are near
the old gods cry out to us
from beneath city streets
come closer, if you would hear
the moon is hidden in daylight
waiting to light the path of the night
in silvery tones and pearl
come closer, if you would hear
the trees whisper a constant prayer
the voice of the leaves, the dance of the branch
the breath of exchange that holds us all
come closer, if you would hear
the rivers run out, the veins of all life
the clouds pour down a blessing
the sea is the constantly beating heart
come closer, if you would hear
above the rooftops venus shines
the daidem, a star, entwined in her twilight hair
she sings the song of the life spark and the long dark
come closer, if you would hear
they are not far away, they are always here
the world is a garden for which we must care
before the old gods slip silent away
come closer, if you would hear
The Moonlight Lamp – a book
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=a.gouedard
This is a collection of poems – some have appeared in my posts here and some have not
India
bells jingle softly
sandlewood by the peach trees
i know you passed by
Old Love
there was no need of explanations
when all was accepted and understood
sunlight filled the clearing
a path of soft grass
lead through the wood
the rapids on the river
a source of delight,
exhilaration, excitement
the boat spinning and whirling
a reason for laughter
as we clung closer
what cared we for danger
when in evening we returned
to sit warmly wrapped
at the fireside, together
the paths have become hidden
overgrown with bramble and thorn
twisting back on themselves
the Prince in the fairytale
hacks with his sword
to find his way through
to the sleeping Princess
who waits alone, for a kiss,
only a kiss and a promise,
in stories he is never exhausted
you don’t hear tales of his scars
he always succeeds
what a miracle worker he is
what a wonder to behold
astride his white horse
shining in silver armour
despite the darkness
there is a path where the rich scent
of old fallen leaves fills the air
the banks of this path are cut deeply
amongst the roots of the ancient trees
they hold the path, embraced,
they are not there to trip us
but to keep the way open ahead
the road is old and worn
Words
‘Sticks and stones may break my bones
but words will never hurt me.’
Ha! who arrived at that
pat down potted wisdom
shrugging off truth
with an easy phrase and a lie
Words are life savers and killers,
blessing givers, tormentors, thieves
they can make you grovel
they can make you free
they can make you feel loved,
wanted and cared for, or
disgraced, misplaced, dispossessed
words are power
words are spells
one misplaced word
side-tracks, sharp edges, confusions
all is lost and undone
don’t ask me to speak with words
let me show you, not tell you
give me the language of eyes and skin
my hand in your hair, the quiet night air,
the bird song, the breeze, the river
my arm under your head,
your breathe in my ear,
tangled limbs,
these are the words of love
The Sacrificial Rite
naked and bound at the foot of a tree
hands lashed to feet and kneeling
an embryo, a seed curled in submission
without resistance, i saw,
in the sacrificial rite
as time released me
in the woods the oak grows tall
the acorn falls to dark earth, maternal
stripped from the shell, the sapling springs
in the labyrinth of time, the wheel eternal,
in the vernal equinox, the turn,
up from the seed, limbs stretching
reaching to light, no death is here
take heart in the strength of oak
daffodils, toadstools, the bluebell
nothing of worth is ever lost
time gives life to the tender seed
to be reborn
you first must die
The Minstrel
Peering through a mist
parting a veil, dusty webs,
staring back at fate.
I see the entrance vividly,
the exit all too clear
He rode into London in a cavalcade
his lady seated before him, bedazzled by all they saw
exchanging glances with his boisterous brothers
they rode in a merry troupe, loud laughter and youth
lute and tabor, bells and fine embroidery.
They roamed the streets at night
joyful pups in a rainbow of rags and finery
mocking wealth they cocked a snoop at death.
They attracted wide attention.
red ribbons and green
her hair swings in the sunlight
her eyes, her arms, life
Ah! but to stay in the streets and courtyards would have been far wiser.
What does youth know, exuberant, thoughtless, unwitting.
Attention a flattery, alluring.
Beckoned through wider and higher doors
they entered in. Gardens of delight, sweet scents and song
gentle harmless beauty, so it seemed to him.
A peace fell upon him there, he dreamed in poetry.
Darkness approached. The shadow of a cloud on the grass as it crosses that summers sun.
lavender lady
seats herself amongst roses
charming, so disarming
Requests made, favours granted ,
twisted meanings, things not understood,
so many whispers in quiet corridors,
the web of intrigue draws tighter,
he spoke the wrong words too lightly
spilling his thoughts into treacherous ears.
This tale reveals all that was feared.
The shadow of the Tower looms closer.
He longs to leave this city, they will flee at night,
run to the countryside
where the hills are wide and sweeping,
where the willows lean gently
over the Avon weeping.
All too late.
He prays she got away.
dark walls draw inward
music screams loud in the silence
of la oubliette
this is not his final end, the world is too unkind
better to be forgotten than to suffer such a fate
still unsatisfied they dragged him out
it turns and troubles my stomach now
to watch the rest of this
the pain became too great and ceased, he rose
floating high above himself, looking down on horror
seeing things no-one should see
and my pen grows silent, as he fades away in light
red roses spread out
he flies above the woodlands
butterflies of light
The Dreaming Path 