blessed

Baking Bread

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

knowing you were coming home tonight
i resolved to bake you bread
and fill the house with warmth

i gathered driftwood from the beach
i rose at dawn to light the fire
so the dough could rise

i went down to the cellar
to find a fine red wine
i stumbled on the stair

when i came back the fire was out
the fire beside the stove collapsed
it needed swift repair

by the time i mended it
my hair was full of soot
i had to take a shower

i went out to the market next
i bought the finest cheese
and olives black and green

time was growing short by now
i sank my hand into the bowl
almost in despair

i slammed it on the board
i kneeded it, i pummelled it
and left it there to rest

i went out to the beach again
to calm my savage breast

a good bread must be blessed

the kitchen is a peaceful place
when baking scents the room

good bread is earthly grace

my mind filled with the thought of you
i conjured up your face

good bread is an embrace

returning through the garden
i picked one summer rose
to set beside your place

when you came the bread was there
with olives, yellow cheese and wine
mixed with salt sea air

blessed with love and welcome
and smiles to greet you home

good bread is like a poem

Beyond the Mists

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

When Arthurs’ Golden Age had ended
and the country fell to mourn,
its true that some fair beauty faded
like the sparkling morning dew.
The earth took on a darker hue.
But I was one who bore him safely,
far away to other shores,
where the mists hung thick and shrouded,
and all good hearts can be renewed.

We sailed close and he was lifted
in our gentle loving arms.
We sang for him to soothe his sleep.
Our sails of gold and white were lovely.
On tender winds we sailed away
to the land where all know kindness
and the fair can ne’er grow old.
We of the Fae have understanding
of the tales to still unfold.

In the fabled land, Avilion,
Arthur sleeps the sleep of dreams.
We laid him in his Tomb to rest.
There, he awaits the day of waking,
in the land that’s ever blessed.

 

Thanksgiving Quatrain

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Give thanks for the air that fills you lungs
And the heart that still beats in your breast
Give thanks for all the love you’ve received
And for every time you’ve been blessed

Give thanks for the sun that rises each morning
And the sweet gentle rest of the night
And the dreams that come when you open your mind
And the bright stars above so bright

Give thanks for the times you could help a good friend
Give thanks for a strangers wise words
Give thanks for the food on your table each day
And share what you have with the world

Tree of Hope

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

The bird baths all are cracked
by winters biting frosts.
I heard the blackbirds song,
a memory of water,
fluid in the air.
It seemed a sad reflection
of a sorry state of health.
The coldest days were long.
Everything seemed lost.
The paths were overgrown
with plants all running wild,
strangling and tangling
the roses, overblown,
spoiled by slow neglect,
in a garden once so loved.

Summer brought destruction,
smothering, spreading, fast.
A time of choice had come,
to recover all its glory
or let it go at last.
I would not be daunted.
The days were flying past.

All had been so lovely
in lazy days before,
those days so softly haunted
with thoughts of gardeners gone.
In sad remembrance of them
I set about the work.
I cleared the well worn paths,
discovered them anew.
Where the brambles barred me
I tirelessly pushed through.
Putting down my tools
I turned to go inside
to take a well earned rest.

It was then I saw the gift.
The garden had been blessed.
In a place I would have chosen,
beside a golden rose,
a single seed had fallen
planted by a bird.
A sign of new beginnings.
changing with the seasons,
uplifting tender leaves
to a future that’s begun.

Now in this sheltered garden
there grows a graceful Birch.
The silver of the winter
reaches for the sun.