butterflies

Day 23 ~ Lost Songs

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The birds have slowly disappeared.

I never hear an owl in town and seldom see a hawk.

The blackbird and the thrush still do their best to sing the dawn

But now confused by lights from streets the birds no longer sleep.

The starlings are not heard above the London rush hour traffic.

It was a classic sound before.

The evening throng of choral song

Like the butterflies are gone.

I am glad that I recall the fields of sixty years ago

Before we lost the riches of the earth we knew before.

When we ceased to see the stars,

Obliterated by the lights of towns,

We ceased to see ourselves.

Leaving NY

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

I slept nine hours last night, she says,
I dreamed of you.
I asked if that was why she slept so long.
Only joking.
She laughs and say for sure it was.
Warm weather here.
Cold there.
Spring, how lovely.
Flowers and butterflies.
Yes.
I smile.
She always thinks of something pretty.
The taxi driver had a Brooklyn accent.
Like all the films, I think,
and remember Sophie’s Choice
Timbered houses, gables.
Tragic story.
Quick slices of happiness.
Madness.
Thinking of that I miss her next two sentences.
I come back to her.
Heavy luggage.
Last night was full of sirens and voices.
The Broadway shows cost a lot.
Traffic.
We’re leaving here soon, she says,
and I can’t wait to see you.
Everything is going to be so good.
Every word she says, is interspersed,
with saying how she loves me
and how she’s longing to be near me.

Butterflies

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

see the butterflies
flying in a light formation
over sunlit, dew-wet meadows
where the cornflowers
bow and sway

love brings pleasures
with the glorious newborn day

the sun will reach its central zenith,
and it’s light will cast no shade

we may burn,
but day is short
and in turn,
by the evening’s well-stoked fires
sweet memories will grow, not fade

the light will deepen into night
when the moon and stars arise
and paint the fields in gentler shades

their magic light dispels the dark
’til sleep brings rest to closing eyes

and in the morning,
rise the lark,
rise up,
rise up,
higher,
soaring,
day is dawning

see the butterflies
flying in a light formation
over sunlit, dew-wet meadows
where the cornflowers
bow and sway

love,
beyond the weight of measure,
rises with the glorious,
precious,
treasured,
glowing pleasures
of the shining newborn day

No Roses

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

no need for butterflies and roses
no valentines, no pretty hearts
no cupids here, with flying arrows
no dear, I will never sing

a praise song to your beauty
no romance in tender words
i have nothing much to offer
i wont buy you gifts and things

don’t expect a honeymoon
i won’t give you wedding rings
nothing here is wrapped in ribbons
i make no eternal vow

respect i offer, honesty,
an ear that listens, this i bring
if you want this, hold it, keep it
it’s for you, take it now

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

sugar and spice

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

two little girls

dressed all in pink and freshly washed

sit on a wall covered with roses

swinging their legs and smiling

as they kill all the butterflies

taking pleasure in doing it slowly

A Question of Numbers – for a New Moon

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

In one year we travel four billion miles around the Sun

Without even stirring a limb.

We dream fifteen thousand dreams,

Remembering almost none.

How significant those that we do.

 

In a lifetime we may see nine hundred New Moons

Twenty-five thousand sunsets,

Twenty-five thousand dawns.

How many do we really see?

How significant those that we do.

 

How many times might my love smile at me?

How many times will we kiss?

How many dreams can we make come true

Before time flees and is gone?

How significant those that we do.

 

If I thought I’d be gone tomorrow

What would I say and do?

Nothing significant.

 

The light comes and goes across the earth;

A clock hand that sweeps us away.

 

Butterflies, unaware