door

Outcast

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

i, the banished, outcast rook
in a crooked, twisted tree
from far away i see you there
you don’t look and don’t see me

i see your faces as you pass
i see your truths, i see your lies
your stories written in your eyes
all these things are clear to me

outside
always looking in
feathers ruffled by the wind
watching for a winter sun

the beauty of the world, begun,
hangs above the vaulted dark,
the certainties of fathomed night,
and there, see there….the flash, the spark

i see the twinkle of the star
the door still stands and swings ajar

Angels in the Hospital

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
in this place of many doors
those of us who blame the gods are only unaware
of angels standing at our backs when we are in despair
silent angels glide on feathered feet

don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
with all the instruments laid out bare
theatres ready, scrubbed to white,
as lives drift in and out of light
silent angels glide on feathered feet

don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
the anxious sad relations sip their cups of tea
the chapel here is open, silent, day or night
to catholics and atheists and sinners, all alike
silent angels glide on feathered feet

don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
down the low lit corridors
the trolleys come and go
with patients comatose
silent angels glide on feathered feet

don’t sleep, silent angels glide on feathered feet
the final door awaits us all
some of us must morn
and babies will be born
silent angels glide on feathered feet

Telling Fairy Tales

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

bedtime stories are a door
between day and nightly dreams
a door held open by a voice
swinging in softly imagined breeze
that blows in from a magic land
scented sweet with jasmin and juniper,
and roses for summer warmth
they lull a child to gentle sleep
on banks of woodland flowers
and keep them safe to wander there
until the sun returns

when we are grown the stories fade
our troubles follow at night
in corridors we search for doors
shadows swallow the light
but now I will return again
to find the forgotten tales
that lead us to the faerie glades
where pleasant dreams are made

Turn and Return ( a doubled Etheree)

/ A. Gouedard / 4 Comments

the unwounded self, at the heart, is still
in response to circumstance we turn
between the worlds we move as one
chased along by thrusting time
only surface changes
perhaps forever
as i will be
as i was
i am
now
gone
and dead
if you are
in cold despair
i am alone here
we turn it round in faith
life runs like a salt hour glass
hours and days pass us by with speed
which world is real is a mystery
there is an open door between two worlds
there is an open door between two worlds
which world is real is a mystery
hours and days pass us by with speed
life runs like a salt hour glass
we turn it round in faith
i am alone here
in cold despair
if you are
dead and
gone
now
i am
as i was
as i will be
perhaps forever
only surface changes
chased along by thrusting time
between the worlds we move as one
in response to circumstance we turn
the unwounded self, at the heart, is still

Deliverance

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

up in the mountains i had a vision
a river flowed upstream
a friend handed me a rifle
she said ‘the world is full of surprises
we had better be prepared’
”you cant fight nature’ i replied

***

weeks later i went to see a friend
the news had all been bad
i was so glad to see him
my heart was over-whelmed and sad
he gave me a kitten
very small and white
her soft fur was a comfort
‘look after her’ he said

he gathered all his keys
and battened down the house
it was already shaking
its timbers groaned alive
gale warnings were on the radio
he said ‘we have to go
button up your coat
it’s very cold out there’
I held the kitten close

there were riots in the streets
young girls fought, kissed, taunted boys
the old were pushed aside
there was fire and looting
broken windows, shattered glass
lost children and screaming crowds
he lead me by the hand, he sang
he said it was an old song
i was glad to hear it
he sang it strong and clear
it did so much to cheer me
a man started to shout a speech
but all he said was ‘listen’
we left the town behind us
and then the weather came

raging rivers, rising seas
broken dikes, banks breached
swirling mists and fog
on the hills that we had reached
the road was surging water
the wind howled to wake the dead
and waters ran upstream
rained lashed against my eyes
we scaled higher over rocks
smooth, adamant, gleaming
with semi-precious polish
i imagined them forged in fire
when the world began
the kitten huddled closer to my chest

he said ‘maybe we should speak of this
acknowledge what this is,
the apocalypse has come,
its stupid now to say it isn’t true’
‘i saw some of this in a dream’ i said,
too shy to say it was a vision,
‘the rivers and the seas all ran the other way
i saw these polished rocks
black and red and white, shining
molten in fire, cooled, made solid by ice
will angels appear in cloud formations?
do you think they will be coming?’
he shrugged and smiled

he dragged me by the hand
we struggled up
then we found a dog
the dog was glad to follow
we became a traveling group of four
the raging gale began to drop
i saw a house
he pulled me through the door
he had made a home here
years and months before
in an empty hospital
the walls were painted gloss

he had built a wooden stair
that lead up to a loft
the wood was dark
and warm to the touch
my mother was safely there
she was frail but well
the strong wind had blasted
the lines from her face
she looked young again
she was packing and unpacking
and tidying her hair
distracted and confused

in a hallway, very simple,
beneath the wooden stairs
i saw four doors
all blank and bare, but one,
i knew this one was his
it was emblazoned with a sun
with golden wings spread wide
he gestured to the doors
‘one of these is yours
which one you must guess
and make it feel your own’
i didn’t care which it was
rescued, saved and wanted
i was happy to be there

A Welsh Voice

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

The mists, the mountains, cloud topped giants,
houses hung beneath the roads,
the mysteries of Cader Idris,
the bearded lake, Arthur’s stone,
a throne beside the glassy water
hollowed rock o’er grown with moss,
the leap of silvered salmon in the river,
the sheep, the lanes, the wayside markers
in the wall of wild flowers blooming,
by granite seat of ancient Bards,
where people gathered
hearing story roll from lips and memory.
All these things we saw together,
wandering in the wilderness of Wales
with my father, as a child.

The village streets where women gossiped,
the cobblestones and chimney pots
enchanted drifts of wood-smoked air
the clanging chime of book shop bell
as my father lead me to a gloomy room
walled with shelves.
Reaching up above my head
he handed me Dylan Thomas
a poet he had never read.

In bed that night a door swung open
with all the chimes of stream and meadow
louder than the bookshop bell
ringing out in word and image
words delicious in my mouth
the sounds, the shapes, the sensual pleasures
wrapped in beauty, thoughts profound,
laughter, love, the lowing cattle
driven home at eventide.
The orchards and the apple trees,
the night above that shines with stars.
The chapel choirs sang out across the valleys
voices raised in harmony and hymn,
the moaning echoes of the wind in grass
the sighing singing of the sea,
short lives lived
parading slowly to the grave.