fire

Little Peace

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

with a double-ended stick
chance pokes at me
right off the chart
right off the map
can i be blamed
for not trusting that,
when it can shatter my world?

frying pan; liar
true-teller; fire
just about sums it up

why should it be, that in telling the truth,
the people that mean the most to me
are the ones that trust me the least?

protecting themselves
from the beast
i suppose
and who can blame them
for that

shackled by earth
from the day of my birth
my mind has done battle
to keep my heart free
a life-sentenced prisoner
i long for release
or a little grace-given peace

Skin

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

passion is passing, affection is pure
love doesn’t have to be physical
i will quell this desire

but my skin is on fire
it burns to be touched

if I didn’t love you this feeling would never exist
there is no satisfaction anywhere else
there is no temptation I can’t resist

but my skin is on fire
it yearns to be touched

there are so many other things we can do
i don’t understand why i want this so much
it’s not the most important aspect of you

but my skin is on fire
it burns to be touched

turning my mind away as far as I can
filling my head with other thoughts
thoughts that cool, hoping for peace

but my skin is on fire
it longs to be touched

Changes

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

the seasons keep on turning
i gather wood for flame

i think i see you leaving
this time last year you came

the time for winter fires
is never twice the same

this time it may be sorrow
where it was joy before

all the things I had last year
i see i have no more

i remind myself again
to fill the winters store

we must live to journey on
together or apart

i gather all that i may need
before the dark days start

there’s safety in the cellar
and in the hollowed heart

Sorrow

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

the dark is full of shining stars
the moon will fade tomorrow

the morning sun is coming up
these things are sure as turning fate
but i can only sit and wait
the night will surely follow

the house is there but we are not
no fire burns within the grate
now the hour is growing late
home and my heart are hollow

no matter how the birds may sing
I sit here full of sorrow

Late Fairytale

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

a loom stands in the corner
the work left incomplete
slippers beside the fire, grown cold
missing the warmth of her feet

this place is full of cobwebs and dust
a broom leans by the wall, forgotten
an emerald bowl holds trinkets, jumbled
does anyone live here at all?

the garden is wild and overgrown
the birds, left unfed, have all flown away
the pool by the fountain is empty and dry
where children used to play

the faeries who hid away in the rain
will return with the nightingale

Writing fantasy

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

what writing is like

 

sitting in a room

the room becomes a wood

a wood i know so well

a vague story in my mind

the vision of a path

music and hushed sounds

i light the fire

invite them

i will sit and wait

until they gather round

whispering their tales

taking me to places

i never planned to go

Little Rainbow

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

there’s a rainbow over the hill
in the distance
where I used to play music
with friends
under the trees, by a fire

do the trees remember me still
on quiet Sunday afternoons?

there is gold spilled on the ground,
between sunshine and gentle rain

 

Wayfarer

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

when i am fire
i burn away anger
when i am tree
i bend with the wind
when i am water
i wear away stone
and know all the wise ways of flowing

when i am cat
i narrow my eyes
when i am dog
i am joyfully willing
when i am horse
i turn with the wind
this is my freedom in going

when i am hare
magic is mine
when i am raven
i watch still and clear
when i am wolf
i see who you are
this is the seeing of knowing

i will leap, bend and flow,
run, turn and go
return as i please
see what i see
magnetic paths pull above treetops
clouds cap the mountains that hide me
dark cool shadows in water
hidden things amongst leaves
as i make my own journey
i follow these old ways alone

water is a life giving blessing
the trees shelter us, breathing
the lone wolf protects the pack
energy runs with the horse
the world is mirrored in the eye of the raven
hidden, unhidden, bidden, unbidden
the hare runs the path of the circle unbroken
running fleet foot in pastures and hills
on horseback i chase the illusive hare
while the raven sits still in the oak
and watches, waiting for me

 

 

Wayfarer

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

when i am fire
i burn away anger
when i am tree
i bend with the wind
when i am water
i wear away stone
and know all the wise ways of flowing

when i am cat
i narrow my eyes
when i am dog
i am joyfully willing
when i am horse
i turn with the wind
this is my freedom in going

when i am hare
magic is mine
when i am raven
i watch still and clear
when i am wolf
i see who you are
this is the seeing of knowing

i will leap, bend and flow,
run, turn and go
return as i please
see what i see
magnetic paths pull above treetops
clouds cap the mountains that hide me
dark cool shadows in water
hidden things amongst leaves
as i make my own journey
i follow these old ways alone

water is a life giving blessing
the trees shelter us, breathing
the lone wolf protects the pack
energy runs with the horse
the world is mirrored in the eye of the raven
hidden, unhidden, bidden, unbidden
the hare runs the path of the circle unbroken
running fleet foot in pastures and hills
on horseback i chase the illusive hare
while the raven sits still in the oak
and watches, waiting for me

The Death of my Blood

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

I died out on these moors, my bones are here.

I feel them in the pooled reflections in mud,

the wind in the bare gorse and the crows’ flight.

 

Later, in the mines, under weight of rock

darkness enfolded around me. No hope.

I knew I would die when the lamp guttered out.

 

The next time I was spared the mines labour.

Instead they sent me off to their war in France.

No grave when a shell blows flesh apart.

 

Many times I have died at my fireside.

I once burned in  flames for heresy.

Never have I died in the sea.

 

The death I would wish for is the pure one

with the mist and the crow on the moor,

to rest in my own land forever at home