london

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.

NaPoWriMo Day 8 ~ Luke

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

Luke

Life is a road with many whips, silent crossroads and knots.
I’d fly off with the birds, if my wings weren’t hidden.
I’d feel the wind on the water and see the birds songs.
I’d hear the strong blast of yellow that comes with the sun.
But none of that ever happened.
Once upon a time it seemed possible.
Everything seemed possible then,
in London with Luke I might have stayed happy
if the roads never twisted and bent

We walked through the City Squares
amid the Mimosa, Jasmine and traffic fumes.
His skin had the scent of dried cedar.
Pimlico, Stepney, Westminster and down to the docks,
we ducked and dived into museums to feel the heat
then down through Covent Garden.
Five miles a day is nothing,
when you’re looking for something to eat.

‘Buy a rose for the lady, mate!’
We had no money, no dosh, no doe.
You can pick roses for free in the parks.
Money is meaningless in paradise garden,
brimming with beauty and rain soaked grass.
The bridges criss-cross the river
following constellations,
and the stars that shine out in the dark.

He calls her ‘Angel’
But I think he is hers.
That won’t stop me predicting an end.
He holds her hand inside his coat pocket
To stop their world falling apart.
Eles não terão sorte.
They don’t stand a chance.

The trees in the park bend down
to listen to their words.
Lovers prattle and tease with affection,
whispering on the air.
It’s all scattered amongst the leaves.
Their words may still be there,
treasured in tree bark or written in fallen twigs.
Time is moving on.
O tempo é um traidor

The sparrows come home in the evening,
the pigeons are losing their feathers,
the fountains are freezing over.
A clock chimes in Whitehall.
Eros shifts on his plinth, covered in dust and decay.

© A.Chakir 2023

Charlie

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

The kid from London’s back alleys
Tagging along with his brother
Selling flowers with panache and aplomb

Lost to the eyes of his mother
Locked by the deadly machines
Rebelling against the system

Defying the ledge
Spinning close to the edge
Wild wobbler on roller skates

Expelled from the town
He followed the dusty old roads
Winding away to the distance

Poverty’s child made us smile for a while
As the world came tumbling down

People laugh at the shuffling clown
But the magic is in the pathos

The Minstrel

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

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