naglowrimo

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.

Day 22 ~ Murmerations of Birds

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I’m grateful for all the small glances

and glimpses of futures to come,

Portents and patterns I see in the sky,

The formations of birds I see as they fly

Foretelling fortunes, they never deceive.

Rely on the written word of the birds.

They never lie.

They tell every morning their message of truth

By the colour of eggs, the shapes of their legs

And direction of flight.

My grandmother gave me the gift of these things.

I understand all that the dawn chorus brings.

Day 21 ~ In Padstow on May Day

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

The persistent pounding of the drum

Repeats and repeats it’s pattern on

The sound draws closer from the distance.

The drum beats on in my head.

Half in hope, half in dread

I await the dancing throng to come

And the man in old disguise

Wears the ancient painted mask.

He grabs me, spins me

Underneath his black hooped skirts.

In the dark he whirls me around

Through the streets of the town

To the beat of the drum, drum, drum.

He spins me round and round around,

Hurling me finally outward,

Out and out through the crowd.

Now I’m standing here alone, far outside

The drum beats, on and on

Until it’s faded, far, and gone.

Day 20 ~ No Instruction

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

My brain can’t handle strict instruction.

What is it you’re still wanting from me?

Meanings have many fluctuations.

I need pure words to liberate me,

inspire me and set me free.

The key to all this is a love of the sounds,

and when I use all the tricks of the trade

with substance poetic, and lyrical verse

and something to wrap my tongue around,

even if I only write nonsense

the meaning at last is often profound.

Day 8 ~ No ghazals this season

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

I don’t want to write a ghazal.

You wouldn’t either with a brain as messed up as mine.

I have forgotten how I wrote them before

And now I can’t fathom instructions.

I’ll tie Celtic knots with Italian spaghetti.

with no sign of Persian delights

or patterns of beauty and promise.

Love is all a repetition of form and illusion.

We fly or we fall as we scribble old thoughts on our walls.