romance

100 Word Story – Broken

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

There was a time before the time.

There was a time of innocence. Or ignorance. There was a time when faith and hope weren’t needed.

That was before he broke her heart. He was the first. The one who made it easier for everyone else to do the same. Pull out one piece and the whole structure is never safe. Romance becomes an illusion and a trap.

You can tell, by that one small line beside her right eye, that she is cynical. Her left eye shows how pure and strong she was before.

These days, she can’t love anyone.

The Shadowed Queen

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

In a lonely, far off place,
the shadow of a gentle queen,
cast across her lofty tower,
caught my tired and vacant eye.
I was conscious of her grace
yet never once I saw her face.

I watched the shadow slowly change
through the slow revolving hours
as the light grew bright and strong
but faded fast away.
Sunlight is a harsh light,
laying bare reality,
then shadows grew too long.
I thought that in the moonlight,
when starlight lit the way,
and all the air was quiet and clear,
the mystery of a true romance
might bring the queen to me.

The castle walls were sheer and high
but where they swept so steeply down
to granite rocks  in gloom, below,
I saw a single, deep red rose
cast upon the stony ground,
a bud that almost bloomed.
I took it in my hand.
I laid it to my heart,
yet she could not come down.

I spent a lonely vigil there
but I saw only shadows,
light and dark, an interplay

I’ve seen bones amongst the leaves
in many ancient forests.
They’re the bones of valiant knights
that shadows led astray.
They died consumed of hunger.
They dug their own cold graves.

I’m bewitched by beauty,
but I know dark
and I know light,
and all the shades that rest between.
Experience has taught me well,
and so I rode away

Written Before Valentines Day – other moments

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

it was valentines last Sunday
and then again on Monday
it happened several times
in the cold December snow
and many other times and dates
i don’t remember or regret
romance comes and goes
it’s never early, never late
it isn’t hidden in the roses
it wears no jewels or diamond rings
it doesn’t come in velvet boxes
or petals scattered on the bed
it’s a feeling and a flow
it’s an opening of hearts
and the moments that we know
that we’ve received a special gift
a passing moment, filled with love

Too Wise

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

What do you say
to the one who’s a true hearted friend?
the one you met last, close to the end.
Forget about passion,
forget about pain.
We’ll talk about other things.

Music and books,
Mad Hatter and Alice.
Will Arthur return again?
If we shout loud enough
do you think we can wake him ?

Too old for illusions,
too wise for that now,
no love poems here
never-never, they’re banned.
Keeping your feet on the ground
is the hardest part,
romance is easy,
i feel myself floating,
the challenge is avoiding a  fall.

We can be children and play.
It’s an adventure, that’s all.
I don’t need to say anything,
you know all i mean.
You know, as i do,
things are not as they seem.
There are monsters out there.
They wait in the dark.
Hold tight,
they wont catch us my darling
we’ll live in the light.

Broken Wings

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Romantic love is a fragile thing;
joyous, beguiling, appealingly sweet.
At the first fearful thought it flies away
a trembling bird on a shattered wing.
Frightened away by too much enquiring,
too many questions, best left unasked,
too honestly answered, unwisely perhaps.

In the garden, where once was a breeze
that gently seduced and played with your hair
there now comes a storm that bows down the trees
tugs at the branches and strips all the leaves.
I heard the twigs snapping in two.

We lash the trunk to a stake for the strength.
We discover how shallow the roots are sunk.
Love grows stronger or love lies wounded.
There is no denying the truth.

The lessons of Cupid and Psyche
are as old as the well worn challenging hills.
We wander and wonder
and never will learn not to ask.

I hand you healing as best I can
to conjure the summers return.
A simple concoction of words could suffice.
You didn’t hear me.
You didn’t heed them.
You heard only bad weather news.

Now we don’t talk about love any more.
We lost all our sense of the deeper feeling.
Now the door to my heart is sealed
against storms, real, imagined or fleeting,
by your, oh so kindly said, gentle words:
‘I will always love you, truly, I mean it.
I will always love you my darling one,’
and then, oh, so revealing,
resounding throughout every possible meaning,
that final, heart wrenching
‘But…………’

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

The Tourist and Her Toy

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

the desert air
that blows across the land
is hot and full of sand
bringing no relief
to sultry streets

the passageways
emptied by siesta
echo to your running feet
rushing down the thousand steps
in and out of shade

the shade is dark, the shade is cold
you run away, while the town is sleeping,
continuing your seeking
leaving me behind
with no promises worth keeping

you thought you’d live your fantasy
you thought you’d find a wild romance
and these narrow streets held magic
i have seen your like before
you come and go like starlings

you only came to play with me
you will always be a tourist
you don’t belong anywhere
i cannot escape from here
your liberty is tragic