spite

We Can Dream in the Dark

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Some people share joy, some spread defeat,
By placing small obstacles under our feet.
Any small weapon for them will suffice,
Any device that comes to their hand
Will be used with full force when they can.
I’m flat on my back, stunned, on the floor,
but I too have a weapon, I dream in the dark,
so I’ve turned off the lights and opened the door.

Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out
And that’s never been what this house is about

Words have been spoken that filled me with doubt,
Thoughts have been scattered and tumbled about,
They crept round our building dispelling delight.
The carpet was swept from right under our feet,
So I stare at the ceiling and wonder all night
What we ever did to cause such dislike.

Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out
And that’s never been what this house is about

Act what you say,
Say what you act,
Say to our face
What you say to our backs.
We will still party,
Despite your attacks.
If the cap fits wear it.
We know how you are.

Putting guards on our the windows shuts everyone out.
That’s never been what this house is about

Mandolin

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

this beautiful instrument of carefully chosen wood
its resonant round back sits warmly under my rib
its aged neck nestled lightly in the palm of my hand

it travelled with me to Ireland, Morocco, Poland, India, Spain
giving pleasure to strangers in wayside and stations
helping me find friendships in far away lands

i walked with it slung on my back in a desert valley
pausing as a strange music haunted my ear
looking about for the source of mysterious sound

the strings vibrated in response to a greater musician
the lone song of my mandolin played by the wind
it had no need of my hands. my hands long for it now

safely home, hung again on my wall, a thing of beauty,
resting, its grace and my love of it inspired hatred
one who wished to hurt me, hurt it in anger, vicious spite

while i was locked out, unable to reach you,
gone, a place under my rib left empty
no light glints on silvered strings

the wind will no longer touch them, nor i
one hundred and fifty years, gone in one moment
full of tunes played and tunes not written

all that remains, a strap embroidered
with roses and ivy entwined