wild

Growing Up with my Son

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I dragged him down the road with me,
our life in carrier bags.
Nothing ever lasted long,
the good times or the bad.
He had no choice, nor did I.
With each inflicted change
the world was re-arranged.
We never had a peaceful home
that we could call our own.

I was lost,
I was young,
he was my loyal son.
I didn’t have a map.
I hope our road
through right and wrong,
was honest and had heart.
but bad luck played its part.

Some say I had courage.
Some say I was wild.
I’ll accept the judgment of
the man that was my child.

Wild Heart

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

They thought that they could tame my love
and keep all for themselves,
they never understood my heart.
My heart is not so small.
I spread my love throughout the land,
unwilling was my hand
to make a pledge to never part.
I am too far-seeing.
Don’t try to tame me to your will.
We are just beginning.
If I stay with you my love
you’ll know my heart is willing.
I’ll stay until you’re leaving.
Let’s speak no more of grieving.
I will fulfil your yearning.
My love is in my being.

Go Gently

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

Go gentle, gentle, into that good night

Old age brings acceptance of this last fate

Fly, fly to the beckoning, golden light

 

All seasons will end by pre-ordained right

The wise men know that when the hour is late

Their soul will take leave for eternal light

 

Good men do not fear the long, deep dark night.

Do not rage, sadly berating your fate,

Go gentle and rest, return to the light

 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

Will sing in their dreams with no wish to wait

They will fly swiftly, to shining, bright light

 

Grave men will ponder the beauty of night

They will pray tenderly, knowing their fate,

Remembering all that was loving, bright

 

And you my father,  in that blessed night

Look upon me, with no sadness, and wait

I will not rage at the death of the light

I will go gentle into that good night

 

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(sorry Mr Thomas – you know this means no disrespect – you are my favourite poet after Shakespeare – and I will pray for you often)

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