words

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…………’

Frozen.

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

Now here before me I see
the uncrossable bridge,
a drawbridge raised beyond.
It’s made of ice.

On the other side,
holding on to imagined hurt,
clinging to thoughts,
counting,
saying nothing to me,
quivering in rage or sadness,
confused perhaps,
a victim to perception sits
in visions I cannot change.
I cannot know what she thinks.
She won’t allow me across.

I watch as I stand.
I can’t reach out,
hold
or help.
Locked out.

This is often the worst,
the worst of the worst of all.
Misunderstanding
breathes in the silence
between us,
in unspoken words
through closed doors,
no air.

This is injustice.
Heartless.
A vacuum.
A chasm.
A void.

Unwise.

Silence, a solid structure
of ancient deeply grained timbers,
sealed and barred,
a simple torture device
that stands on immovable stone.

Left with a hard decision to make,
for myself and how I feel,
the choice between anger
or sadness or nothing,
nothing at all.

I could ignore it again.
In nothingness
there’s no pain.

On days like this
I would willingly give up
on words
or thinking at all.

I can’t help myself either.
I am frozen,
emptily sad.

Seven Words for Tootsie

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

 

a judge

a plea

a decree

no mercy

sentenced

final

 

it only took seven words to say

the saddest sentence in the world

– i really  love you, but i … don’t

 

Be Kind

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

I look at this world. It brings me to tears.

No changes, no choices, no power, no voice.

Our fears come true instead of our dreams.

Our words echo, reverberate, into a void.

 

I have a dream, just like that man,

the one they killed for speaking the truth.

I have a dream just like the one

that lead to a man being hung on a cross.

 

I wish the world was more like our dreams.

People could base all their actions on love.

I wish we could be all that we want.

I wish I could be all that I need.

 

I have nothing to offer, words don’t cast a spell.

Be kind to each other, remember this well.

 

 

On the Green Hill

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

She comes to me after midnight,

whispering soft in my ear

her face full of moonlight,

her dress is pale and blue

starlight glints in the weave.

I almost understand her.

I hear her whispered words

in a language i once knew,

or thought I knew.

She tries to tell me stories,

lost long ago in sleep,

stories lost in a dream somewhere

inscribed on a unicorns horn

and the print of a satyrs hoof.

I gather a word here and there.

I store them away with care

but all the next day

I long for her

and I cant untangle the words.

My heart is bewitched, enthralled.

I long for the night to come again,

the night on the hill in the wood.

My Obsessions

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

this is a found poem – it comes from my tag cloud on this blog and so it consists of words I use a lot in poems……….

*********************

My Obsessions.

 

Ancient bards and books,
a breeze full of butterflies
above the Celtic hills.
Cities, clouds, the dance of death,
a desert dragons dream,
dreaming dreams with evening eyes
of fateful fantasy and fire
with firelight in the forest garden
where a girl with a haiku
plays a harp and sings
of heart and home and horses.

Imagination kindles lakes,
leaves, land and love,
love, always love,
magic memories of moons
moonlight, morning music.

At night, the oak overshadows
oceans of passion
paths of peace and perfume,
poems of rain and ravens,
the rocks, the river,
roses by the sea.
The sky a silver smile
when the snows come,
then the song of spring,
sunlight and starlight.

Time towers above the trees.
The wings of winter spread again
above a woodland made of words

Writing

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

my thoughts today are not inspired
no deep emotions stoke the inner fire
no image scampers out across the page

the world bursts in with wings and horns
distracting me, declaring I’m no poet
all my hopes bereft, forlorn

poems are made of dancing words
delicious words that tumble out
marked with flows and rhythms

they skitter-scatter on the page
they fascinate, seductive
they have power and strength

imposing form upon it
an ode, a ballad, sonnet
I try to see connections
until they find direction
seeking out….
what’s that word?….
ah yes – perfection

Alphabet

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

At school I sat and stared at squiggles
Because I never read a word
Confusing shapes like spider legs.
Dunces cap cast its shadow
Enough to make ambition freeze
Failure seemed a certain end.
Growing, shrinking, twisting, curving
How could I make sense of words
Inspiration hovered round
Just out of reach, across a bridge
Kept away from me by nerves.
Love of story drove me on.
Maybe one day I would write.
No idea where to start
Opening books to begin.
Poetry awaited me.
Questions filled my childish mind,
Romantic notions, heroes tales,
Secret places hid in dreams.
Time ran on, escaping fools,
Under teachers piercing eye.
Visions were distracting me.
Wrong again. I muttered, stammered.
X X X wrong wrong wrong
‘You are very slow’ she said
Zealous whip above my head

ripples

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

pebble falling

floating into hidden depths

it settled on the river bed

to rest there

long and lasting

rolled only by the river

moved by natures forces

while the ripples hit the bank

and rippled back again

 

where do the ripples go?

how far would they continue

if there was nothing

to contain them?

would they go on and on

beyond my power of seeing?

 

words are just like pebbles

reaching hidden depths

they too have their ripples

bouncing off each other

spreading outwards

in ways we never know

 

Words

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

‘Sticks and stones may break my bones

but words will never hurt me.’

Ha! who arrived at that

pat down potted wisdom

shrugging off truth

with an easy phrase and a lie

 

Words are life savers and killers,

blessing givers, tormentors, thieves

they can make you grovel

they can make you free

they can make you feel loved,

wanted and cared for, or

disgraced, misplaced, dispossessed

 

words are power

words are spells

one misplaced word

side-tracks, sharp edges, confusions

all is lost and undone

 

don’t ask me to speak with words

let me show you, not tell you

give me the language of eyes and skin

my hand in your hair, the quiet night air,

the bird song, the breeze, the river

my arm under your head,

your breathe in my ear,

tangled limbs,

these are the words of love