Elegy To Modern Man

Create for me a man of dreams

a cardboard replica

of reality.

Then place this man of dreams

in a corner-less space.

The world?

Pray to this man of dreams

wait for any reply…

                                nothing

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An Accident

I saw a man hit in the road today

a soft twirling bundle of rags.

He was thrown into the air,

landing…

sudden

and twitched;

shopping scattered

from plastic bags.

I saw another man shocked today

trembling as he got out

approaching the still warm body

reach out a hand

and touch

uncertain

shocked

then turn away

and walk sadly back.

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Life is a Circle

Life is a circle, a journey, a cycle

We travel, we revolve, we age, we die.

We are from the earth and we return

hopefully at the close of our span.

Our children should of course bury us.

It is so sad when we have to bury them.

Life has a movement, and slowly we travel

all too quickly through its moods and stages.

But a life cut short is unfair.

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This Is Not You

This shallow grave

does not contain

the totality of you.

Why the four winds

themselves whisper

your very name.

Why come here

to grieve you,

when we know

you are not here.

You live on 

Everywhere.

Seeing your grave

is a sad thing

for us left behind.

But for you

it became a door

to a new life.

This shallow grave

could never contain

the totality of you.

In the mighty clouds,

in the gentle rain

I sense your being.

You have become

part of all of this

essential essence.

Your gentle spirit

as the leaves stir,

in wind and leaf.

And yet still I know

you are not here

but are gone on;

to the life above,

beyond yet within;

a heavenly walk.

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The Face at The Window

Across the chasm

I saw you look

I saw you glance

I saw your face.

Strangers across space

who see each other

not knowing

just seeing.

I stand wondering

who you are

what you do

if you are real?

I shall stand

and look at you

to see your face

to brighten me.

To meet might ruin

all our glances,

for knowing kills

the curiosity of you.

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Poetry

I once saw a man sweeping rubbish,

big brush, dirty yard,

catching leaves and sweet wrappers,

like words in a shovel.

I saw him sweep all four corners,

pushing it to the centre,

picking out paper and drink cans,

like selecting words for a poem.

I saw him wheel a barrow in,

squeaking wheel, worn tin,

piling up leaves for a bonfire,

like all the words for a poem.

I saw him put the brush away,

old shed, rotten door,

and walk away without a thought,

since now the poem was done.

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Iona

Island of light, Iona

jewel of western isles

your green sea protects

you from the harm.

Your rugged line suggests

that time was known too

when the Northern lights

shone on sacred stones.

Your stones thrown down

drowned circle complete

in the protecting sea

to hold safe the lines.

Your spirit has known

prayers to many gods,

yet your stones resound

as sentinels keeping watch.

Here the graves still lie

in ruined Abbey and convent

patiently they await

till their gods return again.

St Columba ordered the pagan stones to be thrown into the sea. The people were still practicing pagans so obeyed only in spirit. The famous stones were placed carefully in their circle but in the sea round this little isle off Mull. St Columba set up his monk’s cell. There is an abbey still there. It is questionable if the people ever really converted to Christianity or whether they still owe their allegiance to more ancient forces. They still tell stories of their stones which they can still see just beneath the sea’s ever changing surface.

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An Old Man

Why she waited till the dawn

I will never ever know.

But when I saw her on the ridge

I really should have known.

She lay so still I thought her dead,

hardly breathing and so white

her hair laying thinly tumbled there

but with the youthful colour gone.

Her beauty still was with her

as her face had aged so well,

I could not really think her old

I loved her still as much.

It was in morning time

she took that final walk,

up to the highest ridge

she strode away, and paused,

looked back at me, then went

and I saw her no more.

I have sat here many an hour,

I think the stove went out.

I cannot believe she is gone

just like that, nothing said.

I am staring at her empty chair,

wondering why she is not there.

It was late that day or the next

I finally went out to search.

I found her down by the rocks

where we’d agreed to wed.

I carried her gently home again

in arms so old, like lead,

I laid down upon her bed

she is at rest here now.

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The Poetry Man.

“I suppose you want a poem then”

the old man said, the sun glinting

on teeth through the grain of beard.

“No,” I said, while meaning yes.

A beat passed, then another one.

“Well you’ll get one then I suppose;”

I waited for this pearl to form.

Silence of thought for two or three,

doubts arose, he could not do it

then with a chuckle he started.

“I never ever write my poetry down,

nor waste all that paper or ink.

But the way I use verb and noun,

I try my best to make you think.

Not for me those library shelves,

nor dusty second hand stores

for me it is the words themselves;

they have become my mentors.”

He paused awhile lost in thought,

some golden word pursuing,

his furrowed brow seemed to me

to be sorting out some question

from many summers ago.

“Young men now have no respect

for meaning, rhythm or rhyme,

there is no love that I detect

for stalking well tuned paradigm.

Poems now-a-days need not scan,

the lines all ragged in length,

words scattered without a plan

where in that is poetic strength?”

And so saying his images fades

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And so saying his images fades

his lines of distinction blur,

till at last his words remain

once his cragged face dissolves

back into the mirror once more.

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Words

If words alone were a comfort,

they would have come rounded,

soft, caressing tight packed

ready to hug, fluffy and downy.

Instead they come along a line,

on a page or carved on stones,

or spat out from angry mouths

the drunken curse or scolding.

If words alone were a comfort

I could rest my poor weary head

upon a safe soft dictionary 

and let the world spin ever on.

But words in newsprint shock,

the unsuspecting text or letter

gives us bad news from afar

bereavement or money owing.

Words alone can’t be a comfort,

nor have any healing touch

unless touched by a feeling heart

and given as an act of love.

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Wind Farm

Magnificent blades

Beating to a future

Pulling power from the air

High on the hills

Their sentinel keep

Over our children’s children

Sweeping white turbines

Of energy transference

Welcome to these tall invaders

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Spring Time

1. Gentle Spring

Gentle green spreading

along the hedgerows

spring delayed arrives

Bare winter spikes burst

into new leaf bunches

the fans shivering awake.

Yellow daffodils unfold

their bells bouncing

in gentle wafting gusts.

2. Windy Spring

Savage blasts roar

bent trees splintering

whipping leaves fly.

Wild nights shock

the wind shakes

and rattles windows.

Little birds cling

braving the gale

the lion of spring.

3. Raucous Spring

After months of quiet

the sudden noise

a million birds sing

deafening crescendo

the clamour of spring

little throats bellow

the strident calls

cacophonic mix

and a cuckoo.

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Though we are many, We are ONE

From every corner of the globe

Talking all of our fabulous tongues,

From every walk of life we come

From East, West, North and South

From every direction we came

To join together as One

Though we are many, we are ONE

Our cultures and cosmologies differ

Our customs, habits and rituals differ

Our cloths, jewelry and food differ

Our homes, hair and make up differ

And yet for all these many differences

We are the same, our cause is One

Though we are many, we are ONE

The way we pray, and where we pray

The words we use and direction we face

The gifts we bring and receive

All may seem different to the casual eye

And yet there can be but one Creator

Whom we have all learnt to serve

Though we are many, we are One

Our diversity brings many bright hues

To this our land of green and grey

Here our aim is wide inclusiveness

Rather than other’s narrow exclusivity

For to include is to honour and love

To accept, welcome and to receive

Though we are many, we are ONE

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Today our hands are joined

Our thoughts are joined

Our joys and sorrows are joined

Our hopes and wishes are joined

Our friendships and families are joined

For we come together as one

To learn from each other as one

Though we are many, we are ONE

Written for the Culture Bazaar 2008 By David Gould

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1. Languid Summer

Long, lazy lounging days,

bees buzzing in torpid air

flies hovering in stillness

the heat vapour hanging

over hazy sweltered land.

Dusty, dry drooping days

tree fronds daggling limp

over crusted green water

where boatmen skit across

and frog eyes just peep.

Thistle seeds rise to dance

in swirling eddies rotate

parachuting to a new life

unwelcome summer guests

in neatly trimmed borders.

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1. People of Summer

Children shriek, running

to avoid the aimed hose

Granddad gently snoozes

seeing every clear detail

of summers forty years ago.

Mum chides her charges

while dad burns the burgers

there’s an aunt in floral print

capturing another new album

on a small disposable camera.

We all sit on plastic chairs

beneath the torn gazebo

on the newly mowed lawn

and look at our strange food

and think “Ah Summer again.”

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1. The birds of Summer

They flew all the way back

to their nests of yesteryear;

from sunny climes to here.

They saw a thousand miles

to seek their family home.

The swallows skim and glide

with martins in aerial display.

Their little mud pouches cling

to the sides of a million homes

where chicks scream for food.

Summer brings this diversity

of colour after winter drab,

finches flit, flycatchers swoop

woodpeckers tap in reds and greens

in the season’s living mosaic.

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Dear Mr Gandhi, did you really say

that we have to become the change

that we want within the world?

Dear Mr Gandhi, your saying is so hard.

Can I really do it, this monumental thing:

and change the entire world?

Dear Mr Gandhi, what is it you ask;

for me to leave my comfort behind

and walk the dry dusty roads?

Dear Mr Gandhi, do you really mean,

my insignificant voice can be heard

and force the world to change?

Dear Mr Gandhi, I wish I had courage,

for then this task that lies ahead,

wouldn’t frighten me so.

Then Dear Mr Gandhi turned and smiled,

“Is this little task so hard…

You won’t be alone.”

By David Gould © 3^rd September 2008

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An Open Hand

Here is my open hand

please take my only gift,

I have nothing to give

but my loyalty and love.

I am poor and simple

I have no gold to give

but here is my heart

within this open hand.

Clasp my hand please

and share friendship now,

we will be so much stronger

helping each other together.

By David Gould © 18^th August 2008

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Changing The World

I want the world to change,

away from needless war;

that only bring us sorrow,

separation, distress and pain.

I want the world to change,

for freedom to find its voice.

I would like to see the burden

of oppression all lifted now.

I want the world to change,

for hunger to be no more.

I do not want the greedy

to eat another’s food.

I want the world to change

for all political prisoners

to be freed from torment

and loose their heavy chains.

I want to change my world

but what can one man do?

I am so insignificant alone

with little power of my own.

“We want to change the world”

so swells the mighty roar,

of us all joined together

to shake the seats of power.

By David Gould © 18^th August 2008

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This argument within me,

the one only I can hear

is really stopping peace

from coming to this world.

This heated inner debate

with all the pros and cons

erupts as distant thunder

upsetting the balanced self.

I have to still the voices

those that only I can hear,

and relearn my breathing

to silence this discontent.

Focus on a point of light

clear all my other thoughts,

see the flower opening

to light the perfect world.

Only when this inner still

descends upon my soul

can I hear the world weep

for all its children’s pain.

Only then can I hear you

Just what it is you say.

Your sadness can move

that innermost core of me.

Now I can hear you plainly

and feel each bitter blow,

that you in silence endure

for all your pain is mine.

Just a little while my friend,

endurance will sow its seed,

the peace movement is here

growing stronger by the day.

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I Noticed

I noticed the frost hung on trees

little points of crystal water

and in the torch light tonight

it sparkled back, a million eyes

all winking at me in the dark.

I noticed the person that smiled

without a word being said today

it lit up my life today, this smile

because it was a gift, utterly free

that lifted my spirit. I sang within.

David © 9^th January 2009

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Futures Child

The pen, mightier than the sword

because long after the old sword

has been relegated to the museum

the pen is still here, working away.

And War what can we say of her?

As she flees from each battlefield

her flouncing skirts stained red…

with the blood of a million innocents.

And now it is, Grace walks the earth

with all her bright children in tow,

I can see you Respect and you, you

little Love and of course there’s Peace.

David © 20^th January 2009

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