Poetic Lines

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Comment by David Gould on July 24, 2011 at 0:44

Travelling

I wish I were a gypsy heart,
to see each shining sea,
I wish I were a wanderer,
to see each star anew.

I wish I were a traveller
of every strange new land,
I wish to see such wonders
And sing of all earth’s joy.

I wish to move on again
To fields of bright dew
I wish to see a spider’s web
opon a branch of yew.

I wish to yearn of freedom
And caste my view afar
But some of my persuasion
just do not wish to go.

David Gould © 28 May 2011

Comment by David Gould on July 24, 2011 at 0:42

The Lady Never Smiled (Part 2)

So precisely she died
on a Tuesday in May
the milkman found her
collecting on Friday.

A van came to collect
it took her neatly away
leaving her house empty
with pealing green paint.

No more those little steps
were heard upon her path
and no more do we hear
those clipped little words.

The vicar called to see me
on the following Monday
could I see my way perhaps
to see her off in style.

There were three of us
sat within the church
we watched them carry
that tiny box of her.

The vicar said her name
we never knew before
she was called Florence
by whoever gave her birth.

Over the years I come
to lay some flowers down
but bitterly regret that I
had never known her name.

A peace here with Florence
a place to lay my guilt
with no one to see
how I failed her in life.

David © 5th April 2010

Comment by David Gould on July 26, 2010 at 0:47

Haunted by myself

I am haunted by the ghost of me
Trip tripping on worn thread rugs
or neat steps on dew stained lawn
leaving wet footprints on the flags
leading nowhere just evaporate me
to show a passing of a ghostly self

I cannot count the steps up I take
trip tripping up the rug less stairs
or neat steps on rough harsh wood
leaving wet footprints where none pass
going nowhere since I don’t exist
except in the mind that has passed

Self haunting, I look quickly round
and there trip tripping steps falter
no neat steps can now be heard
and wet footprints are not there
I did not pass this way today
as there are no footprints left

David © 10th July 2010

Comment by Kirsten Easdale on March 25, 2010 at 11:15

Comment by Kirsten Easdale on March 25, 2010 at 11:13

Comment by David Gould on March 25, 2010 at 0:01

HI Fred & Grace, when you have tackled those you might like to read "An Autobiography" by Edwin Muir (if you haven't already) and then move onto the hefty tome of poems by his student "The Collected Poems of George Mackay Brown" both excellent reads for any student of Scottish verse.

Comment by David Gould on March 22, 2010 at 0:30

The Lady Never Smiles

She is so very precise
with her little wooden steps
and neatly folded hands
and formal face of flint.

She is so very fastidious
her every move economic
as though all pre-planned,
to an exacting order.

Her words are measured
clipped, rationed, but wise
ever so politely expressed
and always utterly infallible.

Her knowing little smile
cannot hide the inner pain
which glints in diamond eyes,
a controlled, restrained fire.

She never has been married
there have been some rumours
but nothing really known,
if war robbed her of love.

She lives here in our street
but little more is known
of where she worked before
or what it is she does.

I wonder perhaps who she is
this lady of mystery deep
I can only but speculate
since her door is ever closed.

David © 21st march 2010

Comment by David Gould on February 24, 2010 at 0:21

The Old Showman

He sits astride a rough wood stage
his muscled old legs a swinging
and summoning up his many years
thinks ahead to the show to come
and quietly mutters
what the heck
“Its Just One More Show.”

Tonight he will sing his songs again
the same he’s sung for decades
his voice will explore the octaves
that he learnt as just a lad
while he thinks
what the heck
“This is just one more show.”

And when he opens wide his mouth
he sings words he thought forgotten
it is not words that dance and sing
but memories of seventy summers by
but still he thinks
what the heck
“It’s just one more show.”

Each summer this little wooden stage
he has carried, unpacked and set up
in many places, towns and hamlets
while winter work brings little rest
and all it’s for
by heck
“Is just one more show.”

And finally weakened he lays down
knowing his time is near done
there will be no more aching arms
and no more songs to sing
but somewhere he wishes
by heck
“Just for one more show.”David Gould © 22nd February 2010

Comment by David Gould on February 24, 2010 at 0:20

Last year my 20 year old son was taken to the World War One Battlefields as part of his military training...this is based upon his thoughts when he returned.

Our Sons at the Battlefields

How these fields peacefully lie
where so many came to die
and the markers, row on row
row on row of human sorrow
for them there was no tomorrow
and many yet lie where they fell
trapped forever in conflict’s hell.

I wish someone held my hand
and helped me try to understand
why so many young men died
and how their lives were swept aside
sweeping all this land as a tide
as they fell on unseeing ground
layer on layer, an obscene mould.


Now my friend we stand and weep
recalling the death they didn’t seek
these young men were like our sons
full of hope and manly passions
but with a haughty sweep of pen
the orders sent them to that end
that none could ever comprehend
looking at peaceful field and fen.

David Gould © 23rd February 2010

Comment by David Gould on January 11, 2010 at 0:33

Soft white velvet footsteps
pushing powdered snow
leaving perfect imprints
exact reverse boot-treads
on frozen nighttimes’ sheet.
Creaking footfalls precise
guarding against a slip
in this icy silver loom
lit only by a full moon
where one would lie
still in this white desert
till found preserved
in the light of day

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