THE WOUNDED CHILD

~ MY YOUNGER SELF ~



A crewcut pillowed in the silvery sands
on the shores of a nearby lake.
A yellow ribbon bobbing perilously in an
auburn ponytail, as carefree as the wearer herself.
A pair of white bucks wrapped around
a stool in the malt shop.
Bronzed legs clad in faded denim comes alive
to the beat of the latest Rock 'N Roll hit.
And when these become but a memory, one faces
the grim realization: One has grown up.



(c) Gwen Beauregard - 1959 - All Rights Reserved

RELEFECTIONS ON THE ARTIST

REFLECTIONS ON THE ARTIST

The thoughtful expression of Raphael,
The silent contemplative response to great music.
Knowledge of love and life obtained in literature.
In all, truth and beauty,
Love and life, are portrayed.

The true greatness of mankind is revealed.
This is the essence of great art.
The Creator is mirrored,
The workings of his Grace are shown.
Man - the artist; reflecting God - the Creator.


(c)Gwen Beauregard - 1957 - All Rights Reserved

THE DREAMER

The night was misty like a vale of tears,
Then suddenly I saw in aging years
Hair that was dark and shining bright
Had turned to silver through the night.

Hands so white, calm and pale
Rested in her lap like a snow white veil,
Eyes that had once twinkled bright and blue
Were now closed in sad adieu.

I thought of this woman in her rocking chair.
My thoughts did wander here and there.
Lingering on the subject had made me cry.
Came the dawn, this woman was I.



(c) Gwen Beauregard - 1959 - All Rights Reserved

TO SEE A WAVE

If only I could see the waves
Which dance upon the sea.
With graceful leaps and playful pranks
As children they would be.
I picture them with silvery hair
That's tossed against the shore.

If only I could see one wave
I would not ask for more.
It seems a foolish wish,
If blind I will always be.

But then my dream would be complete
One tiny wave to see.
If only I could see a wave.
If only I could see.


Gwen Beauregard - 1956 - All Rights Reserved


I wrote this poem for school chum who had
been blind her entire life. Her greatest wish
was to be taken to the ocean so she could
watch the waves.

THE JURY

Shall I compare life to a deep regret,
A flower that blooms, or one that fades away?
Or should it most effectively be set
As a trial which lingers day by day?

The world is but a courtroom life creates;
Where weary wanderers plot their common case;
Where will is judge and conscience often dies
And decisions are made at a hurried pace.

But life enthralls a greater deal than this.
For is it not our goals and attitudes
Which brings us to our day's enlightened bliss
And makes us wiser in the fortunes viewed?

If jurors of our cases we could be
Then surely life's fulfillment we could see.



(c)Gwen Beauregard - 1956 - All Rights Reserved

NIGHTS IN A CITY

Slowly it sneaks
Like a monster it crawls,
And silently it snatches
All in its claws.

It covers the sun
And shadows the streets.
Night has come
To the city that sleeps.


(c)Gwen Beauregard - 1956 - All Rights Reserved

THEME IN YELLOW

A ray of sunshine
Danced on the tawny veal
And made
Saffron acorn squash
Placed beside the buttered corn
Appear sallow by comparison


~*~*~


HUNTER'S DAWN

Brilliant gold slashing through the
blue mist of morn'
Dispersing the dew-stoned gray of predawn
Vibrant streaks of blinding yellow
Slash through the overhang of trees
And the world is born
Anew to light


~*~*~

(c) Gwen Beauregard - 1957 - All Rights Reserved

Wounded Child