COLD PRESS
- Gwen Beauregard
- Montreal, Quebec, Canada
- i wrote some books and gave away library. i like to think that every poem is a love poem. i believe that "No" is a full sentence. i used to collect old books and young cats. i don't like noisy people, places or things. my three favourite words: yes, please, thank you. my favourite punctuation mark is the colon: i have a beautiful cat, a bicycle, an old typewriter, and a ladle. these things make me happy.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Pencil in my life with gentle strokes,
In water colours of pale blues, and tawny yellows.
I'll pencil in your life with watery memories
Of all the good times we both knew.
Use an eraser, while I forgive that I forgot
That you have loved, and that I have too.
And when we meet again, at the end of some
Train of thought, we will smile to one another.
Let us pencil in our memories,
With kindness and forethought.
(c)Gwen Beauregard - 2010 - All Rights Reserved
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
It is the height of conceit
that I write poetry
I play with words
and write doggerel
as if they were comfortable
but dusty old friends
There has never been
any pretense to the contrary
I'm still waiting the day
when I shall write
that one perfect sentence
that in your mind
you'd wished
you had written
- Gwen Beauregard
The cat stretches his full length,
Stomach filled with stolen cream, a mouse or two,
Going his merry rounds, no more than a mile around
The perimeter of his inhabited cat-world,
Seeking cat-adventures, secret only to him.
Leaving billets doux as sign-posts that he had been
On silent patrol guarding that which belongs
To the wandering scoundrels unaware of his presence
As he lies in silent wait until evening dusk calls him home
To his hearth and kin, who patiently wait
To let this vagrant wanderlust vagabond in.
Gwen Beauregard - 2011
They came crashing down upon my head.
"The books are coming. The books are coming!"
I woke up suddenly, screaming into the night.
My father came, his tiny daughter in a sweat,
"No books," he said, quieting me down,
"Now go back to bed."
Two more years of night terrors ensued;
Every night the same dread.
Books became my friends,
The night terrors came to an end.
(c) Gwen Beauregard - (02.19.11)
The sky has her moods,
The mountains do too.
The oceans turn angry shades of blue.
Why even people sometimes do.
They sit lonely on a rock
Not minding the sound of tick tock.
They vacantly stare into space
Dreaming the dreams of a tired
And weary old race.
The earth, she moves
To thundering applause,
Her shifting and her clattering,
Shattering, deafens the ears.
But, I've no time for that,
I've people to see and places to go,
And that's that.
- Gwen Beauregard (2011)
IF I were God,
I'd give you a constant crimson sun.
If had the wealth of an arab sheik,
I'd give you the crescent moon,
And all the stars in the heavens,
Just for you to play upon.
IF I were your one true love,
I'd give you some goose-down pillows
To lay all your worldly troubles on.
But all I have on earth to give you
Is one small and very tender heart
To meet you and to greet you
And not be trampled upon.
IF you were God,
I'd surely ask for all the birds in the sky
To sing to me your one exclusive song.
IF you were as rich as an arab sheik,
I'd ask for all the seven seas,
Just for us to sail upon.
IF you were my one true love,
I'd ask for two white matching turtledoves.
But of all the things that you could give,
I'd ask for nothing more than my hand in yours
To walk us through God's own Eternity.
Oh dear,
time is a-fleeting.
The countdown began
a brand new year
to mess up in.
Too many things to do,
friends to visit --
a whole slew.
But here I am
getting back to you.
With thanks in my heart,
straw in my head.
At least I'm alive,
not yet quite dead.
I think I'll just leave
with my wishes for you.
May your year be blessed
free of wants and distress,
Peace and good health,
and all of my best.
Thank you for your friendship,
all the year through.
I hope you feel that way too.
I'm no poet,
darn, I know it.
But, this is the end.
The end
(c) Gwen Beauregard - (12.31.10)
What is the price of peace, my friend
What will you willingly pay for it?
Let's not rock neither boats, nor cradles;
Peace at any price is bloody, so let's
Not disturb the souls of the dead,
Or the yet to be born. Oh no, not I.
Peace does not sound clarion calls
In empty halls spattered with the crimson blood
of innocents; none are innocent in a war of lunatics.
And all your gnashing and wailing cries in the dark
Fall on deafened ears and ghostly eyes,
While you preach brother love
And hold out Lotus blossoms,
And pray to your gods for mercy.
You will sacrifice your Firstborn and your Last,
Your mother and your brother in your eternal quest;
Your neighbours, and your friends,
As a means to all bad ends. Oh no, not I.
Peace will stand in effigy, with whispers and cries
of the souls of those confounded dead.
And when the sound of the last baby's cry turns
The sky to red, and muffled, gnashing agony of weepings
Rents the earth beneath your unclad feet, while
I have blood on my hands. I'll deny, 'Oh no, not I.'
I am a man of peace.
(c)Gwen Beauregard (12.24.10)
(With apologies to Joyce Kilmer)
I think I shall never see
A she as foolish as a he.
A he whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against whatever he likes best.
A he who looks at girls all day,
Spends his time in foolish play.
A he that may in summer wear
A nest of freckles and not care.
Upon whose breast tattoos have lain
Who ultimately shuns work for gain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can create a He.
(c)Gwen Beauregard - 1957
If only I could see the waves
Which dance upon the sea.
With graceful leaps and playful pranks
As children they could 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'll 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.
(c) - Gwen Beauregard - 1956
What hands are these
That rocked the cradles.
Held fevered children
To her breast?
Worked in fields by day;
Never knew a moment's rest.
Set a thousand meals
Upon her table.
Frowned with a mother's worry
Over an inconsolable son.
While another went off to wars
That could not be won.
Her work was never done.
What narrative is this that
Wears weary marks of age
Etched upon one beautiful face?
(c) Gwen Beauregard - (01.02.11)
...and a herd of elephants came trumpeting through
Where they are going, lumbering behemoths, they move.
Nor sand, nor wind, nor breadth of time
Can delay their endless quest to quench their thirst.
They stop only long enough to bid adieu
To a fallen youngster too weary to walk to journey's end.
They must plod on forty miles and more
Their destiny imprinted in their genetic code.
These magnificent nomads of the plains,
Tail-to-trunk they wearily march on.
Their Destiny wrapped in rituals only the Matriarch
Knows what end's in sight (but she does know).
They soldier on through triumph and adversity
They soldier on and on an on...
