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John Guichard

of

Maidstone, England, UK

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Dream Bowl.

by

John Guichard

I dream of a bowl
Vast and yet somehow not new.
It has a water source
Tinted faint blue.
I wash off my daily sins in its
Lonely painful caress.
The world returns, my hands still wet.

Returned again, the bowl seems fuller.
Its colour tainted.
Swirls of oily folly trap its lustre.
Dispersed the swirls my hands clean again.
I notice an inscription on its rim,
‘in tuis culpis oportet orbem
terrarum natare.’
In your wrongs the world must swim.

The bowl is filling second by second.
It rises up like a Machiavellian wave
Passes countless tidemarks of others before.
Haste to take in the meaning.
As the bowl is fit to overflow.
Taking my hands out I dip my head
And drink the waters tainted red.
Till all that’s left is what I found.
A bowl whose crafts are sparse renowned.


still

by

John Guichard

still, like fallen petals on a windowsill
you lie where you landed; waiting

Waiting in the sunshine, but never passing
beyond the glass. A shield? A barrior?

No, a cinema screen onto which you may project.

I wonder if the outside looks like it does from the inside out