gary-gibbens - Hello Poetry

Now the Spring has returned to my life I feel the earth begin to grow. Soft and green the trees are leaning down And the winter winds don’t blow. Yet I know that Spring is fleeting. In a heartbeat it is gone Even now the flowers are fading, The blossoms slowly drifting down. Bringing Spring inside my life So ephemeral, yet so profound Holding it warms my heart, So dried and worn from winter storms I celebrate the birdsong symphony The bright colors all around In the morning light Spring lies with me Dreaming down so soft and warm And the waking earth Stirs me to grow as well Telling me to try and try again. Like the new sprouts on the trees Now the Spring has returned to my life. I feel the earth begin to grow. Soft and green the trees are leaning down, And the winter winds don’t blow.

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May 19, 2021

May 19, 2021 at 2:23 AM UTC

Morning Light

Now the Spring has returned to my life I feel the earth begin to grow. Soft and green the trees are leaning down And the winter winds don’t blow. Yet I know that Spring is fleeting. In a heartbeat it is gone Even now the flowers are fading, The blossoms slowly drifting down. Bringing Spring inside my life So ephemeral, yet so profound Holding it warms my heart, So dried and worn from winter storms I celebrate the birdsong symphony The bright colors all around In the morning light Spring lies with me Dreaming down so soft and warm And the waking earth Stirs me to grow as well Telling me to try and try again. Like the new sprouts on the trees Now the Spring has returned to my life. I feel the earth begin to grow. Soft and green the trees are leaning down, And the winter winds don’t blow.

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SANTIAGO The road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding then revealing the way you should take, the road dropping away from you as if leaving you to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up, when you thought you would fall, David Whyte. The Covid Pilgrimage Walking in the red dust Made of the remains of the many dead. There is still a path between The broken walls and dying trees. Black swans flying over me. The sky is uncomfortable, Twisting grey and dark clouds, tumbling. The pestilence covers the low hills like fog. Tendrils and squalls blowing towards me, Leaving me afraid, masked, and cloaked. There are others, masked and covered. Mostly they avoid me like I am dangerous, Because I am For a seemingly never-ending time The Orange King cavorted ahead. Lying, shaking his scepter Then he stumbled and fell away Leading the unwary far into the wilderness. I can still hear their cries, That now sound much more like screaming. After an impossible time I have reached the crest of a low hill. And there—could it be—so far away, there is a light, a beacon on the trail. I feel a roaring in my ears, My eyes blurred with tears. It changes colors but it is still there, A light shining at the end of this Camino. I am still walking in the red dust, Still mostly alone, cloaked and masked, But now I feel lighter, stronger. I hear a child laughing, a bird singing, And the relief of Joy comes to me. The pestilence still crouches on the ridges Coils of menacing clouds approach. But I find myself hoping and reaching out a hand To those I love. I am learning a lesson from the pilgrimage. Today my heart is open. Gary Gibbens, Jan 2021

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Jan 27, 2021

Jan 27, 2021 at 2:19 PM UTC

The Covid Pilgrimage

SANTIAGO The road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding then revealing the way you should take, the road dropping away from you as if leaving you to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up, when you thought you would fall, David Whyte. The Covid Pilgrimage Walking in the red dust Made of the remains of the many dead. There is still a path between The broken walls and dying trees. Black swans flying over me. The sky is uncomfortable, Twisting grey and dark clouds, tumbling. The pestilence covers the low hills like fog. Tendrils and squalls blowing towards me, Leaving me afraid, masked, and cloaked. There are others, masked and covered. Mostly they avoid me like I am dangerous, Because I am For a seemingly never-ending time The Orange King cavorted ahead. Lying, shaking his scepter Then he stumbled and fell away Leading the unwary far into the wilderness. I can still hear their cries, That now sound much more like screaming. After an impossible time I have reached the crest of a low hill. And there—could it be—so far away, there is a light, a beacon on the trail. I feel a roaring in my ears, My eyes blurred with tears. It changes colors but it is still there, A light shining at the end of this Camino. I am still walking in the red dust, Still mostly alone, cloaked and masked, But now I feel lighter, stronger. I hear a child laughing, a bird singing, And the relief of Joy comes to me. The pestilence still crouches on the ridges Coils of menacing clouds approach. But I find myself hoping and reaching out a hand To those I love. I am learning a lesson from the pilgrimage. Today my heart is open. Gary Gibbens, Jan 2021

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Sitting here in Limbo, Waiting for the dice to roll Sitting here in Limbo…… 2020 seemed like another insane, poorly written reality show The Orange King was jumping around the stage Eructating lies in all directions The year-round celebration of wealth, Super Bowl, me two criminals, Oscars Glittering media stars parading in flashing garments And jeweled eyelashes intercut with global warming Stock market soaring and then: The Pale Horseman came to town At first most everyone smiled and lied The Orange King assured us it was a big nothing burger But Covid soon flowed into all our lives Our screens flashing with red and black numbers Then the Lines of the dead, the diseased the jobs lost, the hearts of the cities filled with silence The ICUs filled with flashing machines and the vicitms No longer could the lies cover the honesty of fear Soon quiet solemn doctors recited the grim truths Except for the Orange King who could not stop yelling obscenities Every night the horseman swung its great scythe And the coffins were shrouded in mass graves The parties have ended, the arenas are empty The true competition of trying to stay alive begins Silence, except the ambulances screaming by The tv anchors have poor lighting, bad makeup, Mumbling behind their masks Some caught the illness, some cried, some tried to comfort us Now with springtime all around us, Covered with an abundance of green life Are our soft bodies safe from the dread horseman’s hand? But no, even in time of quarantine and fear The police ****** black men Tear gas and fire fill the darkened streets The Second Horseman is now riding Cities are on fire Can those of us who still love struggle towards That far green place, where we all live in justice and in peace? Do we have the courage to carry on? Listening to all of those who have been murdered and exploited? The Gray men with their wealth and weapons think we will forget Smirking and planning their next robberies Both the Horsemen are ready to strike And now is the time for our choice, 1861, 1914, 1939, 1968…NOW. Gibbens 4/3—6/16/20

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Jun 17, 2020

Jun 17, 2020 at 5:12 PM UTC

Ceremonies of the Horsemen

Sitting here in Limbo, Waiting for the dice to roll Sitting here in Limbo…… 2020 seemed like another insane, poorly written reality show The Orange King was jumping around the stage Eructating lies in all directions The year-round celebration of wealth, Super Bowl, me two criminals, Oscars Glittering media stars parading in flashing garments And jeweled eyelashes intercut with global warming Stock market soaring and then: The Pale Horseman came to town At first most everyone smiled and lied The Orange King assured us it was a big nothing burger But Covid soon flowed into all our lives Our screens flashing with red and black numbers Then the Lines of the dead, the diseased the jobs lost, the hearts of the cities filled with silence The ICUs filled with flashing machines and the vicitms No longer could the lies cover the honesty of fear Soon quiet solemn doctors recited the grim truths Except for the Orange King who could not stop yelling obscenities Every night the horseman swung its great scythe And the coffins were shrouded in mass graves The parties have ended, the arenas are empty The true competition of trying to stay alive begins Silence, except the ambulances screaming by The tv anchors have poor lighting, bad makeup, Mumbling behind their masks Some caught the illness, some cried, some tried to comfort us Now with springtime all around us, Covered with an abundance of green life Are our soft bodies safe from the dread horseman’s hand? But no, even in time of quarantine and fear The police ****** black men Tear gas and fire fill the darkened streets The Second Horseman is now riding Cities are on fire Can those of us who still love struggle towards That far green place, where we all live in justice and in peace? Do we have the courage to carry on? Listening to all of those who have been murdered and exploited? The Gray men with their wealth and weapons think we will forget Smirking and planning their next robberies Both the Horsemen are ready to strike And now is the time for our choice, 1861, 1914, 1939, 1968…NOW. Gibbens 4/3—6/16/20

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On the night of the Darkmoon High summer, stars like jewel fire in the skies Cygnus spreading her wings over all In the kingdom of power The Orange King is dancing and chanting Dumping his buckets of warm spittle over the Dreamers Even here on the guarded Isle, We can hear their screams The grey boys who follow the King Crawl out of their cocoons, cradling their black weapons Now in the height of the Darkmoon The siren trucks are carrying the victims of the King’s speech Murdered and clutching their dead children The Grey Men in the high towers murmur And count their golden trophies Still it is a Darkmoon summer night on the Isle And as dawn begins to break We can see shy red flowers on the bean vines. We pray for healing and the cage for the Orange monarch But our hope is feeble on this early morning. Aug. 6, 2019

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Aug 6, 2019

Aug 6, 2019 at 12:41 PM UTC

Night of the Darkmoon

On the night of the Darkmoon High summer, stars like jewel fire in the skies Cygnus spreading her wings over all In the kingdom of power The Orange King is dancing and chanting Dumping his buckets of warm spittle over the Dreamers Even here on the guarded Isle, We can hear their screams The grey boys who follow the King Crawl out of their cocoons, cradling their black weapons Now in the height of the Darkmoon The siren trucks are carrying the victims of the King’s speech Murdered and clutching their dead children The Grey Men in the high towers murmur And count their golden trophies Still it is a Darkmoon summer night on the Isle And as dawn begins to break We can see shy red flowers on the bean vines. We pray for healing and the cage for the Orange monarch But our hope is feeble on this early morning. Aug. 6, 2019

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A Vision Waiting—1972-2018 key of C I dreamed I was a Navajo Riding on the plains Through a herd of Buffalo Running in the rain And the mountains They seem higher now The purple and the gray Filling up the western sky For the ending of the day The evening’s full of darkness But the stars are clear and bright And the howling of the wolves Tells the story of the night Still I’m searching for a hidden spring With three green trees beside Where a vision waits for me To give me peace tonight. GJC

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Apr 24, 2018

Apr 24, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC

A Vision Waiting

A Vision Waiting—1972-2018 key of C I dreamed I was a Navajo Riding on the plains Through a herd of Buffalo Running in the rain And the mountains They seem higher now The purple and the gray Filling up the western sky For the ending of the day The evening’s full of darkness But the stars are clear and bright And the howling of the wolves Tells the story of the night Still I’m searching for a hidden spring With three green trees beside Where a vision waits for me To give me peace tonight. GJC

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You want it darker We **** the flame (L. Cohen) For Leonard Now the Orange king is walking The worshipers crawling along behind Back slapping with both broken arms Polishing the gilded chrome We will spend some time with our faces Pressed against the wires Dodging the guards and pepper spray Hoping for that midnight beauty that still remains Like music in the freezing rain *Oh Leonard, I need you, I need you, I need you I need you now* Still the broken bell is hanging in that old tower The view is clear down to the straits Where dark water rolls below empty skies I hear his husky voice behind the silence; The game is fixed, the dealer lied Still Alexandra moves ahead of us in such beauty Sparkling motes floating in the sun The King in Orange is shouting now Leading all of them to the land of plenty Where the pillar of flame guides him And manna falls from on high He does not know the tomb is empty That the ancient heart is broken In the land of truth That secret place The bell is ringing in the old tower Black birds clustered around the rim The light is going out of the land Out on the seas a small light is moving Struggling towards the fog bank In the growing dusk, we see his light We see his light, once more we see the light Somewhere we hear a red violin Flooding the darkness with beauty A king chained to a broken throne whispers "Hallelujah" And a black woman sings “Peace” In many languages The bell rings Then he is gone We fall to the ground Wrapped in our shawls Soaking the earth with our tears *And the angel said, “He is not here, the tomb is empty”* Then he is gone And the secret life is darker He is gone G. Gibbens 11/16

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Dec 2, 2016

Dec 2, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC

Trump Enters, Leonard departs: A Memorial of Sorts

You want it darker We **** the flame (L. Cohen) For Leonard Now the Orange king is walking The worshipers crawling along behind Back slapping with both broken arms Polishing the gilded chrome We will spend some time with our faces Pressed against the wires Dodging the guards and pepper spray Hoping for that midnight beauty that still remains Like music in the freezing rain *Oh Leonard, I need you, I need you, I need you I need you now* Still the broken bell is hanging in that old tower The view is clear down to the straits Where dark water rolls below empty skies I hear his husky voice behind the silence; The game is fixed, the dealer lied Still Alexandra moves ahead of us in such beauty Sparkling motes floating in the sun The King in Orange is shouting now Leading all of them to the land of plenty Where the pillar of flame guides him And manna falls from on high He does not know the tomb is empty That the ancient heart is broken In the land of truth That secret place The bell is ringing in the old tower Black birds clustered around the rim The light is going out of the land Out on the seas a small light is moving Struggling towards the fog bank In the growing dusk, we see his light We see his light, once more we see the light Somewhere we hear a red violin Flooding the darkness with beauty A king chained to a broken throne whispers "Hallelujah" And a black woman sings “Peace” In many languages The bell rings Then he is gone We fall to the ground Wrapped in our shawls Soaking the earth with our tears *And the angel said, “He is not here, the tomb is empty”* Then he is gone And the secret life is darker He is gone G. Gibbens 11/16

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By the rivers dark, Where it all goes on By the rivers dark In Babylon L. Cohen Once a story of shrines Paths winding over open hills Holding beauty under blue satin skies Cold silver moon floating on luminous rays Dark waters with tongues of white Murmuring This was our journey Ever before us the promise of dawn Gold light spreading the story of love and light Now, lost in the ravenwoods We struggle to hold on Staggering in these diseased swamps The roads to the undying lands long since drowned And everywhere around us the armies of the night Trying to ensure death for all, including themselves Surrounded by their victims, starving, wounded, Sinking in the black waters We struggle on, trying to save them and ourselves And I ask you, my guide, my follower, my friend Where are we bound? We can only follow the sound of our beating hearts And hope. Selah G. Gibbens, 2015

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Nov 27, 2015

Nov 27, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC

Pilgrims

By the rivers dark, Where it all goes on By the rivers dark In Babylon L. Cohen Once a story of shrines Paths winding over open hills Holding beauty under blue satin skies Cold silver moon floating on luminous rays Dark waters with tongues of white Murmuring This was our journey Ever before us the promise of dawn Gold light spreading the story of love and light Now, lost in the ravenwoods We struggle to hold on Staggering in these diseased swamps The roads to the undying lands long since drowned And everywhere around us the armies of the night Trying to ensure death for all, including themselves Surrounded by their victims, starving, wounded, Sinking in the black waters We struggle on, trying to save them and ourselves And I ask you, my guide, my follower, my friend Where are we bound? We can only follow the sound of our beating hearts And hope. Selah G. Gibbens, 2015

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Clothed in its blanket of birds Great arms reaching impossibly high Her leaves filtering the light between shadows And flashing diamonds of sky For thousands of travels round the sun She worshipped the turning earth Through raging fires, the shaking ground, frozen winters Droughts for decades burned the soils, The rivers disappeared and still she held herself High and strong Even the humans recognized her power Leaving offerings around her roots Fruits of the earth, fish and painted stones And then George came The natives told him it was the largest tree in the world The Mother Tree He needed to monetize it No one was going to come out to see it And he needed capital for investments (mostly ***** So he cut her bark off Just the first 20 feet or so Carried it off and put it on a train For paying customers to see (two feet thick and 20’ high, oh my!) They say she lived for another year or two before she died They drove iron spikes into the trunk so visitors could climb up her skeleton And over a century later, over a hundred feet of her trunk Still rises over the valley of the giant trees I like to think that the Mother, That burned spar on the hill Is still trying to protect us From ourselves. Selah 2015

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May 22, 2015

May 22, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC

The Mother of the Forest

Clothed in its blanket of birds Great arms reaching impossibly high Her leaves filtering the light between shadows And flashing diamonds of sky For thousands of travels round the sun She worshipped the turning earth Through raging fires, the shaking ground, frozen winters Droughts for decades burned the soils, The rivers disappeared and still she held herself High and strong Even the humans recognized her power Leaving offerings around her roots Fruits of the earth, fish and painted stones And then George came The natives told him it was the largest tree in the world The Mother Tree He needed to monetize it No one was going to come out to see it And he needed capital for investments (mostly ***** So he cut her bark off Just the first 20 feet or so Carried it off and put it on a train For paying customers to see (two feet thick and 20’ high, oh my!) They say she lived for another year or two before she died They drove iron spikes into the trunk so visitors could climb up her skeleton And over a century later, over a hundred feet of her trunk Still rises over the valley of the giant trees I like to think that the Mother, That burned spar on the hill Is still trying to protect us From ourselves. Selah 2015

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And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor…. Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” E.A. Poe When we were younger we walked paths of beauty Up dusty steps before the sunrise Until the sun rose over red stone arches Through the mist of rainbows from the falls And the golden eagles screamed over us Flying down the long trails of morning Though we were afraid, we thought that maybe We knew enough and loved enough to follow the dawn Surely there was more to our journey than Shiny vehicles surrounded by summer lawns Living in false palaces while the forests burned around us Life broke us many times and our pride Like damaged feathers pulled us down We could not find the true song There were strange voices from the stars But no one believed our translations Now we are older, our hands are worn We are so weary And the Raven has come His eyes are shiny and feathers black He moves his head to one side With a cynical call he derides our struggles Tells us, “No more dreaming No more wistful stories of the time before, Nevermore.” Though my heart is still burning With broken dreams and misplaced lore I have not forgotten the cerulean blue morning skies The voices of ancient children still singing And my love laughing by the waters Perhaps this old Raven will attend me Another journey though our wings are sore And oversee another sunrise On those beautiful, blissful shores. Gibbens, 2015

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Jan 27, 2015

Jan 27, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC

Raven Dreams

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor…. Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” E.A. Poe When we were younger we walked paths of beauty Up dusty steps before the sunrise Until the sun rose over red stone arches Through the mist of rainbows from the falls And the golden eagles screamed over us Flying down the long trails of morning Though we were afraid, we thought that maybe We knew enough and loved enough to follow the dawn Surely there was more to our journey than Shiny vehicles surrounded by summer lawns Living in false palaces while the forests burned around us Life broke us many times and our pride Like damaged feathers pulled us down We could not find the true song There were strange voices from the stars But no one believed our translations Now we are older, our hands are worn We are so weary And the Raven has come His eyes are shiny and feathers black He moves his head to one side With a cynical call he derides our struggles Tells us, “No more dreaming No more wistful stories of the time before, Nevermore.” Though my heart is still burning With broken dreams and misplaced lore I have not forgotten the cerulean blue morning skies The voices of ancient children still singing And my love laughing by the waters Perhaps this old Raven will attend me Another journey though our wings are sore And oversee another sunrise On those beautiful, blissful shores. Gibbens, 2015

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At Qadisiyyah, Khalid, the great Islamic leader, defeated the Sassanids or Persians in 636 AD leading to the conquest of Persia by Islam Recently there was a battle between ISIS and the Iraqis in the same place. Firing the Kord 12.7 heavy machine gun In the back of the Toyota was powerful Especially in the dark The muzzle flash half a meter long He was an instrument of the Divine Blessed be his name The brothers were crossing the same red orange soil Where Khalid defeated the Sassinids Down that long road that led to Bagdad Everything was so pure, so clean No thoughts of that skinny sickly man, his father Or mother’s tears and wailing The swollen bodies left in ditches All the innocent dead Just the wind and the dust Hands on the trigger, the road unwinding like a rope Two f-18s sliding through the sky at twilight All the displays lit Coming on the convoy from behind Missiles locked and launched, hostiles hit Another pass, two more flashes Back to the carrier, 10 out of 10 He opened the eye that could see Noticed the stars burning like a river in the skies A sickle moon setting Faded into a dream state for a while Images of a boy running through the ocean surf towards…. Then the pain tore him back The heavy gun lying across his legs and belly Something wrong with his right arm But he could move the left Wiped crusted red from his eye, called out to his brothers Just silence and the wind Moved his left hand to the trigger grip of the heavy gun Could still traverse a little bit Clicked off the safety and squeezed The gun roared with a spout of flame Now let them come The drone jockey was bored Waiting to go to the bar He’d texted Jess and she’d said maybe, maybe… Ops guy on the headset said activity on the road So he flew the drone down to the still smoking ruin of trucks Sure enough, movement and a muzzle flash Target acquired and Hellfire away Get some Screen went white More bad guys blown and gone The blast uncovered part of an inscribed stone slab The writing could have been Persian or Babylonian or… Might have been about a battle or a grave, we’ll never know The carrion eaters began to come And the red orange dust slid across The road.

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Sep 19, 2014

Sep 19, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC

The Road to Qadisiyyah

At Qadisiyyah, Khalid, the great Islamic leader, defeated the Sassanids or Persians in 636 AD leading to the conquest of Persia by Islam Recently there was a battle between ISIS and the Iraqis in the same place. Firing the Kord 12.7 heavy machine gun In the back of the Toyota was powerful Especially in the dark The muzzle flash half a meter long He was an instrument of the Divine Blessed be his name The brothers were crossing the same red orange soil Where Khalid defeated the Sassinids Down that long road that led to Bagdad Everything was so pure, so clean No thoughts of that skinny sickly man, his father Or mother’s tears and wailing The swollen bodies left in ditches All the innocent dead Just the wind and the dust Hands on the trigger, the road unwinding like a rope Two f-18s sliding through the sky at twilight All the displays lit Coming on the convoy from behind Missiles locked and launched, hostiles hit Another pass, two more flashes Back to the carrier, 10 out of 10 He opened the eye that could see Noticed the stars burning like a river in the skies A sickle moon setting Faded into a dream state for a while Images of a boy running through the ocean surf towards…. Then the pain tore him back The heavy gun lying across his legs and belly Something wrong with his right arm But he could move the left Wiped crusted red from his eye, called out to his brothers Just silence and the wind Moved his left hand to the trigger grip of the heavy gun Could still traverse a little bit Clicked off the safety and squeezed The gun roared with a spout of flame Now let them come The drone jockey was bored Waiting to go to the bar He’d texted Jess and she’d said maybe, maybe… Ops guy on the headset said activity on the road So he flew the drone down to the still smoking ruin of trucks Sure enough, movement and a muzzle flash Target acquired and Hellfire away Get some Screen went white More bad guys blown and gone The blast uncovered part of an inscribed stone slab The writing could have been Persian or Babylonian or… Might have been about a battle or a grave, we’ll never know The carrion eaters began to come And the red orange dust slid across The road.

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