"gibbens" poems
On the zero night
It doesn’t matter if someone loves you
Or if you have something between you and the emptiness
Broken trailers with incoherent messages sprayed
“Kitten ***** “Idelibo frant”, messabi todar”
But still the silence descends
The Buddha is confused and lost
Frightened men with their heavy guns
Counting the bullets
Will there be enough?
Sliding hands over ****** knives
We have our pizza, our beer
The screaming is muted for tonight
Please tell me, ghost of the future
Can our superficial images of beauty
Cover our despair?
Still the digital display is counting
The numbers, though meaningless have changed.
If we turned off the lights of Las Vegas
Would we still have a chance to breathe?
What eyrie darkness.
The drones are clustered above the targets
But there is uncertainty
Still the moon shines
And the silence builds
Gibbens 2013-08-21
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
Degrees Of Gray In Philipsburg
You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down.
The last good kiss
you had was years ago.
You walk these streets
laid out by the insane,.......
The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he's done.....
Richard Hugo, 1967
with many, many apologies to Richard
The Last Prisoner
For years gray man
Huddled in the old cell
In his burning brain
He plots his escape
So quiet and careful he has been
In his scheming. Even in the dark nights
His plan moves forward
The latch is weakening
Under careful pressure the hinges
For the door itself, begin to fail
He imagines the excitement of being released
Of friends who might shout his name,
Buy him a drink
Of his lover, older now, with her knowing smile
Telling him she knew no jail could hold him
Of the light, the sun, the trees in the rain
He grinds his remaining teeth
Brushes thinning hair
Chuckling to himself, thinks of old songs
He has lost any sense of time, can't remember
Winter or Spring
For him there has been the locked door
The endless filing, rubbing, wearing down
Pushing, cursing the barrier that has blighted his life
It happens when is he is drowsing
Half awake, wrapped in rags
That pass for bedding
A strange sound, like a tree falling
Or a sudden heavy blow
And the gate, the door,
The anchor that has blighted his life
Is gone!
He staggers in the light
Blinded nearly
And sees the vague shadows
The empty streets, shops boarded up
An echoing silence, old papers blown
Leaning against the wall
He considers
Should he return to the cell?
Gibbens
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 11:25 PM UTC
Suwreel
The tale of the fat birds
Fire feathered in the dark woods
Asks the myth mountains
Snow drooping and year stained
The long magic of tears crystaled
Sing Cywril to Balour
Make the glad telling
Glow the Tenebrae's darkness
From the fen-mars to Dagash
The truth remains shuttered
The hard fists raise towers
The exhausted land prospers
Heavy with blood thirst
Sing Cywril, Sing, Sing
Gibbens, 68, 12
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 7:45 PM UTC
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
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
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
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
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
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC
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
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 5:12 PM UTC
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
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 2:19 PM UTC