"gibbons" poems
****** Mother Nature
As rain forests dwindle,
and skyscrapers grow,
we leave those who co habit
with nowhere to go...
Sweet indigenious song birds,
all turned off one by one
as we bulldoze the trees
where they once raised their young...
Stealing land from these creatures
in each and every direction
as we drive them all closer
to their own mass extinction...
there'll be uproar of course
when the last one is gone,
but this course of destruction
seems to just carry on...
In Asia the Tiger's
now on it's last legs,
hunted down for it's fur
and it's teeth ground to dregs,
The Bali and Caspian
are both sadly gone,
a mere five thousand Bengals
till they too follow on...
Just five hundred Sumatrans,
a last thirty Chinese,
then this beautiful Feline
will just cease to be...
There'll be uproar of course
when the last one is gone,
but our blood thirsty onslaught
will just carry on
Amur Leopards in Russia,
Jaguars in Brazil,
being wiped from the Earth
as we **** and we ****
Silvery Gibbons in Java,
Hynobius in Japan,
on and on goes the culling
of one and all except Man...
Polluting the rivers,
over fishing the seas,
as we spread and infest,
like a fatal disease,
yeah there's uproar of course
at this ill being done,
dusty crocodile tears
as we still carry on...
For an epitaph we'll have
as our only distinction,
that we were the cause
of Earths sixth mass extinction,
not a meteor smashing
from high outer space,
just a cancerous growth
called the inHuman race...
That we ravaged the planet
and drank it's well dry,
how we ripped out the goodness
and left it to die,
how there'd been a huge uproar
as they fell one by one,
how we ***** Mother Nature...
how
we
just
carried
on...
©HaroldRizla
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 3:23 AM UTC
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.
Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****
As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.
It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
How can I tell how Don Magregor went?
Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.
The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.
There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.
"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.
Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
2.8k
Autumn flares out, its flame burst clouds
strewn about misted cliff sides, loam whites
of winter taking their place. A stiff willow breeze,
ten thousand things withdrawn to burrows and immortal
pine heights. First snows stream down, duckweed carpets
of August fade, jade peeking through white. I embark
on the seasons final sail in hardening ice waters.
Til spring my sails will be folded, my raft in idleness.
~~~
Rafting on moon drenched river, avoiding cascades and crash of
rapids and falls. Silvered driftwood a warning. Silent glide of
mulberry oar through dark azure, another crafts sail in silhouette.
From the deck a black spectre dives below, stillness follows
splash, re-emergence, beak wrapped around a dazzling rainbow.
From my raft dangling lantern sways, trout swiping at
gathered moths – scatter and return, some from a far off realm.
Some trout in the net, others not. Luck or the way – who can tell?
~~~
Dusk colour gorge sheathed in
emerald blankets, rising into sheer
cliffs of auburn cinnabar, all
underpinned by the fathomless
flow of azure clarity. Snowy Egrets
nest in pine top heights clear of dust.
On white sand shores gibbons howl
towards squawking beach gulls, squabble
over landlocked trout – debate without end.
Peach blossom petals swirl on spring breeze
over carpets of jade inter cut by king
fisher blue zipping over duckweed. Oriole
song weaves in and out of mulberry branches.
In these vast and vague waters -
coves, creeks and streams all one,
a river dragon lives an undetermined
existence. Mud stirs below, merely a
catfish airing grievances.
Red tail flares in dirt,
my mulberry oar rows me back home.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
she lay next to him at night
dreaming of a ghostly icon, gold
little-headed monkey god on an island nigh the cape of bone marrow.
& now
she bounds into humble years, house cat, domesticated
little smiles, little daughters, little
flowers at the supermarket.
good morning.
pull her hair, as if to tree
& family. seed shoved down her throat
& diamonds.
she remembers the jewel runners, their chunks of wet rock.
& birds
slipstreaming away their days above africa.
slug to the chest &
she awakens in a hyundai
under the beaming heat of a vacant strip-mall sun.
gravity feels soft
in this lesser pungent life.
dreamt only, of choking temp and humid archipelago nights,
the gibbons & the thieves.
the treasure chest lairs of chieftains and tribal nobodies.
war profiteers.
men of fang island fantasy.
fake it.
p.t.a. and butter spread it, to toast and/or corn.
the sun is rising
& falling
& truly just travelling ‘round.
marinated artichoke hearts.
[baby dreams] of waves
on shore and handshake, of altered mother moons, she
is hidden in reflection
& time.
happy with the furniture.
plentiful on extra lunch meat.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
I offer a few quiet
words under my breath. (1)
“I wish you a tongue
scalded by tea.”(2)
“I was born
of the fist. The hot Irish
Temper.”(3) “I am a master of Escape. Show me a body,
I’ll show you an exit ramp.”(4)
(For,) I want everything
to call me night.(5)
This is the dream where I play
God. And the front door opens(6)
In lakes, floating
logs ignite, burn. All the
fury is finally here:(7)
Once wayfaring strangers(8) as tall as steal as the New York Times(9)
that once they sang from our dark street (10), the song goes: Heart.
Ribcage. Envelope.(11)
____________________
(1) Adam Falkner, Poem for the Lovers at Pickerel Lake, http://friggmagazine.com/issuethirtysix/poetry/falkner/pickerel.htm
(2) Jeanann Verlee, Guilt, Not Grief, http://www.wordriot.org/archives/4780
(3) Jeanann Verlee, The Brawler, http://www.radiuslit.org/2011/04/09/radius-roger-bonair-agard-jeanann-verlee-adam-falkner/
(4) Joanna Hoffman, On Learning to Open My Eyes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/three-poems-37/
(5) Kallie Falandays, If Morning Never Comes, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-75/
(6) Benjamin Sutton, Notes from the Daydreaming, http://anti-poetry.com/anti/suttonbe/
(7) Jenny Sadre-Orafai, Treasure In Timber, http://www.pankmagazine.com/two-poems-74/
(8) Lauren Yates, The World According to My Heart, http://usedfurniturereview.com/2013/03/20/the-world-according-to-my-heart-by-lauren-yates/
(9) Robert Gibbons, These Mean Streets, http://www.poembeat.com/fall2011/RobertGibbons.html
(10) Michael Lauchlan, Unseen Larks and Immeasurable Intervals, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-michael-lauchlan.html
(11) Leigh Philips, Dear New York City, Learn Gentle, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/march-2013-leigh-phillips.html
(*) Jeanann Verlee, Good Girl, http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/january-2013-jeanann-verlee.html
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
How many heroes have chosen this path,
Of least or no resistance?
In the face of overwhelming odds,
Or staring at cubicular, corporate submission;
Elect instead the stance
Of simply
Doing
Nothing?
Victorian ladies thought it amusing;
20th Century Centurions and Puritans condemned it.
The spoon-fed rich live it and lose nothing.
Russian aristocrats sometimes recommend it…
When spurned in love & up against it.
Oblomov, for instance, whiled his time away,
In bed, or staring out at the wood,
Writing meaningless letters and ignoring the day,
Yet it still did him some good.
Marat in his bathtub, Proust in his bed,
Still accomplished SOMETHING
Or we’d have forgotten them instead.
Is there still no virtue in doing nothing?
Against the tide of corporate work,
Aquarians rebelled with dance.
Later on, Generation X
Came to work in a greedy trance.
Peter Gibbons was hypnotized,
To escape his lifeless job,
Destroyed the office as it was downsized,
But was promoted by “the Bobs”.
Some lesson there, for those who strive,
That work alone is not enough.
Attitude is more important to our lives,
That revolt by nothingness is not that tough.
Abbie Hoffman was thrown through windows,
While preaching peace instead of wrath.
Despite nobility of cause, does humanity still go,
The inexorable way of sloth?
Sharon Talbot
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
Welcome to the dead end convenience store.
Sells everything you want and a little more.
You can buy laces and ribbons.
And fat hairy gibbons.
Pieces of chintz.
Eyes with squints.
Glasses with stems on and valentines flowers.
Clocks that chime every hour.
Coffee and buns.
Beers for bums.
Cards with poems in.
Specially for mums.
Books for reading.
Treats for pleading.
With lovers that won't do as you please.
Tissues for catching unexpected sneeze.
Dead end convenience store.
For all you need and a little bit more.
(c)LIVVI
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC
Everyone in Australia and Canada,
among men and women, girls and
Asia Southern grass, drought, Russia,
Europe, and let Googie in. Let us
all be sure of Kristin, energy and
lifestyle Imamondo singing whales,
Spanish & Italian magazines, 500
artificial memories, German Memory,
Memory in HD, a fortress, a kiss, a
Memory
Memory of Cicero's lifestyle,
English,
French,
and the Kingdom of Health still
Describes cutting travel to the victory
of the English, to the very Kakajinawa
Saka Farah Alaruk, Mary. Cicero's
brother lies Brown (Mario Cicero),
you cannot do with the fact
that the United States, John
Christian religion to you. a district
on the regions of Asia and Arabia,
and of, 'who sues for unto you the
King of Asia who in Igun is a
gunmaker of witchcraft and the
death of his brother's house: and
he is the one, who has died,
and they can be positioned to cut,
than the fact is that in exchange;
But the most Elijah to use PS.
"The communication wire on
Monique, seven ***** men
& an Ireland Race Track; Kalk
best in bed, bed, Orlando
Gibbons; Jenks Onki; Wanchai,
birds, Amarescava Navar 'Yukuchu"
** Chi Minh Hijira in town,
Canada, Russia, the ring, Canada,
Google that attempts golf stars -
Zymy hostility, China - High School
Drogda Poetariacia new man, salad ...
Thomas Polovie Malani Jagari
Zahulputia soft Mohi Khushi Khost
Patnaia want Color red, bitter 1000 2:
1 McLean's tour of Asia marine baking
car the shopping center Shopping Asia
city Asia Jogieglian Maisel Canada,
Mexico, Yolb mid-June Prize Geo kind
of Helleborus Hannkius with rice,
Chase engagement, "1 am an Hakon
vernulam chili, rice carrier locking -
Innovation - - Carl Jung believed
to be on board, Sangong Gijingu
playlist to check with the robot.
The colors pray for Cheetah
Chrome, sugar and a music player,
a singer and the kids in his memory
and for kids and money and kids:
Yuku and the kid with the kids
from the kids and the kids in other
law 2,500 children, young girls,
children, young people and young
people and those young players
varsity in July diameter of the well.
Then Judas, who has heard from
the Father, and He is not a it is designed
for Puliolio 1000 Young J Steelji
John would seem to be unknown
to the FA, Jududu Maad, other than
A, which is the 8 of FD Nangal,
Ojajo, Siddhi, Vinayak, Janmuna!
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
Oh arboreal creatures
keep natures secrets
as mankind chops
and drags your foliage cities away
to make the rich and famous
furniture for their delight
You leap through the greenery
as if you had the clarity of wings
and in the tree tops
where the rain does first fall
you quench your thirst
in the kind arms of bromeliads
From Monkeys to Gibbons
to cute Butterflies
you skim the treetops
as if in blue skies
what a pity that most of you
will never be discovered
Pity the voices
of those that cannot talk
but hear the panic
as they chatter and squawks
hear them buzz
love their ways
For soon all will be gone
and us on the way
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Let the Clouds run out of water,
See that Wind takes his air back.
Tell the Sun she's to go black,
And the Stars that they may falter.
In drought I shall not thirst!
Hither shan't I suffocate!
Despite the dark I will come first!
The skies won't decide my fate!
I've learned from Eagles the rails to captain,
And from the Wind Steed the steppes to soar.
I've learned from Dragons to climb up mountains,
And from the Lotus to bloom from blood.
Orange-clad Monks taught me how to spell love,
In lands where once in rouge hatred was forged.
As the Gibbons I flew in canopies of evergreen,
Ambrosia be the fruits I tasted from their trees.
I journeyed far in a kingdom of smiles,
And bent both my body and my mind.
Where Elephants stomped I worked the soil,
Sweat and tears were both my toil.
Let the Clouds run out of water,
See that Wind takes his air back.
Tell the Sun she's to go black,
And the Stars that they may falter.
For lo! I've learned to live anew,
And a-journeying, my soul, it grew.
The Hearth it calls me in the distance,
Long I've longed to see its glow.
Yet I know now there's no hindrance,
Between my feet and the Road.
I'll settle now, won't grudge time that's gone,
My heart knows, more adventures are to come.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:54 AM UTC