tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482603891027356772024-03-12T19:09:31.301-07:00Old Mossy Moon“The crown of literature is poetry.”
William Somerset MaughamK.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-74525434961770860812014-08-06T18:23:00.000-07:002014-08-06T18:52:12.264-07:00The Muse<br />
<br />
I'm telling <br />
this to the sky - <br />
where the focus<br />
falls soft and<br />
<br />
<br />
where you stand<br />
wilted at an open <br />
window posing<br />
with far-away looks<br />
<br />
<br />
and a young dove<br />
captured by<br />
no more than<br />
a piece of string<br />
<br />
<br />
and where you are<br />
surrounded by the<br />
thorny branches<br />
of a reluctant spring<br />
<br />
<br />
as you wonder<br />
if the divine<br />
is no more or less<br />
than you are.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-86082715349218611232013-03-13T18:55:00.000-07:002013-03-13T19:00:21.728-07:00the perfect circle<br />
i feigned sickness<br />
to be close to my mother <br />
the days long and gray<br />
the mountains slatted <br />
with cold spring rain<br />
and the clanking trains<br />
on the winding tracks<br />
that ran along the river<br />
<br />
<br />
canvasses strewn<br />
sticky with paint<br />
and the strong smell<br />
of turpentine on rags<br />
laying in the corners<br />
of the smoky room<br />
made me drowsy<br />
and faint<br />
<br />
<br />
and always <br />
out the window<br />
through the mist<br />
a witness tree <br />
a solitary sentinel<br />
on top of the hill<br />
its lacy branches <br />
forming a perfect circle<br />
against a willing sky<br />
<br />K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-12153492816512358822013-02-16T10:13:00.000-08:002013-02-16T10:13:05.046-08:00Miracle<br />The Virgin Mary<br />
appeared to Eddie <br />
when he was <br />
ten years old.<br />
<br /><br />
She appeared to him <br />
in his father’s tool shed,<br />
late one spring afternoon, <br />
on an ordinary day - <br />
it wasn’t even Sunday, <br />
Eddie would later say.<br />
<br /><br />
But, there she was,<br />
with her modest smile, <br />
wearing a crown of stars,<br />
standing amongst the <br />
hammers and saws,<br />
and coffee cans and jars<br />
filled with ten penny nails,<br />
and various nuts and bolts.<br />
<br /><br />
No one believed <br />
Eddie had seen<br />
the Mother of God,<br />
in the tool shed,<br />
while he was there<br />
working on his bike.<br />
<br />
<br />
No one believed<br />
that it happened - <br />
not his family <br />
not his friends - <br />
even Eddie, after time,<br />
wondered if it had <br />
really happened,<br />
or had the sun<br />
been in his eyes.<br />
<br />
<br />
But, still…I can’t help<br />
thinking - <br />
after all these years, <br />
that no one<br />
thought it strange<br />
that on the very day <br />
Eddie claimed <br />
to have seen the <br />
Virgin Mary, <br />
his father found three <br />
dead copperhead snakes <br />
in the tool shed,<br />
just where Eddie said <br />
Mary had been standing.<br />
<br />
K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-5457249062828792862013-02-02T07:40:00.000-08:002013-02-02T07:40:52.691-08:00Who Counts Leavesor counts owls<br />
on their fingertips<br />
<br />
or lost words <br />
on their tongues…<br />
<br />
what is the point<br />
they would say – <br />
<br />
but, late today<br />
I heard a sound<br />
<br />
rise up from the edge <br />
of a half frozen pond<br />
<br />
something primitive<br />
yet recognized and<br />
<br />
familiar to the world<br />
like the skeletons of<br />
<br />
weeds that shook<br />
the sound across the <br />
<br />
snow covered fields<br />
in beats and measures<br />
<br />
of steady clicks – <br />
groups of two, three <br />
<br />
and four measured<br />
beats or perhaps more<br />
<br />
nothing tactile<br />
but palpable - <br />
<br />
like true harmony<br />
urging on the <br />
<br />
next<br />
minute<br />
of<br />
time….<br />
<br />
K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-45296562298297043932012-09-30T08:53:00.000-07:002012-09-30T08:53:38.111-07:00It's Allstarting to make sense now.<br />
Just watch how starlight bends <br />
close to the sun, showing <br />
space’s voluptuous curve. <br />
No absolute truths anymore – <br />
time, space, religion, <br />
morality - all rejected.<br />
It’s only how you take me <br />
into your fractal pointless<br />
prattle that matters now.<br />
And breath becomes absurd - <br />
like imagination itself.<br />What’s happened to life?<br />What's happened to the <br />
twist of my tangled tongue?<br />
<br />
K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-44463861679148561072012-06-10T09:28:00.000-07:002012-06-10T09:28:55.086-07:00Response to Oriah<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">what do you mean…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">IF<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I AM</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">a wisher</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">a liar</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and a </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">magic bean buyer?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Haven’t I been at your fire</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">for all these many years </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">reciting while playing </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">an ancient shell lyre?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Didn’t I play games </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">of finding rune stones,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">painting fish bones, and </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">giving the faeries names?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And what of the moon cakes</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I made - heavy and sweet - </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">for the spirit owls that flew</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">to our dream covered feet</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">on those mystical mornings</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">when the spiders’ webs </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">adorned our heads like</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">silver and diamond tiaras?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I know we have tales to spin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">That’s why I have come in;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">to sit with you awhile -</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">to be with you again.</span></div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-35618815875950195312012-03-31T11:19:00.002-07:002012-03-31T12:39:46.232-07:00How It IsI live anonymously<br />between breath and hum<br />and the erratic flights of crows,<br />their wings a rustle of taffeta<br />through which I strain<br />my Pu-erh tea and dreams –<br />reaching, breathing, ascending…<br /><br /><br />I’m mostly behind the trees now -<br />their branches growing<br />so close to me, I can’t<br />see my own arms anymore.<br /><br /><br />But, at night, I do see<br />the slow drift of stars<br />and can’t help thinking<br />that Astraeus must be tired<br />of keeping all those fires burning.K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-55465918557281020632012-02-12T07:59:00.000-08:002012-02-12T08:14:55.986-08:00N.C.'s Studio<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuN2Esic3O4hTl15KvYhnFr0EaBCtQcNAw55srl5mNj8GFbolwxJjIAu3MoKBxP5JSEW-HFVBqVpyku4Wz5PpF0N-ia2UyKh5FcRk4m-DM81gRC-L8UYYIjvMK9z54PAPWzFZF6MRe6V5/s1600/studio+of+NC.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 295px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 196px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708282641525787634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuN2Esic3O4hTl15KvYhnFr0EaBCtQcNAw55srl5mNj8GFbolwxJjIAu3MoKBxP5JSEW-HFVBqVpyku4Wz5PpF0N-ia2UyKh5FcRk4m-DM81gRC-L8UYYIjvMK9z54PAPWzFZF6MRe6V5/s400/studio+of+NC.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>In your studio,<br />I want to wrest you<br />from the cerulean blue<br />and the viridian green<br />of your inscribed palette.<br /><br /><br />Or - if I cannot pull<br />you, body and spirit,<br />out of the dried paint -<br />won’t you at least<br />come down from<br />one of your canvases<br />to stand on the worn<br />floorboards again<br />like a giant<br />among your props;<br />costumes, guns,<br />swords, pipes, jars,<br />bones and busts?<br /><br /><br />Standing alone<br />in the north light<br />of the studio,<br />I am much aware<br />of your technique –<br />of you.<br /><br /><br />With no more<br />than brushes<br />and oil paints,<br />you showed us<br />both dazzling light<br />and deep shadows -<br />and how the contrast<br />of the two could<br />heighten tensions<br />that alluded to the<br />dangers in life.</div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-75510215325567868762012-01-31T18:17:00.000-08:002012-02-05T05:13:51.110-08:00Thawing OutI’m being<br />unfaithful<br />to nature –<br /><br />coming out of<br />dormancy early,<br />splitting into<br />two halves,<br />and sending<br />up flowers…<br /><br />The sun says<br />I can live forever,<br />even if the crows<br />around me fall<br />to the earth<br />in silent<br />ambivalence.K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-1143228713685946962012-01-08T13:36:00.000-08:002012-01-09T11:14:10.727-08:00Quinta EssentiaThe smell of oak moss and lichens<br />from the corner of your bungalow,<br />lingers on my skin like balsam and<br />sanctifies me in this winter light -<br />allowing me to respire ancient air<br />from a distant and temperate wood.<br /><br />The universe holds nothing more that can heal me;<br />clary sage, lavender, cedar bark, resin of myrrh -<br />not even the holiest of chrisms could offer more.K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-33349603211858564922011-10-15T12:09:00.000-07:002011-10-15T12:12:39.957-07:00On Being Humani am changing colors<br />like the leaves… <br />claret, pale orange,<br />butter colored -<br />and falling through the<br />atmosphere, drifting down<br />through the ages<br /><br /><br />landing upside down<br />at the foot of a statue<br />standing in the commons<br />forgotten by children<br /><br /><br />and here are my tears<br />streaming on ivory faces<br />in all the places<br />that come to mind<br />when the skies are<br />filled with bare branches<br />and stars that shine<br />down on every thought<br />that threatens to unpin me<br /><br /><br />what can i tell you -<br />that i don’t feel pain<br />that my mind is stable<br />that prayers are answered<br />that life is fair<br />that a heart doesn’t break<br />that everything will be alright<br />that God is watching over us?K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-30542860149303900372011-05-27T18:15:00.000-07:002011-12-27T05:50:01.821-08:00For NowI had given up on spring<br />when you called me to the<br />kitchen window to show me<br />the orioles in the quince bush,<br />like small brilliant suns -<br />buoyant and cheerful.<br /><br /><br />Watching them,<br />I tried not to think<br />about the mountain birds,<br />with their dark shiny eyes<br />like tiny glass marbles,<br />and their somber evening calls<br />heard from clear across the river –<br />where they roosted shadowy<br />in the branches of the redbud,<br />some missing parts of their<br />hind wings or tails,<br />proving that life is hard<br />in the upper Alleghenies.<br /><br /><br />Even on this dismal,<br />cool and rainy spring morning,<br />I’ll not think about the cold<br />that got inside of me there –<br /><br /><br />For now,<br />I’ll take pleasure in<br />our delight of the orioles,<br />so busy with the quince blossoms,<br />they hardly notice<br />our smiling faces at the window -<br />or our love for them that leaps<br />and bounds from somewhere deep.K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-90608444782085302512011-01-21T07:51:00.000-08:002011-01-21T11:25:08.092-08:00MORIBUNDITYaway from the creamy<br />smear of a gibbous moon<br /><br />I hide myself in Shakespeare’s<br />coat sleeve breathing only<br /><br />when I remember to breathe<br />and coming out only to eat<br /><br />the stale offerings from<br />an old man’s crooked handK.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-46327572851404984142011-01-03T14:50:00.000-08:002011-01-03T18:26:38.240-08:00High Lonesome<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFjITA1DJS5T_0Rs6FOn6gOvfHJXyu72-pYRqSu7IPTVk1N8pI5q3kT8uCEtxYlcLr8OlX2STvoFnNUc24QINugWiq1eh2HOqxlSQ9287G_71b5NA7cd17LPYBplz9Lh1JmPr8KxgKaKG5/s1600/IMG.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558098322897780418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 281px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFjITA1DJS5T_0Rs6FOn6gOvfHJXyu72-pYRqSu7IPTVk1N8pI5q3kT8uCEtxYlcLr8OlX2STvoFnNUc24QINugWiq1eh2HOqxlSQ9287G_71b5NA7cd17LPYBplz9Lh1JmPr8KxgKaKG5/s400/IMG.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div align="center">"High Lonesome" </div><div align="center">watercolor by <a href="http://www.coffeewithclark.blogspot.com/">Terry Clark</a></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Winter comes effortlessly<br />on the High Lonesome Ranch,<br />where the snow piles up -<br />white on white,<br />and the elk scream,<br />in the frozen pine forests,<br />like banshees.<br /><br /><br />I imagine what it would be like<br />to stay there in the cabin -<br />enduring the brief ghosts</div><div align="left">of miners, cowboys, and outlaws<br />humming in the corners.<br /><br /><br />I’d see the stars arranging<br />themselves around the<br />windows at night,<br />and resting on the trellises,<br />as if they were the white<br />and lavender Columbines<br />of summer.<br /><br /><br />And in the utter stillness,<br />I’d hold the moon close<br />to my breast and listen,<br />over and over again,<br />to the rising silence<br />of my thoughts.</div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-12342350785526151882010-12-08T18:18:00.000-08:002010-12-08T18:32:59.344-08:00A WINTER'S NIGHT<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTlfoNoEe2CJbMzSWMTfHVhhwOECixyqOeGn2nKF32PHXRF24mzcMnVvm9XAWcPbxkS4Kpxk_d1Fu4VzDw7hJmp2e5VbCPio0yBJDOvPKD0qCFcfUpyEsipaYgbp0rhAgtjaLhyphenhyphenJ-zqYz/s1600/BARN.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548503909867551810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTlfoNoEe2CJbMzSWMTfHVhhwOECixyqOeGn2nKF32PHXRF24mzcMnVvm9XAWcPbxkS4Kpxk_d1Fu4VzDw7hJmp2e5VbCPio0yBJDOvPKD0qCFcfUpyEsipaYgbp0rhAgtjaLhyphenhyphenJ-zqYz/s400/BARN.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>A WINTER'S NIGHT<br /><br /><br />Out in the pasture,<br />the cows<br />are wide-eyed<br />and bellowing,<br />as a flock<br />of birds wheel<br />in the snowy<br />air above them -<br />like a multitude<br />of holy angels<br />in the December sky.<br /><br /><br />Now, everything<br />becomes a promise –<br />the smell of hay,<br />the curl of smoke,<br />the icy fern along<br />the frosted path,<br />the kitchen where<br />the sausages are<br />hung high and the<br />walnuts are crushed<br />and sugared - where<br />warm gingerbread<br />steams the windows,<br />blurring the moon.<br /><br /><br />And night’s breath<br />breathes on us again<br />in our deep slumber,<br />as the cows lumber<br />in silent resolution<br />into the warmth and<br />light of the little barn.</div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-42682270912818775042010-11-14T10:04:00.000-08:002010-11-14T10:20:41.524-08:00MAP ME AGAIN FREDRIK AND PIET<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy7FihfzGHsLuSdfBUOi16zZq2qsRV-6dQb22TY4K7jjNgsXTyu87bqdwwTNiI_syP-awZniV4sKOigJcgGiwwRmMinuciR4YbAHApwvDoPTmoncl477Eq8GC3fwbBqmA1qJVen1cP_NLo/s1600/STAR+MAP.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539470482095646034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 250px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 171px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy7FihfzGHsLuSdfBUOi16zZq2qsRV-6dQb22TY4K7jjNgsXTyu87bqdwwTNiI_syP-awZniV4sKOigJcgGiwwRmMinuciR4YbAHApwvDoPTmoncl477Eq8GC3fwbBqmA1qJVen1cP_NLo/s400/STAR+MAP.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div>MAP ME AGAIN FREDRIK AND PIET<br /><br /><br />Out here on the celestial equator,<br />I am Monoceros, a faint constellation<br />barely visible among the brightest stars<br />that shine radiantly from the great circle.<br /><br /><br />I go practically unnoticed - like blood<br />seeping through the reddest terracotta,<br />or like minor chords being played slowly,<br />woefully over an elegiac reading of some<br />dejected and plaintive poet…<br /><br /><br />I want to be mapped again by the Dutch.<br />Instead of a shy unicorn – I want to be a lion,<br />an eagle, a bear, or a glittery whale<br />spouting water, like crushed diamonds,<br />around an imaginary sphere of infinite extent,<br />tilting and swimming in all directions at once.<br /><br /><br />I want to be on a different quadrant of an astrolabe,<br />a fresh copper engraving, pictured in a star atlas -<br />or just clearly visible on a plastic plansiphere<br />that rests deep in the pocket of an old woman,<br />who has designed her days by studying the stars.</div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-22952358355825969602010-11-07T14:55:00.000-08:002010-11-07T18:57:19.922-08:00Walt Whitman's Death Mask<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPDVrUuvk-nqdaivbgUQ_T3q8dbIjudm-ysJgPZxIZzdpd13J7WElq_7Tot3XpCtYFyfeUGx5lHoRqJ2mM-NeiP8ujgbo9EvLjKEw2fLblCti33zIHN1L5QO57ywcE32P6blJVGN8dTNS/s1600/whitman-death-mask.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536948898406050482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 192px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPDVrUuvk-nqdaivbgUQ_T3q8dbIjudm-ysJgPZxIZzdpd13J7WElq_7Tot3XpCtYFyfeUGx5lHoRqJ2mM-NeiP8ujgbo9EvLjKEw2fLblCti33zIHN1L5QO57ywcE32P6blJVGN8dTNS/s400/whitman-death-mask.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>WALT WHITMAN'S DEATH MASK</div><div> </div><div><br />You started out superbly.<br />No one was more gifted or blessed.<br />You called yourself<br />a freakish character,<br />saying it was “damnable”<br />to be tailorized after a mode.<br />So, come on – admit it<br />you were a little Rabelaisian!<br /><br /><br />You were one of those big sprawlers –<br />your masterful words never touching<br />the lines of the white ruled paper<br />upon which you so liberally wrote.<br /><br /><br />You were a winger too -<br />an open-air man,<br />whose feet were<br />never really needed<br />for traveling.<br /><br /><br />Wasn’t it just yesterday that you<br />lolled in your high board bed, </div><div>over on Mickle Street -<br />eating pickled peaches<br />out of a blue glass jar,<br />while listening to sounds<br />from the street below?<br /><br /><br />And now your face<br />is all repose, and sweetly so,<br />with eyes closed and lips tight<br />and your splendid head<br />at its noblest and most serene.</div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-51533718303009340802010-10-31T08:45:00.000-07:002010-10-31T08:57:09.836-07:00LIKE, COOL MAN - HAPPY HALLOWEEN!<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GpUHgfbH_SPpHO64u7GFiU6lqVpNxUzNtLJEQxNAQAcHmjclEM8ehDGaDm-ifoot94IAfvxccIaqmR9t1fFx5-ZR3bVFsi0HZTejBLXSMu11dig_bA5Xva3PxOTZoqwkwH6i5LZXUx2k/s1600/kay+009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534236926085351410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 252px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 235px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GpUHgfbH_SPpHO64u7GFiU6lqVpNxUzNtLJEQxNAQAcHmjclEM8ehDGaDm-ifoot94IAfvxccIaqmR9t1fFx5-ZR3bVFsi0HZTejBLXSMu11dig_bA5Xva3PxOTZoqwkwH6i5LZXUx2k/s400/kay+009.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div align="center">HAPPY HALLOWEEN ALL YOU CRAZY CATS! </div><div align="center">HAVE A BOSS, CHROME-PLATED NIGHT!</div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-945216557226145782010-10-20T19:52:00.000-07:002010-10-21T06:57:07.372-07:00WHO GOES HOWLINGWho goes howling without a key -<br />a plot, a scheme, a mystery?<br />Knots are tied and knots unraveled<br />along a road that’s highly traveled,<br />winding in some mysterious way,<br />puzzling pedestrians night and day,<br />while water cries and wind speaks<br />and frost makes roses of our cheeks.<br />And who’s the potter and who’s the pot?<br />And which is the vessel and which is not?<br />For these queries, avow – avow!<br />The answers are being written now<br />on onionskin paper, smooth and light -<br />on sleeveless arms, ghostly white -<br />on leaves rustling on far away trees -<br />on hills and in hollows, such as these.K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-53773848689849625672010-10-10T09:15:00.000-07:002010-10-10T12:55:06.577-07:00PENDINGI can’t help thinking<br />that I would feel at home<br />in the closed off hives<br />under the pear trees,<br />in amber stillness,<br />in the warm wax cells -<br />there to live a life of<br />sweetness and daylight.<br />But – somehow, I survive<br />in a dim aging cellar,<br />where the spirits settle<br />among the oak barrels<br />that rise in the darkness<br />like communal hunchbacks,<br />awaiting clarification.K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-19578688615378388572010-10-03T17:36:00.000-07:002010-10-03T17:44:16.870-07:00A LOVELY WHILING AWAY<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWHHOIDkglCmRElW-AmOZXn7z1RDtJ5a0jSeZzkueA_dIDqU83WS0maKUcyXNkc4j-jFOm-ptcyWdaGAxrvLgOvOnqx-S0ujeDfhU69W-JhCPMfeZdu9Y7XFayu4S5ujeiR6U7-9CEqJj/s1600/ris,cash,day+in+woods+010.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523984987274421442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWHHOIDkglCmRElW-AmOZXn7z1RDtJ5a0jSeZzkueA_dIDqU83WS0maKUcyXNkc4j-jFOm-ptcyWdaGAxrvLgOvOnqx-S0ujeDfhU69W-JhCPMfeZdu9Y7XFayu4S5ujeiR6U7-9CEqJj/s400/ris,cash,day+in+woods+010.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br />Turning circles<br />and pocketing stones,<br />we were more astonished<br />than we had ever been<br />by the sweet leaves,<br />and dry golden corn,<br />and the flowers<br />offering up their seeds –<br />and the white horse,<br />standing motionless,<br />in the stark pasture,<br />a hawk’s reflection<br />appearing in his big old eye –<br />their precious spirits<br />merging interminably.<br /><br /><br />In the wind, we heard<br />the weeping and laughter<br />of the fiddles and banjos,<br />harmonicas and mandolins,<br />and we danced along<br />for a little while in the grass,<br />under yellow gingko leaves,<br />eating wild grapes and<br />hard, sweet apples.<br />Toward home, at dusk,<br />there was only the<br />low hum of our voices -<br />the intimate press of our hands.</div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-9191158753953583532010-09-23T15:05:00.001-07:002010-09-23T17:08:43.600-07:00DEAR EUGENE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcpOWEdOplJYtv66NYTp3spYJAODTaRDsaDse3wNE_FX2YQIs8UJGQHlu2pdrI67DaqmfFLH0Xx9sOpKxsi-UYeE7M_uLq2PVoTWiSV5qv3T_yOFejxyqPvdOMFGw_iyr9FID3I8KWIXPl/s1600/Copy+of+Dallas+Harvest+Festival+007.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520245799201104834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 314px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcpOWEdOplJYtv66NYTp3spYJAODTaRDsaDse3wNE_FX2YQIs8UJGQHlu2pdrI67DaqmfFLH0Xx9sOpKxsi-UYeE7M_uLq2PVoTWiSV5qv3T_yOFejxyqPvdOMFGw_iyr9FID3I8KWIXPl/s400/Copy+of+Dallas+Harvest+Festival+007.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">Guest poet, Chloe Gilbert</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Chloe rode on a train from Southern Virginia to Northern Pennsylvania, recently. One of the passengers, a kindly old gentleman sitting across the aisle, caught Chloe's imagination. She said he wore a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">bow tie</span> and had the kindest face. They never spoke, but Chloe felt that he was someone special - she even felt a certain kinship toward him. Then, just as she garnered enough courage to make conversation at a stop in D.C., he stood up and departed the train.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We have all wondered about strangers that have traveled with us on trains, buses, planes....we come up with life scenarios for them. It is a poet's past time. Right?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This poem was churned from Chloe's thoughts, while traveling on the train.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>DEAR EUGENE</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I can’t help<br />but sneak a peak;<br />What spell have you<br />cast over me?<br /></div><div></div><div><br />At a glace, to have felt so meek -</div><div>From your unintended presence,<br />I cannot break free.<br /></div><div></div><div><br />Have you traveled far?<br />Could it be that you<br />are wondering as well, </div><div>If my story is just as spectacular</div><div>As your story in my mind dwells?<br /><br /><br />Inside, mindless masses hurry in a blunder, </div><div>As the world beside us both passes,</div><div>Creating even more magic and wonder -<br />Empowering my will to leap and ask.</div><br /><div></div><div><br />Alas! You are now escaping this<br />Metal monster and leaving me behind.</div><div>Thank you sweet stranger<br />Whom I will never forget,<br />For leaving me soft and kind. </div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-47715581664657595332010-09-12T08:18:00.000-07:002010-09-12T08:35:57.163-07:00THIS VAGUE FEELINGA vague feeling<br />has arisen in me,<br />with no real meaning<br />that I can think of -<br />and apart from any idea<br />I might have had recently,<br />but truly affecting and moving,<br />as with any other vision in life.<br /><br /><br />It prompts my mind to toil -<br />all thoughts tendrilling upwards<br />and outwards, trying to catch<br />somewhere - and take hold.<br /><br /><br />My mind fills with<br />some moonlit view<br />of barefoot wanderings,<br />and a distribution of figs<br />to the sick and dying –<br />their sweet, sticky lips<br />encrusted and tasting<br />of nothing but blood.<br /><br /><br />An odor of turpentine emits<br />from some dark alleyway,<br />where doors are open to show<br />dimly lit rooms divided by<br />unfinished canvasses,<br />wet with paint and going<br />white with mildew.<br /><br /><br />And there is not<br />an infinite number<br />of stars in the sky,<br />only a few large ones,<br />spinning and shining -<br />like dying martyrs,<br />and like living lovers,<br />eking out their incredible<br />days of pleasure and pain.<br /><br /><br />This vague feeling…<br />This stab in my heart.K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-44103691411621985002010-09-03T18:15:00.000-07:002010-09-03T18:46:33.335-07:00MORNING HOUR<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRAYTk1kZCTRvlgH-Lfl-zr8wOM-WP82dRrhumhUCrK6RrTazZgYWgdMmuk5puduqLMi9Hu-DmfuweHdPExklixTRQ_Cb5MY6eRW9v42uTJA-XpDfltNaU3tfuGzLQ9NrAgHzeJ64iN03U/s1600/WA1863_881.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512868558160522402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 310px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRAYTk1kZCTRvlgH-Lfl-zr8wOM-WP82dRrhumhUCrK6RrTazZgYWgdMmuk5puduqLMi9Hu-DmfuweHdPExklixTRQ_Cb5MY6eRW9v42uTJA-XpDfltNaU3tfuGzLQ9NrAgHzeJ64iN03U/s400/WA1863_881.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div> </div><div> </div><div>MORNING HOUR<br /><br /><br />what warbler’s watery<br />trilling could ever entice<br />me from this sovereign light<br />and lure me into the shadowy<br />world of a mysterious thicket -<br /><br /><br />where each wary step is<br />infused with whispered<br />petitions and every sharp<br />thorn brings forth visible </div><div>and agonizing stigmata</div>K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-748260389102735677.post-70084873673326604212010-08-29T04:09:00.000-07:002010-08-29T04:51:04.961-07:00First Day of SchoolWhen I was a senior in high school, I think I missed the bus about 10 times a month. Dad had to drive me to school. Looking back now, I'm glad I missed it so much, because I had that precious one-on-one time with my dad, but - I digress. <br /><br />Karen <a href="http://www.keepingsecrets-karen.blogspot.com/">www.keepingsecrets-karen.blogspot.com</a> is driving the Poetry Bus this week to school! So, I promised her I would try to be on time.<br /><br />Oh, so many ways one could go with this, but I wanted to have FUN - since that was the way in which it was presented by our bus driver. I did write a poem for Karen about our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">WVTech</span> days, but want to keep that for later in September, since it is a little more obscure. I hardly ever <strong><em>rhyme</em></strong> my verse and I really<strong><em> love</em></strong> to. So, with a jaunty wave out of the bus window, here I go...<br /><br /><br />FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL<br /><br /><br />School bell rings.<br />Grab your things.<br />Run to the gate.<br />Don’t be late!<br /><br /><br />Heart’s thumping.<br />Brain’s pumping.<br />Children weeping.<br />Mothers leaping.<br /><br /><br />Summer’s over.<br />Goodbye, Rover.<br />Hello fall,<br />And hallowed hall.<br /><br /><br />Find a chair.<br />Fix your hair.<br />Smile at friends,<br />Or just pretend.<br /><br /><br />Shiny shoes.<br />Pencils (number twos).<br />Heavy books.<br />Learning nooks.<br /><br /><br />Favorite teachers.<br />Some are creatures.<br />Principal’s tall.<br />Vice is small.<br /><br /><br />School lunches.<br />Hate them bunches.<br />PB&J,<br />Makes my day.<br /><br /><br />Dismissal Bell.<br />School’s swell.<br />Maybe, then,<br />I’ll go again!K.Lawson Gilberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11204234196229710524noreply@blogger.com17