Lullabies and Fire Flies
Slurred words, muttering, still.
Pursuance. A letter’s cornered ear.
A flattened fear still sticking, with Rabbit skin glue.
Ink blurred; open and black. Pages beat… back.
The Ocean’s skin.
Pages still swelling, roughly, straddling; wet
With tears. True rain hears.
Wet with the feeling of real rain raining;
rung with reels of skinned stories, a lathed cat.
A manic hanging, of her ghostly tongue, a cat skinned.
Words enshrined, a convalescent bee.
Flat, slight fit, land, living trap, eye capped. Cloths drying pinned.
On this thin-skinned page, pacing sunshine.
A forever fire Fly. Or a corrugated field. An accident of the pen;
Detected by time, a shutter-feed design.
Appeasing, hung out to dry.
A blasphemy, to love undetected. Lured.
A camera celluliar insight, tear-ducked,
to far to cry.
An unopened hatching, beautiful list, yet touched.
dry. bundles wrapped,
Defected, but sweetly caught,
a watershed; Attached.
Of nerves. Trapped.
Honed in. Honey sucked. Sacked.
Foundering, sinking meaning, a paper meal.
Lures deflected, sold for Lye, stitches, weighted and scaled.
Yellow and twirled, wounded and aubergine lute, a paper light proverb.
A wadded washington, eagle ironed; handed appeal.
For a dime-store lulling, no reverb.
Shelved salt-taffy tails.
Death is walking, where fireflies are talking.
Where hearts meet, a unwundered street, love is there, in dimming light,
Unspoken history, blue-colored, perfect fifth key word. Stalking.
A voice from a outsider’s. To lay against write.
Paper weight, A. Changed.
The original title.
- “It’s the rain I can’t catch” – Poem by Heather Whitley Gibson (tigergroves.wordpress.com)
- Ronnie and Heather Whitley Gibson Now Featured On (Last.FM Radio) (tigergroves.wordpress.com)
- “BLUEJAY” – Poem by Heather Whitley Gibson (tigergroves.wordpress.com)
ten commandments cast in bronze
airtight hope wedged everyone
picked up and thrown overboard
fleets of rulers, commodores
caverns of unexplored places
empty hallways, lost crawl spaces
real things are hid, to hide he tries
confusion behind ones eyes
Catholics, Ghilberti doors
realness forsaking, comfort joined
polished rocks brought on peasants backs
no shiny coins tucked in their sacks
unexplored places in a child’s thoughts
ruminations, closed quiet eyes
behind his own substitution
from a far away distance a shiny beacon
anchor overboard, reach the destination
it’s the honest one that has fallen behind
you can see the soul behind ones eyes