Yesterday’s Moth

A cloth thread
it was yellow; shinning
bright steel blue
cob webs; recyclability
drips design retractable
and Tuesday received
buckets freely
I see a moth
from yesterday poems on
a blank piece of paper
cloth; thoughtfully pinned
inside made
thoughtfully re-read intimately
exhaust/senescent
tube; in my heart
leering down
it’s sinful weakness

My ears are doing-that
windshield-wiper
thing-slowed-down
wiping out
hands off; buzzards; leftover
ground down white wrapped yarn
the bones of a coat; hung hanger
wreck debris aged
falling of the bone
in waves; falling off the bone
in waves; it just comes
nothing hurts
it’s supposed to

 

Poem By Heather Whitley Gibson

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“Love’s Last Adieu” – George (Lord) Byron

 

george-gordon-byron

The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, ?Our meeting we yet may renew:?
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!

Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!

Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!

How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!

In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!

Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!

 

Quotes:Carl Sandburg quotes (American Historian, Poet and Novelist, 1878-1967)

“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.”

Painting by Heather Whitley Gibson 2000

Rambling in blue skies – Poem: by Heather Whitley Gibson

Rambling in blue skies.

Lilienthal_in_flight

There in was.

In my way, a large gray machine. Tenanted- to beat acquaint it’s chest.With myself.

To spilling it’s gas and clip it wings. Propellers steeped-right in the middle—

of a dutch painting.

There were to many armies of men gathering around to fix tits.

-dept-ed wings. Her it was.. Large overbearing fans sloth like. Giving window that bright oversight-the shiny fur appeal.

 Holy Sonnets, The Mother propeller and faith in the laws of Angels.

If you plan to sleep. “The American Way”. Scratch the surface of linted skies and the part terns on the ground.

After being “hazed” in even in even conditions

When clouds themselves Sevres that dream.

Who’s love of Land sconced in undergrowth parts of war engines, the crowded rain in, honey sucked dedicated to that thick sun.

You and me, pray by tongues without taste. But even when know words come, they frame a picture.

Hung by yellow dancers, tree stalks and yellow corn. Tubes of paints this dance with Kan-sky’s vibes.

When time it self sup-ones. unafraid as we as time as if impassioned in light, losing our balance,tree grow vertical.

Like leaves turn over, we squint, sane our words slight. Demand not flyswatters, warm with wind

Stretcher out  in grain of Glassy, of sand, of boxes of the past blot as we wipe away , clearing are shields and wipers.

Screaming.

Flies, swirling tackle, the worms splitting sorrow, last seen in {bracket}s mosses.

Pluck the sun Alar y and it’s nozzle to some “day” (Hot).

When litters of flies ramble like new-browns, dark lines on there tongues fluent in speech:

Ton-know A calligraphic sky IS, Does what words.

CAN’T SAY.

“It Happened Again” – Song By: Ronnie and Heather Whitley Gibson

Stop sign ahead, it happened again
breeze in the trees, tears in your eyes
it’s Cezanne’s Mt. Rainier,
balanced on his back, the time traveled to find
painted in solitude, the easel wedged between
the sand and the stone, it’s still time taken
colors awaken, it’s happened to you

the time to find, what he could find true
the path still taken, it’s happened to you
it’s the love, from a beautiful song
the imagined image
blinking eyes emerge

a bird parading, a light purple flare
happiness so near, the pain that swings
it’s warm pouches of clouds
silent strained, looking so slow, in water, in life
hanging below, the sweetness of falling
the shunted sunspot, lids slant shut
like a child walks home on a Sunday crawling
to find the unfindable tear

the time to find, what he could find true
the path still taken, it’s happened to you
it’s the love, from a beautiful song
laughing and loving
never forgetting the falling

the time to find, what he could find true
the path still taken, it’s happened to you
it’s the love, from a beautiful song
laughing and loving
never forgetting the falling

the song everyone plays
it happened again

the sweetness of grace

Take A Listen To “It Happened Again”

Red Balloon Rising by Laurel Blossom

I tied it to your wrist
With a pretty pink bow, torn off
By the first little tug of wind.
I’m sorry.
I jumped to catch it, but not soon enough.
It darted away.
It still looked large and almost within reach.
Like a heart.
Watch, I said.
You squinted your little eyes.
The balloon looked happy, waving
Good-bye.
The sky is very high today, I said.
Red went black, a polka dot,
Then not. We watched it,
Even though we couldn’t
Spot it anymore at all.
Even after that.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. Poem copyright ©2011 by Laurel Blossom, whose most recent book of poetry is Degrees of Latitude, Four Way Books, 2007. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. Poem copyright ©2011 by Laurel Blossom, whose most recent book of poetry is Degrees of Latitude, Four Way Books, 2007.