A finger pressed message: Poem by Heather Whitley Gibson

Scalped to abide the pack, I punch out letter’s, like cookie cutter shapes:


un-shaven. Paw prints and urine, clumps of grime, the snow, slowly dispiriting. Pining over-

perfect measurements, of 2 by 4‘s, Our own belly full, it’s marked, and falls off like bacon.

Smells of Spruce, of rented Bird Calls. A finger pressed message in brail;

Bracketed and sanded-down, Laundered and grind.

Honing in on the Tallie tale. So Singular. Such  preciosity.

Marvel at the cinder blocked created (between us).
Disclosed, naked and soft. As noodles. quivering at their vulgarity. Silverfish breaking brick.

Spitting out, the words chide back. Forever and cooking. Liken can-opener’s on Anniversaries, the hark-barking back, to the sentiment,

In stone. Quail eggs and an inked hand; the sail to us; away from war with terrible Preciousness,

That cataclysm, a rug pulled back, we see stitches, Like a belt, cinched in, like honey on toast, marked hiden;

Consecrated in a carved tree.

Garbed in skin’s of icy accidents, like graffiti imminent to rip open. One stoned pigeon. One square space.

Scraped on trees, overpasses bottles fall.

As dotted I’s and a crossed T .A leisure display, blue icing smearing, blurring that caking meaning masterpiece.

That punts in sickness, and cast out, calling in the evening blue.


Fellows garden – Poem by: Rosanna Garland

 Fellows garden

The sun not warm enough, the wind to cooling
all too quiet and noiseless, before a foot
of a dove squelches a green bloomed patch of grass;
too green for my thoughts. 
I watch the birds circle and peck, watching them
so often like they do us in drawn circles,
how I watched you once close your eyes before lilies. 
As I lap sun, bees and golden nectar
three doves waddle an open disco display
before me and I think of how I watched you
bend blades of grass with your determined grey feet. 
I want to say I am alive, I’m full
of moss, waterlilies, green and crunchy leaves;
but those doves begin to nutter in their beaks,
their squawks a chuckle at me, or those outside
placing tokens of gold in collectors hands
and I’m a springtime bubble inside stoned walls.


Rambling in blue skies – Poem: by Heather Whitley Gibson

Rambling in blue skies.


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.


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.


Giant fortune cookie

English: Giant fortune cookie

English: Giant fortune cookie (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Peninsula” – Poem by Heather Whitley Gibson


Camera; seen

armed with needles so

sweet sounding; peninsula

soft & Foxed in insular

Mellisonant, a weeded field.

water torn; clear flight

a wonton wing; fortune cookies

proverbs sealed.

 Edges of mouths part; crusted

cracked, razing sun,


vaulted words crunched.

scratched days.

Sweet Memento

rusted kisses; silver

A candied ending.

Where Love flows;


and whirling. A shot-gun

display closed.

 sold four

tribute money

then pictured; in a hard-bound book.

leaves dried and covered, lost..

left to left, sonorous;

in Gold.

still waiting at a willing well.

A dime-store summary.

The foundress of affairs.

Blessings and fortune falls.

behind a grateful glass view;

watching the sun nest,

winds and doves

 shillings. fly. stencilled.

 As scales shimmer, as

an aperture increasing;

Vows Quenched.

memoria Bound.

“Thin Rings” – Poem: by Heather Whitley Gibson

Thin Rings.

Thin Rings.

Roots. Fruits of trees bleed through.

As a tap, blood thick, sanguine- as Maple Syrup.Wooden-fluid.

Slowing. Down. The Clapping sounds.

A hand, hurt by healing, all those stitches, now, Hanging upside-down,

In a Florida tree, pinched between its vital branches. Monsoon.

Her hands are missing. Omitted. Outside,  no one missing her.

By and when are now conventions. As the transport helicopters serve,

Now holding her names and her rings. One a silver dolphin.

She is , entangled, burgeoned, within the tree’s growth.

Her breath, stems from the ground. The leaves move.

As rings are held, growing, dying, the tree bloats waits its life, 

Leaves turn over, her silhouette, still hung,

 Swaying in quiet, upside-down.

So quietly, absorbing, as dolphins turn in water, droplets emulating as if

Dictating a translation. quietly held for a stone unturned,

Where her head would lay, nameless.

The sun shines through, round yet timeless, it marks by endless shadows,

As if  a veil or a wedding dress.

It trails. It sees through to the iris that grows in a glance, without intention. Upside down,

The world moves without a trace. Looking down threw water, at the bluish ground, the dolphin,

Flips over, jarring the shadows,

Fallen on by barren limbs, laden with knobs of growth and thoughts,

Yet, to be opened . Beyond the graves nakedness, and the oddness of frozen ghosts, winter continues.

She had regrets, fears and eyes that sung, and hands that met.

Just as she had absorbed a needle, the tree absorbed her drugged skin.

Three days, lost but caught, hanging upside-down, the clapping slowed.

 On the chance, that was thought over their was no audience.

The clapping slowed. As water clots, icicle droplets hang. On bald branches, waiting.

 The dolphin dives backward.

Fallen, falling, eyes shut, facing the water.

She slashes, splashing loudly. ON A REFLECTIVE SURFACE.

Water ripples.

“Lullabies bottled in the Original Title” – Poem by; Heather Whitley Gibson


   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.

Eye capped;

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.