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

“Books In Barrels” – Poem By: Ronnie Gibson

dark man dances
fallen faces, cocked eyes
upside down, sideways
brick road, crumbles
entrails swing, swaying
ice blocks – melting sun
lips suck, fluid
freely flowing blood
dripping on pedals, flowers
I came, I left, right
books in barrels
overflow of words
four lettered, smut
greased flour molds
breaded spines, discs
our feet hold candles
light the forest, bright site
books in barrels
reading one, burning
no words allowed
whale oil burns
to read books in barrels