Heart

Clean Heart

by ZacharyWGilbert

Murky, mud stained windows, block realities view.

Painful memories like thorns ache, lodged the mind.

Black talons,  a dark grasp, tears the woven curtain of thought.

What solvents can clean, a muddy cake, from a fouled heart?

 

The vacuum is loud, brushes are spinning in a blur.

A tornado of dust, vacant from the plastic cylinder.

Turn it off, unplug it.

An emergency surgery performed.

 

A clog is discovered,

of faded green pine needles,

black cat hair,

and gray dust.

 

Plug it in, turn it on.

A dust tornado,

dances in the cleaners heart,

alive in purpose, again.

 

Before God, a heart is removed,

Green slime, like dragon snot, falls.

Thick smoke, like burning bread, floats.

A daily surgery is performed.

 

Stand up, start the day.

Pain and worry, daily, cleaned away.

Existing happy, no longer hurt, and mean.

Because, the heart is light, the heart is clean.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary Gilbert

 

Red Rose

by ZacharyWGilbert

The red rose,

its scent…  organic, pure.

its color… deep, soothing.

its feel…  soft, fragile.

its sight…   red, petals.

 

The red rose,

hopes for, loves renewal,

gains strength, outside of holidays,

lifts spirits, holds hearts,

and soothes souls.

 

The red rose,

passion takes shape,

loves, domestic currency,

paid in full,

as the petals fall.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

Lost Hugs

by ZacharyWGilbert

Don’t take this whole thing too personal,

but my emotions, are not quite, that versatile.

I have a 3 foot bubble, 3 meters may be better,

I don’t want, your breath, or the scratch of your sweater.

 

Hugs are powerful, I do believe that, to be true,

mother won’t hug me, so neither can you.

My kids run fast. They crash into an embrace.

In a ‘big ol daddy hug’, hurt and woe, soon displace.

 

I pick up the phone and dial mom’s number,

to tell tales, of life, and the stress I am under.

No answer.  I miss her voice, a hug for my heart.

A hug from a mother, gives hope a fresh start.

 

40 years, write lines upon my face,

I ache, and ache, for mothers warm embrace.

Decayed emotions, loose and dry under the yellow sun.

Truth seeps out. The black tales of my heart, now come.

 

My mother won’t hug me, in time, her story is lost,

Cold wind, blows over the river, while stones cover in moss.

A scratchy gray sweater, with a horse on it,  zipped under her breath.

Mother’s hugs, become empty shadows, soon after her death.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

Life, whispers against deaths tide, Death remains successful

by ZacharyWGilbert

Control.

Of my body? No.

Of my soul? Perhaps.

Of my mind? Yes.

Grow new teeth, change my hair color with pure will,  or stitch a second heart?

I have tried, many many times, yet I remain unsuccessful.

My unseen soul swims, somewhere within my body?

Where?  Where?  I want to see it.

I can’t, so

I am silent.

To understand what is, light swimming in dirt?

I have tried, many many times, and I remain unsuccessful.

This body, a heavily glued, warm dust ball.

My wet blood pressurizes the the glazed soil, I carry.

For now.  I am a clay pot.  Where is the light?

It is dark.  I am dark.  I feel the light.  I want to see it!

When hundreds of years go by, and my dust is scattered,

What will survive the decay?  My soul perhaps?

Light crawls out of bodies when they die?

Who sees it?

Instead of widgets, could I make a factory producing,

Souls?

Love?

Forgiveness?

I consider, for a moment, God.

What is sin?  Is it a tarred mass on my soul?

Is it a foul green mist, that corrodes my halo and harp?

Is my life a widget factory, perverted into an assembly line,

Of filth?

Of poison?

Of Unforgiveness?

I wonder, for some time, about Jesus.

Swirling dust, wraps around blood and breath,

that can clean my soul?

A scrub?

A dunk?

A wash?

I wish I could look through the dirty window, and see,

my soul hanging in the steam of the dishwasher.

Would it smell like lemons, when their guts spin in the garbage disposal?

The blood of God’s son, rolling thick, down the hidden drain,

of my soul.

Would smells of rotten meat, and forgotten milk, be erased?

How? I want to see it!

I am simple a sack of dust, yet my mind is obsessed with the unseen.

Am I soil, without soul?  Am I soil, held in a clay pot, tan and fragile.

Is my soul a seed?  Is it made of white light?

Lightning in a cloud?  Or a false dream, lost in soil?

If the Great Gardener, sends his son, to spill hot blood on the empty soil,

Will something grow, clean, and lighted,

beyond the soils last dusty breath?

The invisible souls harvested…

Warm orange blasts within morning light,

crawls over the horizon,

white light breaks through soil,

breaking fragile clay pots,

Clouds of lightning,

smell like lemons.

A souls successful cleaning.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

 

 

Exposure

by ZacharyWGilbert

Hearts glow, strolling down lovers lane.

They don’t get far, because they die in vain.

The sun beats down, so hard on love.

It falls on hot concrete, with fates, hard shove.

 

What protection is there, to keep love alive?

Is the destination ever reached on 4 ever 4 ever drive?

Exposure to abundant obstacles, limit loves flight.

Fights, hurt, yelling echos, deep into the night.

 

Somehow, the finish line somehow get crossed.

They make it to forever, and love is not lost.

Listening, and sacrifice of self, for sake of her.

Problems, and wrongs, become a hazy blur.

 

Exposure to pain

Exposure to loss

Exposure to love

Perseverance the cost.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert