The Bully’s Definition

My skin once was bark,

I held birds in my green hair.

The morning air, held my cries

as I fell in the river

after that cruel metal

bit so deep into me.

My arms that once reached to the sky an out across the land,

cut.

My free love and enjoyment of life itself,

stolen.

My toes that felt the soft warm mud,

buried.

Bleeding sawdust I am reduced to boards.

A table is made from my bones.

A toxic slime is smeared all over me,

A deep rich varnish.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

 

 

Under Wooden Giants

Gravel roads, softly covered,

dust, like powdered sugar,

Trees, thick and red,

larger than a mighty metal bus,

higher and warmer,

than a tall cold building,

 

“Have we traveled back in time?” I ask my wife.

The 2004 Prius, rolls quietly,

tires massage the earth,

a gentle slow respect,

I am fearful,

the moment will soon be

lost.

 

On the Pacific Coast,

a warm summers day,

Jebidiah Smith Redwoods,

natures pure moment

planted in my  heart,

without a sound.

 

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert