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

 

 

Snippet of Life

Time sips slowly, on the invisible fluid of my soul.  I sit, and sit, and sit… trapped in a  concrete belly.   Cold metal teeth close tight , close forever.  Smiling under a small one way door.  I am swallowed. The quiet blanket of night holds my screaming mind.  No one is calling out for me as the world sleeps.  I am forgotten, left only with the memory of my deeds to keep me company.  One spark in my mind,  exploded in a moment. 17 raged seconds traded for a lifetime.   I close my eyes, the theater of my mind is covered in blood, while the orchestra plays only the wails of the dead.  I open my eyes hoping the walls will spasm all around me and digest me.  Finish me.  The bars hard bite hold. Silence.  I wait.  My broken mind trapped in a welded skull, kicks and scratches the walls.  Looking down at my fingers I see dusty concrete under my broken nails.  I slide my shoes off wet socks.  My broken toes throb under caked blood.  Time sips slowly.

. . .

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

 

The Difficult Drink

I was in a coffee shop and I saw an old man quietly reading a book in the corner.   A pair of women argued at a nearby table.   One was aged and haggard, her face showed lines from years of frowning.  The other was young, her eyes were puffy, and her tears wet the wood of the table.

“God wants you to give him another change,” the old woman’s shrill voice stung the air.

The young woman stared at the floor, “I can’t, I can’t he has hurt me for the last time.”

I grow tired of this sludge poisoning the mood,”  his eyes never left the pages as he spoke to the two women.  “God wants?  An arrogant notion indeed…”  he turned the page and  laughed to himself.

“This is none of your business, please don’t interrupt me!  I am doing God’s work!”

Ahh yes, I see…” his atheistic mind churned behind his steady eyes, as he placed his book on arm of the chair he was sitting in.

Everyone in the coffee shop grew quiet, and listened to the booming roll of the old man’s voice. “I find it interesting, the concept of God.   How is it that those who claim to know and love an all powerful creator, take matters into their own hands?  If there exists an immeasurable amount of power what could humanity possibly add?  I assume you are trying to save a doomed marriage.  I have seen the angry people yelling, killing, and hurting those who would deny their God.  Yet, if in fact the peopled world is the belongings of a Creator, who has the right to disturb or disrupt on behalf of said Creator.  If you believed that which you squawk, your anger would subside, and the only action you would have left to take is the only action you are supposed to take, talk to your Creator.  Yet, you impose your will.  You mettle and wound the weak on God’s behalf.  Show me  your mandates, do you have any documentation of your divine orders?  Who has given you authority over creation?  If you trust and believe as you have said, then perhaps you should wait and watch to see the proof of God in his response to your praying.  Yet you pray, and then you meddle and talk and meddle.  Do you wait for this God of yours to have a chance?   If you are always moving, then perhaps the stage behind the curtain is truly an empty void, but if there is something beyond life, behind the curtain, maybe you should get off of the stage of humanity, and be quiet while the rest of us have a look. Isn’t your job to get people off the streets and into the theater?  You ask me to believe, yet how can I, when you do not believe yourself?

The old man rose to leave, and the angry old woman blocked his path, “The bible is my authority!  You are going to hell!”

He smiled as he slung his coat over his arm, “No my dear, it is 1 in the afternoon, I am going home to take a nap.”

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

Panacea of Shadow

Shadows dance and argue deep within the cold cave.  Some shout “No object.”  Laughing they whisper, “Fire isn’t real”.   Other shadows, in folly attempt to describe the fire they have never seen.  Yet, some know.  Yet, some feel.  Their object is the bridge to the fire.   They hold it close to the warmth and peace.   Invisible strings tug and pull, some shadows toward the fire.  Wispy fingers of grey push away the dusty wall.  Do shadows seep out and rise from the stone?  Or perhaps, are they only there for a season? Some shadows dig their claws deep into the wall, lodging dirt into temporary fingernails.  Denying their object, laughing at the notion of a Fire, they embrace only the shadow.  One day Fire gathers up objects who’s shadows have placed their backs to the stone.  They are carefully wrapped in a golden blanket of light and placed in the blue sky.  The shadows left behind still cling to the wall deep within the abyss of the cave.   Shadows with dry throats try to drink up the darkness, but without fire, only objects remain.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert