Up to and including
black ink, on slicing paper,
rules only, for me.
…
Self proclamation
words as hollow as birds bones
reality breaks.
…
Bully’s moxie. Glass.
The oppressed finally turn
Hate becomes shattered.
…
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert
Metal known, by the meddle shown
Hallowed void creates a vacuum, and in that desperate pull, one chooses do meddle.
Tell me, scholar of my life…
Enlighten me, one who has intimacy with my circumstance…
When did I in fact hire you, as my handyman of my life?…
When in history, has one chose to meddle, by request.
Dear lost soul, perhaps it is time, to meddle within your own void.
…
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert
Fearful Talents
A battle with self,
defeat’s voice, burns hearts ambition.
Self decides; “Winner is…”
…
Life begins to taper, and I ponder the voice of my biggest enemy. The devil inside my thoughts. The liar that attacks my ambition, my value, and my perception… whispering like a choking cloud of soot.
My mind is obese with lies. Greasy negativity clings dulls the yellow sparkle that used to dance like lighting in a blue cloud. Every day presents a challenge, do I walk the path of success, or do I let the lies bind me and I do nothing. My ears seem hungry to eat the words of the nay say’er. Self proclaim experts of life, the talent-less critic dines in the banquet halls of my heart, negotiating over the business table with my own doubt. Carrying the same brain for forty years, and doubting my doubt. Soon I realize the sour deal of defeat. Defeat for me is being idle. Defeat is burying that heavy bag of gold coins in the the cold wet earth. Will I be buried the same way, full of unspent coins. Or will I cast them out into the world, investing in it, and its people. Then when my empty body meets with that bed of soil, my coin bag of talents will be empty too. My gold coins multiplied and inherited by the Master who gave them to me.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert
Midnight Poetry
Midnight is that moonlit moment,
where cool mountain air tickles
the dark and sleepy green of the pines.
…
Midnight my body feels like lead,
yet my mind flies into silver clouds
floating beneath the stars.
…
Midnight the next day is born.
It is too small to do anything,
a crying infant, we soon rock ourselves,
a dissolving volume of heavy thoughts.
…
Midnight drinks my dreams.
…
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert
Dear Writer, (the capture)
My triumph in writing, is to capture an emotion. Words, sentences, and paragraphs, are made and remade. Thick gray grease is wiped away from the lens of the minds eye. The image comes into focus, as draft after draft falls to the floor. When the reader finds it, the emotion may live again.
…
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert
Zachary W Gilbert, Author 