Trees And Dandelions Collection


WHEN LEAVES ARE AFLOAT

The chirping of sorrow in the shadows of broken wings
let’s too many birds of loneliness
fall prey to predators
who pounce on despair.

She is uncertain in the forest
if she should
sing or hide

Newly grown camouflage
seems to blossom and branch;
winds on tree tops tear off
a few deciduous victims
still green but detached
before the fall approaching

She has taped plastic sheeting
and cardboard
on her broken window, not letting
green leaves of happiness
fall in through her window,
not letting the fog drift in
that looks out onto the ocean
where his boat struggles
to land on her beach, but
is adrift in the fog, and
his horn seems
to not carry beyond where
she left her
beach blanket long ago.

Melancholy is the cry of the shipwrecked,
not knowing where the treasure lies,
mast lowered. Exquisite is

the flutter of pretty lashes
when he sails onto land
beyond the seagull’s cry
tacking into her breezes.

Guided only by a random leaf,
he sees her broken window
and tears apart the plastic
——
WHEN SAP IS NOT MILK

A sad maple is she,
syrup exploited
never allowed
to taste her own sweetness

Her leaves could have
absorbed the love
of the Sun
of the passing Prince,
had she not played
her lute too softly to be heard

Never should such a lonely string,
such a flower
be cut on a slant,
dying, put
in a vase
for a decorative purpose

Because of such sorrow,
never let winter ever come again
without a prayer implanted
in the bosom of justice

The angels have fallen
if they would honor wine
more than the dangle of
the maiden’s dew, more
worthy than any untested virgin
in a nunnery who
has never cried for love
and only knits diversions

She is so worthy of forgiveness
as are you, when your
morning mourning pancake
has God’s rainbow syrup
on a reawakening breakfast
saved at last
for eternal joy
——-
RUNNING ON LEMONS

You are an inner voice
a trilling tone in my head;
though tart the prelude, a lick,
orchestration’s so sweet
it deeds me strolls
in muscle tone
by forests
by trees,
quadriceps
extending concepts
traversing
calf-fully guided by
a note
a step
a song —
groves revealed
escaping fruit

Unwinding,
getting a leg up on bliss
inner saunters drift
in gait to gates of mind
in wound up dilemmas
citrus revealed
completed lemonade
healing squeezes
stirring tastes
sweet dreams running wild to
walk me on water
float over to you, a
serenade splash
to pucker by
——-
DANDELION

I am so cold in August
trying to be a puff ball like a Dandelion,
wishing you’d look
at the seed ball as you blow:
each seed on little parachute
to carry onto
lawns of possibility.

Weeds wish to land,
embed and grow. But no,
no one will let the weed speak.

I am hot to plant an idea
even in winter.

Where is your greenhouse —
I am not merely fuzz: look closer
I am a soul on a parachute
hoping to land on a soulmate and
not to snag on a
telephone pole or power line.

Lawns are too pretty plain;
let me be a flower in the lapel of love
deserving a puff piece in the journal of fulfillment.
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Advertisements

How Do I Get To The Carnegie

If I knew
where nowhere is,
I’d wander
to hear what’s there
listen anywhere music charms
be lost
be found out

She lives to arrive
at places that matter
to see a scene
be a decoration
place a mark
on a souvenir

For hours we wandered lost
seeking Carnegie Hall

As her anger trumpeted
I heard an echo of ah’s
voices savoring delights
taxis arriving with honks like geese
that made me chase a mirage
see a sign: Carnegie

I dragged us in to hear
the singers calling for chicken livers

When I saw no oboes
I knew we
had arrived
at the Carnegie Deli

I ordered hot pastrami. She
told me I was in a pickle, while
the bells of doom
pealed in my head, and
I looked for a native New Yorker
to calm her rage
tell her the address for
Carnegie Hall

While I wandered away
through chicken liver
trying to peel the onion
of my tears, to
find an appropriate tongue,
she opened her purse
reached into her anger
pulled out a jar of ultra-hot
jalapeño peppers
stuffed it in my sandwich

She waited to sting me, but
I was lost in gourmet ecstasy
awry in rye
like a cole slaw
waiting for slaughter

She waited to flatten my dignity
as flat as a potato pancake

By the time I returned
her hunger overwhelmed her
and she bit into my sandwich
tears streaming down her cheeks

I inquired
why she cried

Her poor deceased Mother
would have loved New York

She pushed the sandwich in my face. I ate.

She asked about my tears.

I cried too that
her Mother in heaven
left her daughter behind
with the character of
a hot pepper

The pain focussed my attention
on a ragged stranger. In payment
I offered him my sandwich, a plea:
please tell my dear wife
how to get to Carnegie Hall

Breathing like a dragon
he gasped, the address
has two 7’s and a 5

Swallowing a gallon of water
he pointed to a street musician
on the corner

I threw a sandwich
in the musician’s case
asked how I get to
Carnegie Hall

With a Knish and ambition, he said– she
ran off with him
I stayed to order a corned beef
and kept my tongue on
the best day of my life

Today she plays the violin.
I stand outside with a sax.

I’m not chopped liver though
’cause the chicks dig me
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

My Three Cousins Pass The Torch

*{this is the 3 cousins version of “Olympics In China”. I changed the title, but had to re-post this, because editing makes for too many complications…}*

The tale of tails wagging:
my three cousins, fallen

cousins driven on edges
of cynicism, bravely
continuing to pass
the torch of
symbolism

One’s traveling by Sudan,
a UN worker who

just wanted
to survive her gambit
into humanitarianism,
come home intact
to her husband, see
the Olympics as
honored guest, perhaps
but

Janjaweed’s fleeing victims
stopped in a camp
for a chat

She, a peacekeeper
listened for awhile
to tales of genocide
from refugees of Darfur

Slaughters on memory pause
too starved to indulge grief for
the dignitary just yet,
a Darfur drudgery one
asked why the worker cried

Bad news through Khartoum —
my child watching cartoons
sends e-mail that
the dog died

Melamine* from China
supporter of Sudan
did the canine in

Don’t they eat dogs in China
the Darfur woman of dead child says

She is insulted,
has lost her appetite for politics

Oil for China
and a veto of sanctions.
Khartoum is happy, and
flies in weapons
for the final solution,
but politely, because diplomacy

is of utmost importance
to China, market dream
for every company
drooling over
billions of customers

She tells her husband
who has a distant cousin
with Chinese roots
to, for God’s sake,
be discreet

Her Mother is from Panama,
hates her husband’s
(as she imagines it)
asian eyes, though
he speaks fluent Spanish
(Chinese, English, Tagalog),
quite a bungee linguist is he

Darfur intrudes:
“Will UN troops
protect us”,
a woman wants to know.
Srbrenica she thinks
to herself, but won’t
dare say

Maybe, safety in Chad,
she demurs, but
even here
another message for her

Leave me alone, she screams,
I’m doing good work

Your Mother had
cough medicine,
diethylene glycol
from China
it says,
a minor counterfeit
resulting in death

Not now,
I’m doing good work

Cousin Jinyan
is under house arrest
for protest

Not now. Get us
tickets for
2008 Summer Games

Her Hubby told me
she’s not to worry —
sending flowers,
has tickets, but

hearing the torch would
travel through Tibet,
I called cousin Molly
the Tibetan trapped in China.

She’s worried
called home to Aba
Sichuan Province, China
to hear the brooding

from monks in the teahouse —
many dead in Tibet, from Lhasa
protests spreading

mad Han hegemony awry
with soldiers and
agent provocateurs
uniforms and robes
plainclothes

Molly doubts the torch is coming.
Thinks runners in Peru.

Odd call
home. She sells
Buddhist statues still,
swears she doesn’t know
the Dalai Lama

I’m confused, heard
she wants to
go to Peru

Odd call home. She
speaks in riddles.

She seems to know Tibet
is not Peru

Not a Westerner
she’s a Tibetan, yet
with biblical aspirations

Speaks of forty days and forty nights
140 dead, and
it seems she seeks
to go to Peru

Odd call home. She

will not peruse the news
from Lhasa,
or even Aba
or Luhuo.
Sichuan food for thought.

She’s singing sweetly
on the phone in English
an old Irish song,
“cockles and mussels
are dead in Peru.”
An odd call is this. Arresting…

Seems she
might be going to
a re-education camp for torture
to learn spelling and about
Szechuan Restaurants in Peru

News of spring colors and flights.
Aba green with
a flood of soldiers.
Whirlybirds hover.

In China
she sells
Buddhist statues still
with cockles and mussels
alive in Peru

No calls,
merry or odd. I
wonder
how is Peru?

Tell me if

a llama died
on the high road
sweet and narrow

greeting Molly of Lhasa
in spirit alive
with a torch
and a ticket to heaven

*Melamine, a chemical derived from coal was found in pet food that killed dogs and cats. It is used in China as a make-believe protein that has no nutritional value. See: “In China, Additive To Animals’ Food Is An Open Secret,” New York Times, April 30, 2007, pp. A1, A8, by David Barboza and Alexei Barrionuevo.

“Poisoned Toothpaste in Panama Is Believed to Be From China,” New York Times, May 19, 2007, p.A3

“2 Activists Are Under House Arrest and Barred From Leaving China,” New York Times, May 19, 2007, p. A3.

“At Shuttered Gateway to Tibet, Unrest Simmers Against Chinese Rule,” New York Times, March 26,2008. p. A7
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Zimbabwe Collection

*MY SON THE SCHOLAR*

I am not a polemic she cries;
my son has been to University
many years escaping to
the evil UK

He’s a grand young man
a scholar
I proudly miss, and child
I kiss you
out of my African womb
to be free
even as a Trojan
in the colonialists paradise,
but I trust you to be civil
unlike the rips of your savage birth

Robert Mugabe
has betrayed us, my son
sold his soul to the devil

Oh poor Thabo Mbeki,
weakened by prestige
prancing diplomacy
dining in world circles,
you should know
Nelson Mandela is
the only true hero of the revolution

Oh poor Thabo,
you and Mugabe
sip the takings of the hyena
in the audience of the Savannah,
mingling with vultures
and hippos
unwilling to stalk the prey
of dictatorship

My house has been burned down
by militants of the ruling party

I shall not vote again

I die of many wounds

My son, Spartacus
learn your
Greek and Latin
lessons well

You are in the world
of the noticed, and
I am anonymous

But I love you
my champion

*Zimbabwe Cries*

I had a nightmare.
Mugabe could not
concede

Mugabe came with clubs
for poor Useni my friend
who had walked with canes
to vote for Patrick Chitaka
and Morgan Tsvangirai

Saw a red cloud, as
a storm brewed, brooding
Useni in the sky,
eyes on Morgan
Tsvangirai

Billy clubs rained, the
reign of Mugabe came
blood again, a bluster
of thunder
paranoia

For the peace of revenge
we had cheered when
Mugabe thugs killed
white colonialists
seized their
farms, pieced into plots

Little food growing in sin
blood rained on our land,
a billion dollars
for inflated bread

Thought I saw
Useni in a mist
with Morgan, Patrick
and Martin

I had a dream.
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Chalk

I was drawing with chalk on the sidewalk unappreciated
thought I saw you peeking behind the corner,
but a sudden rain washed all away,
too many falling sky erasers lately.

When the Sun comes out,
hide where I can find you
in secret sand-castle places
under my blanketed regrets,
surfing for your love
in seaweed long ago washed —
salty youth.

Give yourself away with a giggle, but
wear an adult smile
naked.

Draw me, and
dance where I can see you.

Never too many peek-a-boo days
for sunny buffing stuff,
birthday suited or not.
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Cousin Jack Cafferty et. al. in the Olympics

(“Olympics In China” modified)
My four cousins,
tale of tails wagging: one

reports on goons and thugs
situational Olympics
past Reno.

Cousin Jack knows junk
knows gold when he
C.N.N.’s it

Not a gaff for Cafferty,
diplomacy the injured cat
truth in poison pet food

Cafferty et. al.
op. cit., and three

cousins driven on edges
of cynicism, bravely
continuing to pass
the torch of
symbolism

One’s traveling by Sudan,
a UN worker who

just wanted
to survive her gambit
into humanitarianism,
come home intact
to her husband, see
the Olympics as
honored guest, perhaps
but

Janjaweed’s fleeing victims
stopped in a camp
for a chat

She, a peacekeeper
listened for awhile
to tales of genocide
from refugees of Darfur

Slaughters on memory pause
too starved to indulge grief for
the dignitary just yet,
a Darfur drudgery one
asked why the worker cried

Bad news through Khartoum —
my child watching cartoons
sends e-mail that
the dog died

Melamine* from China
supporter of Sudan
did the canine in

Don’t they eat dogs in China
the Darfur woman of dead child says

She is insulted,
has lost her appetite for politics

Oil for China
and a veto of sanctions.
Khartoum is happy, and
flies in weapons
for the final solution,
but politely, because diplomacy

is of utmost importance
to China, market dream
for every company
drooling over
billions of customers

She tells her husband
who has a distant cousin
with Chinese roots
to, for God’s sake,
be discreet

Her Mother is from Panama,
hates her husband’s
(as she imagines it)
asian eyes, though
he speaks fluent Spanish
(Chinese, English, Tagalog),
quite a bungee linguist is he

Darfur intrudes:
“Will UN troops
protect us”,
a woman wants to know.
Srbrenica she thinks
to herself, but won’t
dare say

Maybe, safety in Chad,
she demurs, but
even here
another message for her

Leave me alone, she screams,
I’m doing good work

Your Mother had
cough medicine,
diethylene glycol
from China
it says,
a minor counterfeit
resulting in death

Not now,
I’m doing good work

Cousin Jinyan
is under house arrest
for protest

Not now. Get us
tickets for
2008 Summer Games

Her Hubby told me
she’s not to worry —
sending flowers,
has tickets, but

hearing the torch would
travel through Tibet,
I called cousin Molly
the Tibetan trapped in China

She’s worried
called home to Aba
Sichuan Province, China
to hear the brooding

from monks in the teahouse —
many dead in Tibet, from Lhasa
protests spreading

mad Han hegemony awry
with soldiers and
agent provocateurs
uniforms and robes
plainclothes

Molly doubts the torch is coming.
Thinks runners in Peru.

Odd call
home. She sells
Buddhist statues still,
swears she doesn’t know
the Dalai Lama

I’m confused, heard
she wants to
go to Peru

Odd call home. She
speaks in riddles.

She seems to know Tibet
is not Peru

Not a Westerner
she’s a Tibetan, yet
with biblical aspirations

Speaks of forty days and forty nights
140 dead, and
it seems she seeks
to go to Peru

Odd call home. She

will not peruse the news
from Lhasa,
or even Aba
or Luhuo.
Sichuan food for thought.

She’s singing sweetly
on the phone in English
an old Irish song,
“cockles and mussels
are dead in Peru.”
An odd call is this. Arresting…

Seems she
might be going to
a re-education camp for torture
to learn spelling and about
Szechuan Restaurants in Peru

News of spring colors and flights.
Aba green with
a flood of soldiers.
Whirlybirds hover.

In China
she sells
Buddhist statues still
with cockles and mussels
alive in Peru

No calls,
merry or odd. I
wonder
how is Peru?

Tell me if

a llama died
on the high road
sweet and narrow

greeting Molly of Lhasa
in spirit alive
with a torch
and a ticket to heaven

*Melamine, a chemical derived from coal was found in pet food that killed dogs and cats. It is used in China as a make-believe protein that has no nutritional value. See: “In China, Additive To Animals’ Food Is An Open Secret,” New York Times, April 30, 2007, pp. A1, A8, by David Barboza and Alexei Barrionuevo.

“Poisoned Toothpaste in Panama Is Believed to Be From China,” New York Times, May 19, 2007, p.A3

“2 Activists Are Under House Arrest and Barred From Leaving China,” New York Times, May 19, 2007, p. A3.

“At Shuttered Gateway to Tibet, Unrest Simmers Against Chinese Rule,” New York Times, March 26,2008. p. A7.
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

My Son The Scholar From Zimbabwe

I am not a polemic she cries;
my son has been to University
many years escaping to
the evil UK

He’s a grand young man
a scholar
I proudly miss, and child
I kiss you
out of my African womb
to be free
even as a Trojan
in the colonialists paradise,
but I trust you to be civil
unlike the rips of your savage birth

Robert Mugabe
has betrayed us, my son
sold his soul to the devil

Oh poor Thabo Mbeki,
weakened by prestige
prancing diplomacy
dining in world circles,
you should know
Nelson Mandela is
the only true hero of the revolution

Oh poor Thabo,
you and Mugabe
sip the takings of the hyena
in the audience of the Savannah,
mingling with vultures
and hippos
unwilling to stalk the prey
of dictatorship

My house has been burned down
by militants of the ruling party

I shall not vote again

I die of many wounds

My son, Spartacus
learn your
Greek and Latin
lessons well

You are in the world
of the noticed, and
I am anonymous

But I love you
my champion
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert