Sky And Wood Collection

SKY TRUTH

To end ignorance
the chef
a religious fellow,
renounced all desires,
but for the wine of truth
in great writings

A note from heaven
not a feather
he tried to get
on a beach. With a

bottle of Vermouth
he stood in search of truth,
a raw chicken cutlet in hand
looking for a chef’s promised land
that perfect recipe to make ends meet,
to make his cooking nirvana be
the ultimate stew,
but he had only torn pages
missing those spicy truths
just known to a sage,
and only a grappling hook
on a blanket to cook.

When a movie star came by to say
the truth is up there in the sky
he threw the hook up in the air
repeatedly despite the stares. My recipe

must be part of truth he said
the root of flavored
cotton candy skies. Although

before the truth he could hook
a bird of hunger just swooped
down on the cutlet
tearing it loose. Foolish

bird he shouted
how can you really make out
with recipe not in your snout?
————————————————–
WOOD WOULD KNOW
She’s commin’
in the rain, ’cause
she remembers,
dares to end
this game; there
can’t be a hangin’
to blow away a soul

Cross to no one,
I’ve been prayin’
a witness
saw me saw wood
way across the hay
by the hardware store

couldn’t be here
stabbing a man like
it’s been said,
even if I would
want that devil dead

Through all my hard knocks
I stayed sane
and could never be mean–
can’t hang me on the hardwood tree
’cause she’s comin’ in the rain

She’s gonna testify she heard me
saw wood to build a gallows;
that blind girl knows my trouble
remembrance not crying very much,
but if she cries today for me
my end I wouldn’t know,
’cause she’s comin’ in the rain
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

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Of Flying Collection

PLASTIC BAGS FLY BETTER THAN BIRDS

Squirrels and I have heard
plastic bags fly better than birds

I think squirrels can read
’cause I saw a plastic bag in a tree

He, a bird house grantee,
a bushy tail scholar,
took a bag along branches,
a critter in a house for a dollar, but

with a plastic puff
it sealed the exit tough

I heard frantic scratches
’til his head popped out —
I had no doubt, he
read the directions
for a waterproof house

When high winds disturb
plastic bags fly higher,
fly better than birds

Which droppings from heaven
shall a squirrel prefer —
feather or plastic, if
foulness is elastic
———————————————-
PLAINLY I HAVE ARRIVED

I bought you
bottles of perfume
of wine, but
the terrorists made me
lose them at the airport

I flew here by something old — well,
hitched a ride on a pterodactyl —
the Jurassic pilot gave me no peanuts
but I didn’t get eaten

I am so tired of ancient
of modern
pains and planes
creatures

Thus I thrust my arms
an evolved mammal
to bring you me
without Champagne, so
pour me out,
disarm me
to charm me
while I undress my
stress in your arms
flapping
happy
————————————————–
FLYING KITES
He heard the word on the news,
but I’m not going to hunt gorillas
I had explained to the little one. This place

is infested with guerillas.
We’d been ordered to be colder,
following the role of soldiers
playing with enemy children
putting hearts on our shoulders,
bringing candy and games
in crosshairs jokenly aimed. I have

hated the bubbly joy memory
with promises unkept. I remember
little memories like foam
of my baby brother at home
laughing to funny skipping heights
taking a kite to fly in song
but with winds catching me wrong,
with wooden frame snapping right away,
I promised to bring it back to life one day. Nevermind

the bubble memories art
seeing war children in the breeze,
those queasy bullets hitting my heart, while
brother’s promise I gave to enemy children,
promising them a kite ill sent,
but with orders in hand, minds well bent,
we were fired on from a village hell lent. The children
we were ordered to kill
and I lent brother’s face

to the kid that I killed.
The kite is broken.
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Love Torn and Claus Collection

TORN BY LOVE

Meager is the cry
of the baby, but
I have tried
not to tear
your torn tissues,
must ask your permission.

Grandmother,
I search for an amulet
to bring you
to soothe you. My
being is torn.

A girl of charm
not of tradition
is in my life, but
I am torn
by love
by being

Grandmother,
I do not wish
to be a tear of the eye
to streak a bloody torn cloth.

I am torn
by love
by being

Though meager was my cry
when you lost your daughter,
I have tried to be a prayer
for you and
for your daughter

Born of your
cries and screams
I pray

Grandmother,
you are
my precious Mother.
What charm may I bring you?

May I pray
for your daughter?
I wish I
had known her,
not caused
her death
though meager was my cry

I am torn
by love
by being.

Meet me
as I am
with gifts
with meager charms.

Grandmother,
there is a girl
who wishes to be
a woman with me.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

I pray in
many ways
we will all
grow together,
born into love
with your blessings.

Grandmother,
cry me into life
beyond tradition.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

Meet me
and her, your
new born-in-law, for

Loud and thunderous
is the cry of happiness

Join us in the rain,
Grandmother
————————————–
MRS. CLAUS HATES SONNETS
Santa Claus left her
a sonnet to read:

The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse
my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip
a bit of banter falls from saddled lips.
A candor canters, musical in source
a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed.
Her lust is cantaloupes so sweetly quipped
yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip
outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss

I know you love me mole and mountain bluff
I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love.
It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss
no gamble oneness riding thought enough
to join two souls, a coup by doves
who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss

Mrs. Claus hated his bluff —
rarely did she see
his cherry lips or cheeks

She could play
with farce no more, for
the fantasy wishes
in unlabeled boxes
would not suffice
for Mrs. Claus who
wrote free verse
while Santa was busy

Santa answered
delightful letters
from giddy children, but

she received letters
of rejection from the
poetry editor,
a trochee donkey
iambic like an ass

Mrs. Claus hated when the big one
went away on Christmas,
when the snow looked like
semen dried up and flaky,
his departing stomach
like a pregnant indulgence
she could only wish for

Finally, one Christmas
when no more
could she count the
melting snow flakes on her tongue,
count the elves, the reindeer,
the orphan toys, her emptiness
overtook her sanity, and
she took an empty sleigh
to drive into the city of sin,
her naked body wrapped only
in a fur coat, a pocket
for her Santa cell phone

She left the sleigh,
tied the reindeer to a lamp pole,
strolled the streets showing a leg,
singing “Ho, ha, ha”; Heaven’s
white tears covered her head as
she peered into loneliness
waiting for a finger of love, but
she spied a lost little girl

She hoo, ha, ha’ed the girl
’till the crying subsided,
asked her name
found a Lisa

“Where’s your Daddy?”
She didn’t know,
said he went for a quickie walk

She would look to find him as
the snow thickened, her head covered
with a white crown of sorrow. Lisa skipped
and jumped close behind her like
a newly born calf not
straying too far, waiting for an available tit

Mrs. Claus walked, showing a leg. A man
appeared from nowhere, laid
his hand on her thigh
like a roadway, followed the path

Eventually he noticed
her glistening tears. Looking
in her eyes, saw
he knew her
once before

Just then, the
Santa cell phone rang.
The Elf Secret Service said,
there’s been a sleigh crash, and
Santa is dead.

The world was wrapped in gloom
as Mrs. Claus
brushed snow from her head

Joy fell from artificial boons
and wrappers filled the ocean

With a poof
unreal gifts
vanished in a twinkle,
elves all banished
to a realm of puff

Starlight appeared
on Lisa’s tears,
a word on innocent lips:
“Can we all be married, Daddy?”

With a ho, ho, ha
and a ho, ho, ho
they vowed to
do better with love
to listen to snow
gust up and swirl,
to see a gift like a crystal
had already been born
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

No Money, No Tampons by “Diane”

The bathtub is full of blood
no money
no tampons

I am
canceling
our meeting
going back to sleep
no money, no tampons

If I wake
I’ll go to the bank
no money
no tampons

Yesterday, you
heard my weeping
my crying
fibroids

Putting men on pause,
menopause, and…
No it’s you in particular
I’m putting on pause,
on putting out for you
and you don’t love me at all.
no money — no tampons

Who will wash me
if I wake in blood
child grown old to bleed
without love
without child
without Mommy

no happiness
no tampons
—- by Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Love Collection

YOU IN ME

I woke up to my
longing for you; coffee
bit my dream
I stirred your cream

If I dress to seek you
will I know where
passion gallivants

You haunt me with
your many haunts. I
feel a phantom kiss
and miss the bliss from
flesh and ardor, belief bones
troubles massaged in a love whisper,
soothing music
melodic compassion

I am out to find you
driven like the mating birds;
walking, I hear the coos
but let them fly unknowing
for I have a gift for us:
wait ’til you
see me smile
everywhere I know you
———-
STILL RAPID
For me I flushed, a
cheeky glow on me, when
I heard her
laughing in my heart
her oxygen in my
hemoglobin sanguine

Tincture of joy upon my skin
I touched her touch like lunch
of peppers and cherry ducks
in a row of charms
easy to cast as
fruit falling ripe
after blossoms bloom

Vitamin delight I made
floating on her river
tanning, burning in her light

We kissed our meal
to drink the day
a splash of love
in rapids
———-
THROBBING IN CREVICES
Though there’s little food in Sugar Ditch
the rabbit hoped to hop from me
a foolish-stewing-hopeless creature,
who’d let luck go where
fecal creeks don’t drown
perfumed hope

Broken down in Sugar Ditch
waiting for a scholarship
I was wheeling like
lightning struck me down

The documentary camera came
just before a thunder wash,
saw the open sewer
that’s home to family shame

I pulled out my crying rag
time moaning sack of clothes
and the man heard me sing
while driving lightning roads

Honking horns daring me
to dream away from poverty,
I bent my trumpets to heaven’s ears

But no one told me
evil flies to me
every place I go, and
King Sorrow would reign
over sovereign hopes

I reached the skyscrapers
a tourist of bad timing
had to be the highest
place to see heaven
aside from you

After lightning struck this New York
I was lying under debris,
my quilted sorrow bristling
with cast off bricks

Mortar thoughts around me
being so damn mortal, I
could be thundered away
to the heavenly scene

But a steam pipe was hissing
while lifted stones flew away
like missles whistling
choruses of dusty blues

Jaws of life jacking time
they slid my body out in time
let the building collapse on through

Thought I heard,
old Joplin singin’
more on Earth
will be slapping you
if you
dodge more bullets
from another fool

And when I sang right out
across the clapping crowds,
my best laid blues
went right to you,
New York girl
in a rabbit hat

Oh magical girl,
my new love,
you kissed the breeze
made illusions
fondle my wishes

Now I dream of you deeply:
my salvation laughing everywhere

To whinny, my dream horse gallops, your
giggling jiggling in my cortex,
cerebral fondness hunting for you
in pulsing fibers
embedded in desire
throbbing in crevices
of nerve-cell books,
passions hiding in no man’s nook.

You journey through my mind,
scampering mind dancer,
doing wild animal tangos. I embrace

your beauty in the hunt
to capture your essence;
my dogs sense your scent,
a presence so foxy,
they transcend all knowing
rockin’ and rollin’ in serotonin.

I have traveled into you–
touch me there
where thoughts are real
and lightning tingles fine:
hats off to
everlasting good times

When I awake to you
I am in heaven
————
WE ARE GLOWING
From the journey of a dream
I awoke happy, enveloped in you
under covers

Enraptured in the blankets
of home
with you
of you

Our embrace is
the brightness
of us
with us

We are
the morning together
together in love

An awakening
is here to be
for real
at home

peaceful passion
satisfaction day

not dreaming
but being

in the lightness
of us
with us

we are warm
being the morning sun,
like banners waving
playfully above
the river of Love

extremely rippling,
our streaming
child to the river

Ripples of the day
we stream
like banners waving
playfully above
a gentle brook
child to the stream

The child’s babble
joyful enough
to be a gurgle
in a float-along morning

We splash along
embraced
by immersion
and the kiss of the day
fantastic
better than a dream
———
OF INK
For you in my pen
my river meanders
into loops who spell me
spell you
flow so fondly

I will float you
if you’ll swim
into my envelope
open my
drawing of you to me

Drink me
read me
come splash me in the delta:
an ocean of love awaits us
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert