Baking Apples

Wind storms through orchards
mocking calm branches
left a bird frantic,
fruit on the ground

She hasn’t stopped singing
this mockingbird
who mocks the calm, my thoughts
seems searching for a perch
a mate, perhaps, like I
seek Cindy, yes

I will learn the mockingbird song
before the next storm, so birdie luck
will perch a finger, and

I will storm home
like the shocking bird,
my Cindy electric and flighty
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert


Guy On A Hot Tin Tile

Told the bounding man,
we paid our mortgage. He
jumped the roof
wouldn’t come down

The police didn’t arrive.
The wall street guy
yanked a tile, claims
ten cents worth security paper
against our mortgage,
brother can you return a dime

Told him that
we paid our mortgage
clipped the grass
took out the garbage

There’s a man
deposited on our lawn,
tin ear
tin cup,
brother can you spare a billion
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Dark Odd Goose

He still had his subway pass,
city shoes, expired employee badge,
invalid railway ticket to former places.

Too much iron in the field,
or cyanide from gold mines.

The city fool
with books and trinkets,
thought he’d escape explosions
through cows and pigs and many digs.

He dynamited the outcrops,
plowed the field,
yet weird corn
(twisted patterns)
plagued him. Met the locals.

Mischievous kids staring at the fire,
mother with the welcome pie,
medallion on the mantelpiece,
kids with designs.

Trampled stalks in ancient designs
seemed the work of little minds,
the minor demons some
rural parents breed,
dirt bored,
intractable plowed-out
fallow follies.

Maybe they thought he meddled
in buried treasure
neglecting tradition:
the earnest mettle to toil,
to seed, to plant, to struggle,
to honor nature, and ancient maize.

Never majoring in archeology,
he rode the stocks,
denied his destiny:
this farm his blunder retirement,
a vision quest, but now,

by corn, with
flocks of black cacophony
cawing his ears,
lightning strikes the scarecrow.

Below the char, a stone base,
a Mother Goose book,
an amulet of Merlin, he finds,
not child’s play.

Gem seizures dance him in steps,
explosive, driven by visions:
flying bloody arms,
dove feathers scattered,
dust debris done in doom.

He prays casual quakes in angst
not release the lava of ancient
curses cast below the cinders.

A frenzied man can, more than straw,
babble incantations
bubble coherence of foam, oozed
below the stone with char,
entrance to caves, grave marker,
not for mere farmers.

Into tall stalking corn, he took
coded words, spells,
mystical verses,
kicked an old soccerball
through poem-grown fields,
mocked an ancient wielded word
by plowing with a hockey stick,
looking for weapons,
supposed fiddle swords
reposed against planted wizards.

In rutty mud he grooved
inscriptions before more floods
to conjure the sorceress gone.

In faltering sun her arm lifted up,
silk to kernel, eternal mother.
Mother Goose stood in the corn field
a Statue of Liberty, commanding

“Little boy blue
come blow your oboe
the bleep’s in the meadow,
a Noah sings the blues.

“Flood the fields with whistles
my river-heart boy.

“Send the floating spirits’ keys,
the nursery stymied rhymes to me;
if you will come into my harbor,
I will lift my lamp
beside the golden time.”
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Watching Kindness In You

I saw you kneel
to heal a boy
who dropped a toy
smithereens a laugh
when your blessing
was an invention
of love new to him
who instantly lost
attachments to pretentions
pretending to be brave, but
became heroic
to embrace you as angel

I see
as did he
and this is
why I love you,
will share you
with the world

Grand ecstasy
when you come home
to me alone

I give you my awards
my affection tonight, but
I will gladly

have you leave
in the morning, for
I am proud to be
a friend to the angel who will
wash the world with my happy tears
and I fear not because

you will return to
the humble blessings
of me
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Dog Day Trader Under The Moonlight In New York

Romantic without rules
floating the East River bonds,
delightful Fannie Mae moonlight

Liberty Lady take advantage of me
(vice versa) cheaply
kiss my derivative
for the Brooklyn Bridge

Love my bridge to the derivatives.
A mortgage is a thing of beauty.

Although I think you’ve always known
I’m a traitor on the street
on the prowl to trade
a pick-up line,
my precious gift

After I love you in the morning
the price of love rises
like a stock

Honey I told you I’m a day trader:
when my pleasure profits rise
pumping the price up high,
I’m gonna sell you out
before the bubble bursts, and
I told you to
take no stock in me.
Get out of bed, you’ve
had your bribe, ’cause

it’s not my default, and
I’m too big to fail
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Pull Off

She won’t listen to me
in her drunken slumber
even when I’m thoughtful
talkin’ with flower songs
in her pretty little ears,
deaf to my buzzin’
anguish from losin’
my shovelin’ job
diggin’ dirty sobs,
not hearing my singing
in wake-up keys that
they’ve been mean to me
and no one will record
my sorry blue chord: I

can’t slide my soul
down a broken string, can’t
pull-off this guitar to fame. I

got her that hot dress
and the toaster, wish
she’d listen; she’ll
pop-up when I’m gone:
I’m movin’ on
to the promised band
no hallelujah for me
just clap real hard
for heaven to hear
from the crossroads
my singing hitched
to bad luck hiking,
like a sway back horse
that no one can ride
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert