Only a Dream

Only In a Dream

She only loves me
when she talks in her sleep

And I say
you talk in your sleep

And she says
no I don’t and
you snore.

She said
you talk in your sleep

And I said
what did I say

She says
you said
will you marry me

and I said
don’t worry
it’s only a dream

— Douglas Gilbert


DON’T MAKE NO DAMN TREATY by “Diane” (Draft 1)

Don’t Make No Damn Treaty

by “Diane”
Do I have an angel
to support me, when

my husband is a duel citizen, and
America will not support him?

Give me a gun and a plane
and I will go get him, and

I, with a will of conscience
will exterminate evil
with a knife or a bomb.

You congressional jerks,
give me me my life back, and
honor the patriotism of my husband.

I will walk up to the despot with a knife
and stab him up under the rib cage, and
then I will apologize, and I

will sing the politically correct
a song for the downtrodden
you exploit for fame and money.

I will gladly give you a ribbon
and a glorious medal if

you can bring my husband home, and I
remind you that your underdog-cause célèbre
who kills innocent women and children
with suicide bombs is a mad dog in
the worst meaning of the cliché.

Hell knows you are culpable, and
don’t pretend to pray anymore
for the cameras and media.

The devil of your detail
condemns you to Hell for
turning away.

Many are doomed
and you too.

— Douglas Gilbert

April Is Poetry Month

April Is Poetry Month

What to do when
Shakespeare is dead, and

they say poetry is too, and
all my moribund metaphors are dead
just because she ran off to
a festival without me, because
I am not very exciting, so maybe
in contemplation, I could

assume a poem could be found
on unlikely charming tongues
on ice cream cones, and I
could lick it. Place

words on feathers that
tickle the fickle. Let me

make the loop of the river
splash blue ink
for me. Hello,
for you many
I’d say

storm out of yourself, you yourself
a thunder whisper in a flash
in your moment of
passion flooding
momentously drizzling drops
of salty inklings, fresh
up a creek for a beaver
in his safe house.

Trees fall
heard. Who’s
there, here
who calls
to be right

in a pickle. Read
me with syrup
under a maple
over a river
with a pickle
resuming a crunch

many picnics
in many words

— Douglas Gilbert

Trivial Things

Trivial Things

You don’t understand
anything about my child
who I thought could be Christian

But now I know in the slaughter
that none born now in chaos
should ever speak to God
because He never stops
the barbarians who’d
take her as the 72nd virgin

And she
just wanted to play
with her dolls and me

And she
wanted to be a lawyer

— Douglas Gilbert