The Virtue of a Flower ( Wsibopea )

The Virtue of a Flower

Girl, honey
the innocent flower
offers her nectar
and perfume, but
let virtue wait a day
until tomorrow ’cause

neither a philosophy nor a plan
is launched by woman or man
on a trampoline of joy, and

cannon balls don’t bounce
anymore than flowers can be
thrown with catapults.

— Douglas Gilbert


Nujxameu (Draft 1)


When the flower is fresh,
beautiful in the ground

enjoy its perfume, but
do not pluck it like a string
or pick it out into a vase, just

let its seeds be made with
the pollen of destiny, for
the bee is only the matchmaker,
not the lover; behold the lure, but

He, the pollen grain is the
the Prince from afar.

— Douglas Gilbert

Spiral Dreams (Draft 2)

Spiral Dreams

(She waits.)

Uncle is executor,
Father is deceased and desisted,
no venom spitted or spoken anymore.

Wills are wily spirals
provocative of thought,
property vehicles conveyed oddly,
a conditional grant to dreams

(She waits.)

In trains of thought, I’ve
inherited a nightmare,
a dream: a bed, a
mansion, a train.

There’s a subway train
in this mansion gone odd
that Uncle once took.

It spirals down the ballroom
inner walls of this estate,
down into the basement, down
beyond, a transit into bedrock

Perhaps, a destination
for wills can be found.

Sometimes in dreams
I called out, “Uncle come save me.”
But he’d be busy, be
too busy for nightmares
and antagonists
who extrude into the day
like snakes with vitriol
and spit.

Mom was glad
the snake was dead,
the will was read. Tickets punched.

Dad had killed himself because
a money elixir failed. He
had no potion to remember
how to love us, only remembering
pain and abandonment, he,
a seed of hope, flushed out
in a thunderstorm, never
to grow into a tree, he,
only washed away
in a river of mud, and
at dawn only fog.

There’s a secret subway
here few know that runs
beneath the river, and
spirals up into woods
where though it’s forbidden
she waits with flowers in her palm
and with underground-kisses
to be given away

on the lips of a destiny
waiting to kiss, it’s

the last subway stop,
at will
all granted.

— Douglas Gilbert