Springtime, when trees are kaleidoscopes of hope,
An oil canvas with endless shades of green Each day the picture changes but the frame stays the same A hopeful bud turns many leaves into one big tree, Unplug, discover the forest. Springtime, when the earth is soft and smells like rain. Twenty drops of color blooming on the forest floor Spring beauties, hepatica, bloodroots, Wildflowers are tiny magicians of ephemeral joy Unplug, explore the driftless lore. Springtime, when the mighty Mississippi is most alive Teeming with fish and full of bird song, There's no place I'd rather go Than down to a river I know.
0 Comments
HUGS AND DREAMSA blue camping mug;
Montana memories Give words a hug. Drinking wine through tin Is the happiest I've ever been. Dreams can't be borrowed; There is no promise of tomorrow. Leave your comfort zone And take pride in being alone. Do not become lost in the words failures say. Let the dust of others settle where it may. Count the stars at night until worries are out of sight. Open your eyes, Awake your passions. Capture a sunrise, a sunset. Along the way, always remember To forgive love, but don't ever forget A heart will never heal without Giving the skin time to peel. ValentineThe cold claws of night
Are creeping in quickly. It was -10 yesterday and Will be twice as cold this evening. I pull you closer. We sway back and forth, Tides under the moon. We watch the goldfinches gobble Sunflowers. I question checking my phone Or turning on the impeachment news. Feeding you a bottle of warm milk Is all that is in my control. As comfort fills your belly, You go from having your dukes up To playing the piano. I’d like to slip away with you Into that deep ocean of sleep, Where your eyes are like blue marbles Surrounded by pearls. At dusk, redbird flies away, The last light of day pinned to his feather. My mind wants to stay here forever. You by my side. How could I be gifted anything more? Mom walks through the nursery door. BARNYARD HEARTA rusty colored barn is twisted
in shambles Half its body has blown out. Its board feet have collpased upon each other; the frame is a tribute to an era when getting rich wasnt made by getting bigger Instead by living honestly with routenily less I think of all the factory farms, those cuttthoarts who must have promised fame in exchnage to tear down the barn The home still stands beyond the barn A row of double stacked hay bales insulates the shelter from polar vortexes Flakes of white paint hold the stories of thousands of chores- but today animals no longer roam the vacant lot. The home looks arthritically shaken on this January day. I want to pull in through the drifts to make sure the old farmer in his overalls is warm, and has enough straw to fill the spaces between his barnyard heart |
About the AuthorAll poetry is original work by Brian Gibbs. |