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.
HUGS AND DREAMS
A blue camping mug;
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.
The 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
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.
A rusty colored barn is twisted
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 Author
All poetry is original work by Brian Gibbs.