Welcome

Hello. I hope you enjoy the poetry you read on this site.

-James Gibbons

The Import of Words and By Other Means

Castles stately on watch, they seem to mean something
When holding high ground
Some are foreboding
It’s not a matter of mortar and hard stones

The sun in afternoon Denmark, dying
It leaves a door open
The expression it’s giving
is integral to something,

like a pale artifice of a moon
a transit
In ink blank surfeiting
a mirror remorseless.

Words in the night, or most anytime,
they chiefly constrain, but

a butterfly in
sunlight or even inside
shadow
Explains better.

Untitled (in the morning)

In the morning
it rains
The debris is in my
hair, it is part of me
And it becomes me, as
my style is befitting
the monochromatics of the night.
The many tiny drops
duplicate
As they resonate;
searching for sanctuary.
In the waking day.

The Dark Angel

It’s an idea
a death angle
of a dark angel.
And my mind pumps brass
entering this pantomime,
this windy wending tree
of a moody deity,
that refracts good through evil.
A particular triangle.
A peculiar triangle.
For the scripture does raise them:
a fuehrer, a pharoah
or a rash anti-Christ.
That these may be
intermittent echo’s;
the nascent idea of a dark angel.

Infinity in a Box

life is late
it’s common dross
the real show’s been sold.
you’re a paper doll, i’m a comic book;
us sequined puppets
in buckets of paste.

wish a might or dare
but watertight
the sequence’s ballast scavenged
is too obscure
to adhere
there’s nothing here.
life is late.