Archive for February, 2010

Walking in front of me as often is,

I look where your neck meets

The curly black small hairs on brown skin,

Of which I recall kissing,

Running of my tongue,

I chase after this moment,

As my hand eases over your shoulder,

Slowing you down.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

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Dusk seems to antique the earth,

That which a flame can achieve from a single candle lit,

In such dim moments does love give birth,

Igniting the very fire we missed in the extremes,

In clarity of day or blackness of sleep,

Seeing what we want to see aged in a moment,

Whether the first time, or golden anniversary,

The feeling it’s been there forever,

Love which will be and is.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

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Battery of the sky in passionate thundering slashes of electricity,

Like blazing whips flung across the world and snapping,

Beautiful display of natural passion that brings fear,

No wonder generations past think this is a God’s work,

So does that fear develop in the electric storm of love,

Of which brings both fear and admiration in its power,

The ultimate control of space and sky as if nothing else existed,

Or was alive accept the flashes of absolute divinity,

Causing my heart to race and mind to fascinate in awe,

The moment is now where we make our own energy.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

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Awoke from the thunder and lightning close to the earth, my home,

Pilots say an electric storm, navigators know how difficult it is to fly through,

Powerful rumbling of windows, in my head, controlling sky and space,

Heart racing, looking out the window between the bars, I see the flashes,

Fingers of light scratching across the night’s field of towers revealed from dark escape,

Lighting up what could not be seen, that now is visible in a beautiful display,

Of emotional battery of lashes, looking back to the bed I see asleep,

Where one storm passes showing flashes of another that takes rest,

Back to the sky of natural passion, in fear I see beauty,

In moments of time, short, powerful, blazing whips, I become electrified,

Awaiting peace to break in the dawn, a continuance of moments now.

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I can give Blood
Finger flicks the vein to make sure,
The blood is flowing,
Pumping through it are days of greatness,
Through fleshy mass that makes it,
Saying, I’m allive, That I love,
That I can give Blood,
If you ask.
For what I have to give the very breaking,
Of the Dam, of Hate, of Lost, of Illusions,
Chaos, of questions, the gushing,
To the point of a flood,
Of love, the earth is shaking.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson
* Please consider how little blood is available in Haiti and disaster areas with such horrific injuries that have been caused. I ask you to give blood if you can, you should give blood, its part of living.

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To be Born Again
Shade from the sun of which under grows,
In waste lives develop for waste well,
A canopy of caring,
No disease passes from your arms,
Stretch through the light and dark,
No fear of your mighty bark,
For the only sound is in the wind,
Solid stressing.
Grounded on the mother earth,
Printed on our material worth,
The only pain you can inflict is in paper,
Or by chance you fall in the storm or by
Our Cause.
If I were to return after death,
I want to be reborn as you,
For hate or hurt is not within
Your constituition.
Only to grow and be.
What plan must I make so this comes true,
But to plant the seed so as maybe,
I can be a part of your generations.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

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What you had to say…

I thought about what you had to say,
That it would change and I am,
But for what exchange I must pay,
For all of lives many emotional shames,
I can no longer hide from it all,
And try to be someone I am not,
I could try to see past stories forgot,
Hidden from the world of living,
But there is no escaping what,
No running or even death of thought,
For living all we have is words and disease,
Not one too far from the other,
So forgive me sister and brother,
But these are my last words and decrees.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

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The Pain You Carry

Read to deeply and deeply,
Burdened by the future sleeply,
Cornered but in silence freely,
I am not well from lively,
A past I try to eagerly,
Unhidden from my bloody,
No apologies accepted it steadly,

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

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So few are not lost in their reality,
As I take a breath and reflect,
On the Bars that make up my own,
so easy to observe one make their own,
Problems from belief, habit, albatross,
For I think I’m close to land,
But still quite far,
At what stage did all compasses,
Become spinning needles,
Needless of direction,
On the magnetic pull of my reality,
For loss.
To gain would be to leave,
Of unwelcome even in my own rhyme,
Just another dial of imperfect time.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

* Unable to take or give direction,
Accept within my own flawed advice.

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Mozambique Feb. 3rd 2010
The roof tops are terra cotta, more torn than terra, as they flake off the slanted boxes of white wash and metal bars over glass.

Few towers stand above the rest like a family seperated, not together, distant enough not to be close.

The road that twists between and connects, visible, in intersection but hidden under the canvas of trees planted with the purpose of shade, but much less planned where they are, with broken side walks, exposed roots, and lifted cracked tar and cement.

The new old, what we once were is now, for all walk around changed without knowing the past is happening.

Open are the eyes, mouths, lips of lips, as sensuality embraces the future, for we do not know now, only later. Embracing the future of possibilities in the bosom and flesh of the streets, boxes, buildings, and shade.

Comforted by the past plans that serve the purpose without perfection, but by being and being, where building is for tomorrow.

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