Broken Things In Poetry

When the Earth Moves Things Break

Feeling the Earth move can be metaphorical or actual. (Poems by Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019)

Earthquake

There are emotional earthquakes and ones from the ground.

Tectonic

In the earthquake, the favorite
cup of you, my love, was broken,
your urn broken on the mantel too;
you, angel, have returned to the wind,
fires have broken out and
the ashes of you are mixed with
the ashes of disaster, yet I
join the march of broken people
soon to die like a crevice
widens with dawn.

My child cries:
Why is the world broken?

An abyssal bottom slides
deep within me as
plates of fate touch
head to head to break

A Car Can Break Down or a Person

Throbbing In Crevices

Though there’s little food in Sugar Ditch
the rabbit hoped to hop from me
a foolish-stewing-hopeless creature,
who’d let luck go where
fecal creeks don’t drown
perfumed hope

Broken down in Sugar Ditch
waiting for a scholarship
I was wheeling like
lightning struck me down

The documentary camera came
just before a thunder wash,
saw the open sewer
that’s home to family shame

I pulled out my crying rag
time moaning sack of clothes
and the man heard me sing
while driving lightning roads

Honking horns daring me
to dream away from poverty,
I bent my trumpets to heaven’s ears

But no one told me
evil flies to me
every place I go, and
King Sorrow would reign
over sovereign hopes

I reached the skyscrapers
a tourist of bad timing
had to be the highest
place to see heaven
aside from you

After lightning struck this New York
I was lying under debris,
my quilted sorrow bristling
with cast off bricks

Mortar thoughts around me
being so damn mortal, I
could be thundered away
to the heavenly scene

But a steam pipe was hissing
while lifted stones flew away
like missiles whistling
choruses of dusty blues

Jaws of life jacking time
they slid my body out in time
let the building collapse on through

Thought I heard,
old Joplin singin’
more on Earth
will be slapping you
if you
dodge more bullets
from another fool

And when I sang right out
across the clapping crowds,
my best laid blues
went right to you,
New York girl
in a rabbit hat

Oh magical girl,
my new love,
you kissed the breeze
made illusions
fondle my wishes

Now I dream of you deeply:
my salvation laughing everywhere

To whinny, my dream horse gallops, your
giggling  jiggling in my cortex,
cerebral fondness hunting for you
in pulsing fibers
embedded in desire
throbbing in crevices
of nerve-cell books,
passions hiding in no man’s nook.

You journey through my mind,
scampering mind dancer,
doing wild animal tangos. I embrace

your beauty in the hunt
to capture your essence;
my dogs sense your scent,
a presence so foxy,
they transcend all knowing
rockin’ and rollin’ in serotonin.

I have traveled into you–
touch me there
where thoughts are real
and lightning tingles fine:
hats off to
everlasting good times

When I awake to you
I am in heaven

Relationships Break

Broken Dark Things

I know you’ve been seeing
that flashy vile thing:
he’s a rag on the road, and I’ve
got a fine ramming car.

Fast, fast, fast.
Dead, dead, dead.
Yeah, over the edge, woman.

Oh you dirty down broken woman
you betrayed me so bad
made me cry so hard, oh damn

hell I broke my only hope cup
smashed it in shaving mirror
’cause I’m looking at ugly

gonna get that vile thing
you’ve been seeing, even
if it’s fine looking to you

oh hell breaking, can’t be braking
for no cliff

and I’ll be racing to throw that
dead damn bloody rag over the edge

Hell broke my only hope cup
dark whisker shadows
looking ugly, and gonna
ram it ugly, uh, you know what

it must be hell’s whisker shadows
if you’d laugh with another damn
broken down vile thing

it’s gonna die, broken woman…hey;
know what I mean?

Oh you pretty bitty broken woman
you betrayed me so badly
made me cry so hard, oh damn

hell I broke my only hope cup

hell you don’t know no better
than be broken and so am I
broken and betrayed many times

Gonna get that vile handsome rag
you patch on yourself
all hot and dirty

Oh you dirty down broken woman
you betrayed me so bad
made cry so hard, oh damn

yeah, OK, broken woman
go fix yourself
with that vile thing

yeah if that’s your thing
OK

Hell I’m going to Shardsville,
know a woman who’ll
put me in stitches
knows the joke
about being broke

oh broken hearted woman
go fix yourself

I’m going away
to mend myself in Shardsville
where crying is beautiful
and a cup of love is free

Broken Trees and Broken Hearts

Tea

Climbing away to a mist beyond foliage
where leaves leave peaks alone
naked at the top
no tea leaves to read

Wandering up
lost from you, climbing
away to a mist, I had hoped
something would
move me like you did a day
looking up, window listening
to true katydids play forelegs
at tops of oak trees, when I
seemed home, as if from the kitchen
you were coming to a boil with
true approval and encouragement tea.

Mountain climbing where
leaves leave peaks, I had hoped
to let spirits of you sanctify
meanders in the cold with gracious thoughts,
those hot dreams of you that infuse the stew

I carry in my backpack, mostly filled with
drudge stuff, but your precious memorandear
was tucked into the rear pocket made for
precious notes like gems amen, something
to hold for incantations against pebbles
in the shoes and grace for stumble stones
that haunt the winding up mountain path

Broken trees below the snow line
broken hearts above
misty mountain hawks
splintered memories clawing

Blue skies and fluff at the mountain top.
In a cloud I saw your face, a
tea cup and a dove, but

I heard myself scream and
saw the grief of my breath
form wispy puffs that fly away

But those sorrows are not of you,
though you do embrace every sparrow,
and when you’d not know
the name of the bird, you’d
christen it cute and lovely like you are

Winding down
there are birds in the sky
and no stumble stones, but
only the scent of tea up my nose
the feel of a memorandear in my pocket
There is sweetness to the air
your valley is near,
could be I’ll stumble
by your house to leave a note
or ring where I learned that
fresh tea is sweet when brewed
for an occasion where eyes meet

and blinks become flutters
a stuttered word divine, because
what would be affirmed in the steep
is the scent of wafting play where
seeping things flow out into
the rivers in two cups
fragrant with cinnamon
and swirly with a word
whispered in the mists
before silence goes to bed

I’ve seen it in a memo.

Ding dong.

(Poems by Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019)