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eThoughts
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Divergence: Stream of Consciousness as Poetry
God’s Aplomb
Like fireflies,
My thoughts dart
Across the dark spaces of awareness,
Illuminating mere fragments of wholeness,
And deceiving me with partial realities.
Like moth to a flame,
My consciousness explores only what is lit
And notices in the contrast,
Dark forbidding holes.
Is awareness so insensitive
That it cannot feel God’s touch with an atom
Or taste God without the heavy seasoning of hellfire and brimstone,
Or smell God without the sweet blast of salvation?
Is awareness so dim
That it cannot see God in the dark,
Or so mute
That it cannot hear God in the silence?
The dancing fireflies call me back
To tasks undone and longings unfulfilled,
Leaving God to wait,
Which God does with such aplomb.
Communication
She was speaking to me
Across a great divide,
Her mouth moving,
Mirroring an animated face,
Points made in her mind
Even as the words
Tumbled like sticks over a waterfall
And splintered upon the rocks below,
Only to reach me as nature’s splendor.
Later, she insisted
I was told to take out the trash.
The Moon Knows
There are a lot of lights on the road I drive,
Announcing one thing or another.
There are a lot of voices where I go,
Filling the air with this message or that.
There’s a dog barking behind that fence.
He’s been at it for an hour,
Looking over his shoulder for a master who never comes,
Barking at me who hasn’t moved.
Perhaps he’s just lonely in his cage,
His ancestral wires
Twisted by his owner’s need for a knick-knack.
Who is really listening
To the glaring lights,
To the announcing voices,
To the barking dog?
The moon stares down from overhead
And knows exactly what it is doing.
Tribe of Talismans
Dancing with the skeletons of expectation,
Disconnected joints rattling messages of the past,
We try to move in perceptual forward,
While embracing perceptual pasts.
Our tribe of Talismans with their shouting shields,
We hoist heavenward in synchronized appeal,
And keep ourselves from realizing,
In too much safety, like too much light,
No space, no matter,
No learning, no present,
Is ever much revealed.
Reaching Out
It is funny to sit and scrawl
Word symbols across tree pulp
To be read by others
On the screens of their own experiences.
Oh, how the vestiges of old journeys
Leave a trail called remembrances,
Yet are presently interpreted.
Reaching out like beggar’s hands,
We try to touch,
Though it often seems like wanting.
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Copyright © 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005, 2004, 2003, 2002 by Travis
Gibbs
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed,
or stored in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the
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