September 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
A millennium hence the Lord tours his dominions,
Querying, probing, pondering opinions
Harvested from hearts He esteems
Well, regarding vital matters: the sprouting of seeds,
The colors of comets, the assessment of mortal deeds…
Turning then, it seems,
To consult a merry soul, He listens closely
to counsel well rooted in a lifetime of service, while mostly
All of heaven patiently lingers.
Weighing advice reverently tendered,
The Lord tarries, laughs at pithy accounts rendered
Parcel to sage fare, then fingers
Lovingly the soul, and carries on his way.
May He grant that I am there on that day.
September 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
[i](for Andrea Van der Veer)[/i]
Do I smell cake? Or hake? Or steak?
Or mayhap a pate?
Goat cheese? A squeeze of Brie,
If you please? A spinach souffle?
A snack, a nip
A gourmet-loving sip of steamed cafeu lait?
Andrea keeps me fed and sleeps me in her bed
And bathes me when I shed
And runs me ’til I’m dead
(She’s kind of odd that way).
There’s people-food to eat and every kind of treat,
Imported tins of meat, nonpareils for sweet.
She gives me cats to harry
And I hope she does not marry
And have a mess of kids
Or I’m out on the skids.
But if things will only stay
The way they are today,
I know that every day
Will be a birthday.
September 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
[i](for Michael Koop)[/i]
Grandma died suddenly and crushed us kids,
Who were unprepared for
The staggering loss
That old people and families manage so well.
The Family stumbled.
Things were said
That echo faintly,
Even now.
But Family is family,
Which is why
Grandma is a sweet memory,
Not a bitter one.
It seems to me that your Family did it right,
Gathering,
And your tears seem
Much of denouement,
Less of loss.
Family is family, and your loss is
Near to mine.
So I didn’t go.
September 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
[i](for John Swenning)[/i]
Enchanted – listening there to subterranean conflicts of love,
Lad and Dad, dark echoes of me and my old man.
That invitation tendered – and declined – would have rendered skill
In me, wisdom of the knotty, passionate weal
Of reciprocal head-butting that embraces love and hate between
Father and son, tethering them like cats on a clothesline, clawing,
Incessantly united, minutely, painfully aware
Of the wefts of each other. No other souls mingle in the play.
Had I hefted that proffered burden, I would now be steeped
In the loving turmoil, been counted wise in that hour when the
Circle dissolved, dispersing discord, leaving only love and despair.
The poetry you sing of your old man dwells within me,
A bittersweet echo of mine, of mine.
So I learn through hollow bulletins that I am forever banned
By time and choice from the mysteries of you and your father.
I am forbidden past the outer rim of your grief.
I don’t know what thing I regret the most.
August 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
[i]for maryann…[/i]
i gave my brother’s wife an orange
and bound our souls,
hers and mine.
not a whole orange,
less than half –
all she could bear.
summoned there,
throttled,
loving her so long,
i stood dumb, mute
at her whispered,
“i love you.”
i gave her an orange,
she slept, and
my heart broke.
i gave my
brother’s wife
an orange.
August 2001 | back-issues, fiction, Michael W. Giberson
constant sin
cauterizes nerves
essential for
rousing God:
your swaying,
unsanctified, blemished,
unwise, unesteemed,
clinkered dream
can metamorphosize
into morning
golden Paradise.
ask that you dream.
