Poetry by Kathy Gibbons

               The Climber  by Ray Bentele



In the Name of Propulsion

And still we plod upon the hill
upward always never down 
(that would be too easy)
clouds beckon like there’s sky beyond
and not the sudden slide that falls
through empty air

There's a light chasing us
climbing faster than we can
enveloping what's left
to take the hill away
lights should be more friendly
but this light's not

Exposure on the breast of
brown shorn nap
unwieldy burden to reveal
no cover-up possible in the glare
that swallows follows forms
everywhere we stride

There is no refuge
but we trudge forward
toward refuge anyway
that's called desperation
parked in automatic
or maybe that's called hope




Liturgy

There’s solace in the mundane 
something about repetition 
becoming reparation
becoming reverence

despite the fact you’re sorting socks.

Cleaning after animals 
takes on a sacred mantle 
wearing hair shirts
as you sweep and scrub
becomes a habit.

Paying bills has a regularity 
that won’t diminish 
the necessary evil but
becomes a way to take account 
assess the damage more precisely.

Singing while you work 
works wonders.
Or whistling.
Gregorian chant and incense
enhance the holy atmosphere.

Forever and ever.
Amen.




It ain't perfect but we're working on it

Will we ever measure up?

When you turn around
I will be gone
on to the red-lit tomorrow
you looking toward the past
nose stuck up in airy distaste
pointed the wrong way

Will I ever measure up?

I'd allow you to ride along
on this star-crossing mission
so you can try to fix what matters
to you
shattered memories clinging there
awaiting restitution
awaiting recognition
awaiting respect
waiting for what-the-hell-else
honors
or a place of honor

a place reserved in Tomorrowland
where all good boys and girls
land their hatch
hatch their plans
cement their stand

to see what Dreams May Come
when we let go of the past
not perfect--but it's a start

Start Your Engines now.
Heads up. Hold on.
And don't look back.




Lifer
​
sometimes you drive
and wonder 
where any road will lead
the forks the curves dead-ends
impede then morph the plan
send you 
out-of-car out-of-body
not here
but tethered up in rain

you’re hanging on spider lace
today
shimmer dance dangling
a balmy breeze could
blow you by
out the window
fly away
itsy-bitsy
gone

and so instead you ride
let wipers brush
sky-tears aside
then filmed
thru clouded glass you see
the pink-shot blue blue highway
rising fast 
some new horizon
always coming ‘til it’s gone

​

Bio:  Kathy Gibbons was born and raised in Philadelphia. In 1981, she migrated to Houston where she met and married a New Yorker. In Houston, they raised their Texan son until he went and became a Los Angeleno. And from Houston, she continues to write about these three coasts and the stories contained within and without. Her words have been seen in Creative Nonfiction's 'Tiny Truths' column and in Tuck Magazine.

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