Tuesday, March 29, 2011

"Railroad Eyes"

“Railroad eyes”

It’s noon. I am riding on a train for the first time.
I pull out a pen and pad from my bag
And soon, I’ll be writing on a train for the first time.

Out of the window, my railroad eyes peer.
My train steers over steel through valleys of ruined trees;
their splintered hearts probably art in heaven, hollowed be
thy wooden communities. Empathy comes truthfully
because I look at my skin and find their hues in me.

I place my pen on the pad
and give the muse some room to breathe

The conductor speaks “We are currently moving..”
Twenty-five miles per hour glass hot tornado sands spilling
Filling the half empty alleys of my brain is a sponge
absorbing sound waves ebb and fade ebb and fade

Tonight, the moon will be
the closest she’s ever been to me—or not to me.
I strap on my headphones and rock in peace.
Then I hear her lullaby and rock to sleep.

Wake Up!
I am the— Amtrak insomniac, heed my ding-dong-dinging
But don’t stop, join me at the railroad crossing song singing
I am the horn and the flute that the Moon’s blues blew through!
Get up and groove to this! Lose your cool like a lunatic!
Move your hips, to this Music!

But my muse is sick; I feel lunar eclipsed.
I’m a writer sentenced to a mental cage
Barred behind barbed wire, I stare for days
and dream of black unicorns and night mares that graze
on green in terror because I pluck their hairs
not to confiscate their DNA, but
for the sake of making a paint brush
to pull words from the dark wells of creation.
And my ability to feel is trapped in tin plated steel,
But I think I can, I think I can, so I think and can-open my mind.

And words stream like hot steam
from my Coltrane of thought,
Trailing back, Wailing Jazz.

I wake up and follow the path of my ink,
my hand floating down the page like a falling leave.
And the poem wrote itself as I slept to the beat
of Blue O’clock and night-colored calligraphy.

Ides of March

The Ides of March

The Ides of March
are eyeballing me.
From my highest arch
to my crawling feet.
I see the silent march
of sky scrawling seas.
Is it Caesar’s spine
or the bloody knife calling me?

Monday, March 28, 2011


Be on the look/listenout for my good friend and a master violinist, Eric Stanley.
Here is the artwork I created for his upcoming project, "The Eric Stanley Project".

Check out his music! www.ericstanleyglobal.com

Peace [in your inner east].

Friday, March 25, 2011

I know why the caged quetzal sings...

* These pieces I created last year after my spring break trip to Guatemala. The Mayans and Guatemalans that spoke to my class really emphasized the importance of honoring ancient Mayan culture and keeping that culture alive through educating the youth. Known for its rarity and stunning colors, the Quetzal bird became a Mayan symbol of freedom soon after the Spanish Colonization in the 1500s. Since then, the older generations believe that educating their children will bring unity within the Mayan people as well as free the people from the cookie cutter dependency that globalization has brought Guatemala; thus, the poem and the painting. Enjoy!

"I know why the caged Quetzal sings"

I know why the caged Quetzal sings
Its feathered helmet is a crown of Kings.
A blood breasted bird with wondrous wings
Those brilliant blues and gracious greens;
its elegant tail feather is long and sleek.
The caged Quetzal sings to be free.

© 2011 R.Gibsun

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

The Bassist Sings

The Bassist Sings
for Esperanza

Catch the groove.
Her tongue tickles the top tooth
and scat slithers out smooth
like unsullied sooth.

Her voice harbors the harmony
as the bass melds the melody.
Strings translate the finger's speech;
her hands are thinking wild and free.

© 2011 R.Gibsun