Another length of grass,

From which field you grow honestly and green,

In excellence, I watch not a baby or seed,

Passed single integers to double integers,

A young woman full of vitality and life,

My little woman.

Once who followed my lead,

Now cares to lead herself,

Who once relied on her parents for happiness,

Now finds Happiness in herself,

Contentment, rooted in her field,

Comfortable inside of herself and on the ground,

Owning the earth she stands on,

But knowing I stand in this field besides,

And if you bend, bend into me,

As I will keep you erect and in the sun,

Photosynthesised by the attention of God,

And the goodness that brings to you, in you.

By Ryan Gibson

Your aura was the first I saw

Full of flowers, especially the rose

Even in the night pedals bloom in awe

To move my hand in the air, open and close

As to attempt to feel the presence

The majestic and unordinary essence

Of pure unhindered sunshine

A star in the eye of mine

Which always remains

In sight but out of touch

Poem 2

I proposed marriage to the air last night

For your essence lingered afloat in passing

As for a moment I could grasp a bushel

Of pure essence of love in your fragrance

Where the ethereal takes some physical form

Materialized by genius of being

A mist of casual release

That in a failed attempt to bind I asked

Would you stay with me forever

Which only left me a faint trail to follow

Poem 3

What lines of love I carry across the earth

And songs I sing and praise of love in Johannesburg

The places I have seen far less entice

Then her curves, her mountains, valleys, and springs,

Dark natural beauty, the source of beginnings,

I place my heart and faith in your city

Which so designed has taken all I have to spend

And all I have to give

In return, I can hold onto its jewel

Far more precious than rare metals of a star

Shining with greatness so as one can see from afar

Makes the burden of feelings carried a weight of worth

The songs I sing and praise of love in Johannesburg

Poem 4

I wish to tremble with your touch

To desire, to fly in emotion in flames

Feeling the burning and seeing the bright

So as when I finish I return from wood to ash

Completely run through with embers so as

Remains of which no life could be

Distinguished by the black resin of

Passion extinguished for the excess of

Air that fed the last morsel of life inhaled

The Tree No More

I decided to move out of the trees

Pinocchio nor raw wood no more

For I was tired of being written on

Of truths amongst trees of things that fall

Of which the world has no care for at all

Among them I had more than seen enough

Many of the same thing discussed anew

Of which I choose the rank and folly,

For a better view of humanity

Of which chaos is a great refuge for sanity

Fallen In Love By Ryan Anthony Gibson

Why do we say to “fall in love”

It sounds as if I have landed on my head

Trailing headlong off a cliff

Not raising love or flying high above,

But a treble of words that imply

Like a dream or nightmare

You are hurling towards the matter

Of which there may be a chance you

Hit it and wake up… to reality.

But what if I am not fallen

As without love there is no lower place

It has raised me up rather,

I wonder if you are falling towards

Whether it scares you?

As I fly up from my mortal being,

I shall catch you as your attracting force

Propels me closer,

As if to have given me wings,

Of which your body finds me in a free fall,

To catch from a divine place, and

We shall suspended in equilibrium of forces

Caused by similar means

Float in and around the impact

Of it all, still in the air like art,

In one thought and interpretation,

Like a painting by Bougureau,

For us to be in and those to appreciate,

Who see what love is.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

passed a word as no words passing

but endless one way thoughts.

No matter my hardships,

no more as difficult as the emptiness

left by the void of love

when one could focus on a greater love.

A pilgram who did not interpret the dream correctly,

so I walk with the desire to try to interpret it again…

the dream.

The greater love is from there,

the direction clear,

the little sheppards gate

I must open.

Passion of your lips on mine parched,

Opening an old wound and healing

All at the same time.

Memories of errors, nights, rough,

Dry lips, fists, elbows and feet,

Or the feeling there of when the past

Whips by my cerebral cortex,

Connected to the sensation,

But now all I can think of

Is your lips on mine and racing

Beautiful moonlit eyes,

The air that once dried now

Blows kisses in my direction,

Winds of time and destiny.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

And all is a metaphor

For loneliness and the longing of being touched

Or to touch, a bit or a lot,

Back and forth, rubbing against,

Brushed or patted, scratched, bitten,

Licked even, to quench a hunger,

Salt of the earth, loves worth and weight,

Pressure and release,

Embrace, softly or mighty,

Trace contours and lines,

Crossing over to passion,

Feeling color, scent, and sound,

Breasts, liquid, luscious, slippery,

Think of the metaphors found,

In a hand, to give a hand,

To wondering states of mind,

A wondering hand you find.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson, November 28^th 2009

The agent was sprayed on the torso, on my chest,

A palm and hand print was clearly lifted,

The invisible presence of what was once recovered,

The hand was evident by the very lines finely etched,

Preserved the imprint of life that was in places

Some missing and blind where empty,

Unable to match the hand to the database of loves,

To the soft fleshy mass of sensation that outlined,

Over my heart the impression that I fell victim,

To die of love, for longing of sensation

As powerful as her touch.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson, November 28^th 2009

My hand was not permitted entry for months

In the milky presence of her skin, no life or anything,

Not a single graze of the flesh to salvage in thought.

Station without a train or rail, no chance of going,

Isolated by the very arm it is attached to, chain

Voluntarily has no choice to move instructed by the brain,

Nervous system, tubes of blood, tendons, unjust,

Longing for the sensation, to touch it must,

In touch we trust.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson, November 28^th 2009

My childhood was often sitting on the corner,

Watching life go by on occasion sopping up,

A cup of cool-aid and or flat soda water,

That drains from my teary eyes,

Because I thought she liked me,

But she will not do it, she will not love me,

We both got in the bathtub and giggled once,

We thought this must be making love,

Then sitting on the porch we kissed,

I shared with her my fries and Big Mac,

And a little bit with a wild cat,

But now I sit on the corner, slinging for a buck

So I can buy her candy from the corner store,

The more I give her she loves me more,

But for now I am sad and poor,

For yesterdays chocolates I am broke,

Where now I need the time to restore.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

Peaty Islay Malt

Finishing sea return

Clinging to my mouth

By Ryan Anthony Gibson