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Best Poems Written by Gil Garcia

Below are the all-time best Gil Garcia poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

The Lady Sung the Blues

Anticipation,
faces sparkling,
wrinkles smiling,
memories at the ready.

Friends inter-mingling, while great grandchildren run through the gathering crowd.
Sun streaking through branches, warming joints, and turned up faces seeking the rare appearance of the coastal sun.

The growing color of gray cropped heads blot out the distant green scape as the band arrives one by one.
Blankets spread, picnic baskets, and bottles of wine appear.

Drummer man begins testing his skins, while the Blues Brother look-alike adjust his mic.
Bass guitar man plugs into his amps then makes a run through his vibrating strings.

Anticipation,
memories at the ready.
Wrinkles smiling,
audience’s eyes glowing,
puppy dogs running as great grandchildren do cartwheels on the grass.

Almost ready, drummer warms up with a mixed run of sheep skin sounds.
Base man vibrates notes that rock nearby windows and flutter our wrinkled foreheads.

Pretty lady arrives on stage and is welcomed by the band like an old lost friend. She sets her music on a stand and adjust her mic downward.

Anticipation growing, memories at the ready.
Blues Brother laughing, making eyes at the pretty lady.

Puppy dogs running.
Little four year old boy in blue striped shirt plays his air guitar in front of base man who is smiling at the boy’s mimicking accuracy.

Snacks, blankets, and beer,
vibrations fill the air.

It begins _the pretty lady welcomes all. She announces that we were about to experience a ride back to the sixties, and seventies.

They start _the rhythm of Muddy Waters fills the air.
As pretty lady sings the blues.

Old necks swaying and dancing, hands clapping, as wrinkles smile again.
Eyes connecting with strangers, family and friends.
Old couples grasping their loved-one’s hands _remembering when,
as the lady sings the blues.

Before you know it, it is over.
Good-bye hugs and handshakes.
Mamas and Papas gathering their now sleeping children.

Retired professionals, doctors, lawyers and old artisans with memories now awakened begin to leave, _some older, turn their heads downward, walking in tune with their walkers, and canes as their children help them back to parked cars in handicap zones.

Cars back out, but before moving on _ a few of the elder attendees turn their head back to the park to capture one more moment in time, as they gaze upon their dispersing long lost friends, who just shared a ride back to the sixties, and seventies; when the guitar man strummed, and the lady sung the blues.

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

Between Two Worlds

The world that a normal person, finds him or herself living from day to day, and that of a writer, who allows their creative side to pull them into the shadowed spaces of his or her mind¬. The side that is filled with mysteries, and drama that unfolds in millisecond bursts.

Artist capture visions in these inner journeys and put them to canvas.

Writers enter this illusionary world searching for a tale. He withdraws from the chamber only to scribe to paper his understanding of these sporadic visions.

In deep thought, he ponders, and molds words, and picks adjectives that best describes what this illusive world has flung at him. Sentence by sentence he works, and reworks the tale _then he re-enters this chamber again to do battle with his mind's eye, beating it to death day after day, night after night, until the his imagination has run dry.

Exhausted, he now realizes it is done, it is over, he can do no more.
But he questions himself, did he interpret it right ? Does it make sense? Is it the best it can be? He re-reads it time and time again.
Will the reader understand what he tried to say?
Will the readers clinch their fist in anger at the right moment?
Will they laugh or cry? Can their mind’s eye visualize what unfolded in his head?

So, what is left when his work is done? Dose he stack it in a closet on top of so many others, or does he deal with the other world; the one he hates? He is not a salesman. He is not comfortable with this part, and would rather return to the chamber where he finds comfort, and let others sell his works, but the more he returns, the more it seems these encounters are taking over his soul.
He’s now hearing voices, and whispers, barely audible, but they are there. He begins to fluctuate between sleep, fever, delirium and reality. Till one day the chamber closes the escape hatch behind him and he is trapped there forever.

No one will hear him, for his cries bounce off the walls of this dark chamber echoing on top of his previous cries.

He has found true hell. The hell that awaits a few writers who will allow themselves to find too much comfort listening to the whispers within.

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

My Valley

The darkness accepts the awakening of a new day over the eastern rim of the valley floor.  

The distant highlands sculpted by nature’s wind and ancient ice accept this sun ’s morning’s gift of bright glistening golden crowns along their uppermost edges, as the lower masses blanket themselves in shades of soft blue mist.

Sheared cliffs stand guard as sentries protecting all that lives on the valley floor. 
A meadow bounded by an emerald green forest that has given perch to the midnight stars for a thousand of years awaits the first ray of warmth upon its branches where a mountain jay trumpets with joy.

Given this moment of tranquility, my soul returns to its resting place_ concealed by time, laid to rest by my brothers the Miwoks of the Yosemite; my valley for evermore.

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

Till the End of Time

I have left the choking maze of concrete patterns behind me 
to stand at land's end.
It is here I have found the beating heart of Mother Earth.
She beckons me at sunset, silently, with colors beyond imagination.
Her greatness explodes across the sky and below she bellows the audible sounds of the surf that build into a grand crescendo to celebrate days’ end.
The sparkle of the ocean begins its mesmerizing dance that welcomes the sun to come to rest behind her distant edge.
In the sky above are the endless and magical shapes of clouds floating across the golden sky, as the surf continues its rhythmic tones that purifies my mind and soothes my soul.
The distant fog horn beckons to the wayward gulls and guides them home to roost at water's edge.
With my soul now fulfilled and with last light, I reluctantly turn away into the darkness, grateful once again to have witnessed the beauty of Mother Earth, hoping someday to be at peace as my ashes float away with the tide, on their endless journey, till the end of time.

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

He Lives Between Two Worlds

He lives between two worlds.
 
One that an average, or sane person, finds him or herself living day to day,
and that of a fictional writer, who allows his creative side to pull him into the dark spaces of his mind filled with fantasies and mysteries.

Artist capture these visions in these inner journeys and put them to canvas, 
Writers enter this illusionary world searching for a tale their creative side bangs out in millisecond bursts.  He withdraws from the creative chamber only to scribe to paper his understanding of these flashing insane hallucinations. 

In deep thought, he ponders, and molds words, and picks adjectives that best describes what this illusive world has flung at him. Sentence by sentence he works, and reworks and once satisfied he re-enters this dark chamber again to do battle with his mind's eye, beating it to death day after day, night after night, until the his imagination has run dry. 

Exhausted, he now knows it is done, it is over, he can do no more. 

But, he now wonders, did he interpret it right ? Does it make sense? Is it the best it can be?
He re-reads it time and time again.  Will the reader understand what he tried to say? 
Will they clinch their fist in anger at the right moment?  Will they laugh or cry?  Can their mind’s eye visualize what unfolded in his head?

So, what is left for this creative writer who has finished his work. Dose he stack it in a closet on top of so many others, or does he deal with the other world; the one he hates.  The world of the common public that accepts their monochromatic existence. 

He is not a salesman.  He is not comfortable with this part, and would rather return to the chamber, and let others sell his works, but the more he returns, the more it seems these encounters are taking over his life.  He’s now hearing voices, whispers, barely audible, but they are there. He begins to fluctuate between sleep, fever, delirium and reality. Till one day the chamber closes its escape hatch behind him and he is trapped there forever. 

No one will hear him, for his cries bounce off the walls of this dark chamber echoing on top of his previous cries.  He has found  true hell.  The hell that awaits all mystery writers who will allow themselves to find too much comfort with the voices within.

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

The Sanctuary of Gallina Canyon

The Tale of Gallina Canyon, NM

Red sandstone, sheer cliff monuments awaits the morning breeze, and high above the canyon floor an eagle sores with ease.

As shadows of the mountain cliffs retreat from the canyon floor, a native boy and his grandfather sit enjoying the silence of the valley. Far below under the cottonwood an elk has given birth; now lays exhausted from her daunting night with her new born by her side. She nudges her a little to get her to stand, and with wobbly legs beneath her she plants them in the sand.

The old man stood and walked to the base of the sandstone cliff, a place where the ancient ones scribe the wall with painted hands, and others used sharp rocks to scrape away the red stone sand, and carved the likeness of their people and other circled signs.

His grandson walked up to his side and asked, "What do they mean?" His grandpa hesitated before saying, "They are pictures made by the ancient ones who lived here long ago. The circles within a circles count the many generations of their family who lived on this land. The swirling ones tell stories of the hunter, who hunted through the dark, and ask the gods of the night to provide them heavens light.

He wrapped one arm around the boy as his tears began to flow; he was thinking of his father who told him the tales so long ago.

They returned to their perch, above the canyon floor, to listen to the sounds of life and watch the eagle sore.

Before sheltering for the day, the Elk drank from the Gallina canyon stream with her newborn by her side. She paused just a moment, then looked up at the old man who stared back silently with love, knowing that they will continue to live together and share the spirit of this land.

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

For the Moment At Sunset

Nature filled with flowing imagination makes it's entry _stage right 
Slow-motion grandeur, with elongated trails of gold, red, blush pink, 
and fiery yellow;
Sprinkled about, majestic forms _twisting upwards in billowing white
regal splendor.
For the moment, time stands still.
For the moment, my system slows to a tranquil pant. 
For the moment, I share, and become in perfect silence _a partner in nature’s imagination. 
For the moment I watch, reluctantly, the curtain descend on this day. 
For the moment.

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

Autumn Leaves

Autumn Leaves

Knowing that the first signs of Autumn are at hand, anticipation grows within me.  

Soon, leaves of gold, yellow, and red will begin their feathered spiral dance as they release themselves to ride the winds of fall.

Leaves that through nature’s beauty have given to all mankind a silent gift of cleansing the very air we breathe. Leaves that will now begin to mass themselves below the jagged shadows of barren branches. 

They will enhance the soil of the forest floor; laying dormant as their golden warm identities give way to the drab rusty browns and the chill of the winter to come. 

The sporadic rains and down pours are soon to follow, 
giving way to a regal blanket of pure white snow that will absorb all sounds of the valley floor except that of a distant dog or the cawing of a lonely raven. All the other creatures of the forest will shelter quietly in place. 

The aroma of burning logs of nearby cabins will add to the ambiance of the woodland and for those seeking its solitude to renew their souls.

Go with your loved ones and enjoy this wonderment that is meant to be appreciated by those who will allow themselves to be still. Go and listen to the silence of this sacred sanctuary that will cleanse away your anxieties, refresh your souls and build memories of moments shared that will last a lifetime. 

Go prepare yourselves my friends for the Autumn leaves are at hand.

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

Letter To My Brother of the Blue

My brother Paul was my mentor in the arts, and in so many other ways,
As a child, he made me laugh, as a teen he nurtured my love for the arts, as a man he gave me direction. 
He and I spent many a days in a small boat sitting off the coast of Newport and San Pedro Harbors. We talked, we laughed, we had a little wine.  We joyed in our moments of unregimented  freedom.
Those who went fishing with him new of his fascination with the many colors that made up the ocean hues. He was at peace out there, sitting over the ocean, listening to the gulls as the water lapped against the bow in the mist of nature’s wonders.
I’d give anything to fish with him one more day, or sit in his studio listening to jazz while his imagination flowed to canvas.
Just one more day brother__ just one more day.
Your brother, with love,
Gil

Details | Gil Garcia Poem

The Pond

The pond is a place where you stop alongside the road to stretch your legs as we did on our way to Mendocino (The Cape Cod of California).

It was layers of colors dancing in the wind.
It was watching my mother feeling like a child as she gently touched the petals of so many colorful flowers.

It's a place where you become mesmerized by nature's beauty, and your system begins to unwind without the thought of trying, as you feel the freshness of the breeze brushing against your skin.

A place you want to return to someday because of a special memory of a moment in time.  A moment I spent with my family, and my mother who became a child as she once was when my father was at her side in the redwoods, valleys and streams.

Just a place along side the road, on our way to enjoy a few unregimented days ahead.