Best Gatherer Poems
driving through streets of angst and apathy
driving to the place where I can actualize my desire
to eat a 12 piece bucket of chicken hunks
smiling at the coo-koo bird with **** exposed
the paper words speaking in a greasy cacophony
that sings louder than the top 40 rap from the car next to me
the all encompassing fried waft fills the upper quadrants
of my olfactory facilities
my pavlovian salivary stalactites are noteworthy in the rearview
the napkins that won't suffice tonight
whilst sipping new dessicated sanguine juice
later I shall roll in the fractured bones and discarded cartilage
with the glee of a lion licking the last remnants of flesh
from the femur of the sleeping zebra
driving with my portable fan to scent glaze those caught at the precipice
of another uncomfortable intersection smoldering with the anticipation
of another color
it's night and my eyes work like the retinas of an great horned owl
hookers flittering about within the shadows in the fashion of desperate hyenas
eyes reflecting red to further emphasize the craze
the urge/smell to press forward is overwhelming
the distractions are fantastic
the howls of maligned dogs echoes over the canopy of green neon
I am the great white hunter bringing home my quarry and
park this steely beast making its heart turn off
metal and flesh move at different vibrations that only appear similar
yes it is time to work the mandible with great passion yet
with empty thoughts as the world outside the den
makes the brain short circuit from its normal capacities
other than hunting for the best family meal deal
because down by the facsimile of a watering hole there are whole animal parts
compressed into small and workable units
Somebodies gathering dust, in the
blue-grey twilight; I see him, but
not his hidden face; he stoops down,
like a father with his child, but he
has no busy rattle,
but a dust-pan and a brush,
for scooping up the livid, fiery
dust
yes, I’ve seen him here before,
but more often, in parks with swings
and busy market floors
yet, today is not the same; no, no it’s not
the same at all; and when I ask him, why?
he slowly turned around and said,
” I’ve come to gather you,”
The Gatherer
The Gatherer lives in the garden most of the year,
It moves very slowly so no one will hear,
But near to Christmas it comes into the house
And hides quietly, as quiet as a mouse.
Then deep into the night when we’re all asleep
Into the kitchen the bold creature will creep
And then with its long nose and very large eyes
Looks for Christmas cake and remains of mince pies.
It has pointed ears and a tail that is brown
Treading over the floor but making no sound
And then with its paws and its prehensile thumbs
It feeds on sandwiches and left over crumbs
The Gatherer dines on pork patte with ease,
Cold ham and salami with pickles and cheese,
Thin slices of fruit and long celery sticks
Then through the bowls of nuts and raisins it picks.
It’s tongue is as long as an elephant’s trunk
And with it sips brandy until it is drunk
Then you may hear the rhythmic sound of its snore
As it sleeps ‘neath the stair or under the floor.
On the next morning when you finally rise
In the empty kitchen there is a surprise,
You’ll never know what made the food disappear
So beware when the Gatherer returns the next year
Barry Stebbings
12/11/2020
Alone as I walk in the sunlight
No one around but me and my shadow
So I walk on even so the heated bright
Reminds me that the sunlight brighter
As I the lone cowboy round up the cattle
6/04/18
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
The Gatherer and the Giver sat atop a hill to gaze again
down at the village where they lived, and talk about the ones in need.
At end of day as sun went down, they sat there talking in the dim
as soul by soul they contemplated what was the best way to feed.
They did this often for they knew, despite the many years gone by,
the need to gather and to give would always be in high demand.
But on this eve the Giver took the time to ask the Gatherer why
he worked so hard behind the scenes. The Giver didn’t understand.
For he was ever in the light, the one who all the people saw
taking what he had received and giving to the ones in need,
sharing in the joy it brings (it was the best part of the job).
But his friend never got this chance because he made the choice to lead
a quite life of gathering. A life of no fan fair at all.
So when the Giver asked him why he toiled so hard to gather in,
he sat a while just thinking as he watched the evening shadows fall,
not quite sure how to answer for the thought had never dawned on him.
So when he finally spoke his words fit well into the sunset night.
Soft and slow, the words as natural as the scene before their view -
“I do it for deep in my heart the Spirit tells me that it’s right,
for I am given everything that passes through my hands to you.”
She gathers their hearts and souls and invites them to her table.
She feeds them with love and laughter and they reciprocate;
It is on this fullness of belly and heart that they go into the world to achieve their destiny.
A bit more joyful than the day before.