Home » Poems » Best » Zachary Gilstrap » Best Zachary Gilstrap Poems

Best Poems Written by Zachary Gilstrap

Below are the all-time best Zachary Gilstrap poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Zachary Gilstrap Poem

We'Re Just Brown

Grandma’s brown knuckles crinkled 
As she gently peeled the heirloom 
Potatoes, discarding the brown-
Skinned strips into the garbage
Bin. She was at home here, alive 
And aloud, tastes and scents mingling 

In the air like wispy fairies in Neverland, mingling 
With the mauve, sun-kissed raisins lying crinkled 
On slices of butter-brown toast. She is alive 
Here, sheltered by the pots and pans, heirlooms
from her mother Wilma, who once was the garbage 
Lady, the help, for a white family uptown. Wilma's brown 

Skin was the softest variety of brown, 
Likened to silky mocha-hued beads mingling 
With glints of the golden hour. Garbage, 
However, was her epithet. She was crinkled 
Black plastic to that white family. Her heirloom 
was the oppressive garrote of Jimmy Crow — alive 

And well in the hearts of many, still alive 
Today in the gashes and slashes brown 
Men, women, and children still absorb, heirlooms 
from a past infected with rankling vehemence mingling 
With entitled gall. Wilma's old hands were dry-crinkled, 
Just like her daughter, who now throws the skin in the garbage, 

Who marched hard to not be viewed as garbage, 
Who plans to keep Wilma’s soulful memory alive, 
Who cooks until her freckle-speckled hands are crinkled, 
Who is loud and proud to be her shade of brown, 
Who gets straight to business and foregoes the mingling, 
Who works so her progeny can be have the proudest heirloom: 

Pride. Pride in those gently-knotted heirloom 
locks, pride in the skin that was once garbage, 
Pride, pride, pride. Her ever-beating heart mingles 
With the cosmos — she is a celestial being, alive 
In the splendor of black joy. She also likes her toast brown 
And her sun-kissed raisins ever-so-crinkled. 

And while her heirloom knuckles stay tightly crinkled, 
Her heart will mingle with stars and keep the love alive, 
Because she — we — will never be garbage again. We’re just brown.

Details | Zachary Gilstrap Poem

Discount

The industrial hull of the SUV 
Sways with the slightest wind taps 
And pothole shoves. Popeye’s signs, 
Golden shell displays, the lingering smell 
Of Premium-grade gasoline. 
The prices are Down, but our gas meter still 
teeters closely, Dangerously, just inches away 
from zero. Still, we push on.
 
We pass Targets and Walmarts, 
advertising last minute holiday sales. 
We pass packed churches, 
Minute investment banks, 
and lush green fields 
Of ochre and chamomile.
 
We love it here, when it's like this, 
swaying and moving and existing and living, 
traffic lights blinking signaling malfunction, 
creaky train tracks rattling under thick rubber tires, 
Black faces covered in bandanas, 

riding sterling White horses on cobblestone streets, 
homes stuffed with joyous presents and family love. 
Christmas lights line walls and corners like cobwebs, 
bells jingle and chestnuts roast. 

A stray dog hurtles through aqua-hued 
Alleys, neighborhood convenient stores shut the
Shutters for the night. Randall’s BBQ pit sits 
Idle in front of the Dollar General. We almost get
in a wreck near the intersection 

outside of the neighborhood.
I cry, 
my clothes dampen from stress-induced sweat. 
We pass backyards, 
homes, 
estates. 
Wired, wood, corrugated fences, 
kids jumping over them, 
gaining scarlet scabs on knees, 
fences beautifully embroidered, 
decorated with ivy from hobby lobby 
and signs that read, “beware of dog!” 

But still, we push on.
 
We move through the backyard, 
inching slowly on St. Augustine grass, 
slithering like scaled snakes past the 
Water hose and dog cage. 
The pitbull’s mouth foams with slimy goop, 
but he pays no mind. 
We sway smoothly like wind to the 
living room window. 
No one here. 

We love it here, when it's like this. 
We see jewelry, shoes, jackets, 
petticoats, purses, monster trucks, 
guitars, Barbies. We see a red light 
beaming from an alarm on the wall, 
meaning “armed.” 

But still, we push on.

Details | Zachary Gilstrap Poem

Tinsel

Spattering sparks flicker 
in her eyes, highlighting 
each salty rivulet as they 
roll down on to the 
carpet stair. 

The jolly tunes are her 
confidant, 
the garland and tinsel her jury. 

“The car snapped in half,”
she hears, failing to grasp how
souls can be plucked like 
birthday cake candles, 
leaving deformed icing
no one wants to lick. 

It is indeed a white 
Christmas, 
bloodless and loveless, 
deathly pale with tended 
fangs looking for love for 
sale. 

As she cries, and as the 
little drummer boy’s 
snare pops drag slightly 
behind her bare sobs, 

she imagines how he sleeps in 
heavenly peace, 
his remnants reserved in 
her every last teardrop.

Details | Zachary Gilstrap Poem

Don'T Shoot the Messenger

Don’t shoot when 
you see a coffee-coated 
vessel

Imbued with historical 
cattle-prodding, 
showcasing a collective consciousness
trampled 

Into submission by years 
of crocodile tears 
and homestead 
domestication. 

Don’t shoot when 
your glass house 
is pelted 

by pellets of retribution, 
Champagne corks long-overdue, 
and representation worthwhile. 

Don’t shoot when 
you see me or we 
absorb the scars 

Of our mothers and fathers
And make joyful noise 
One pellet at a time. 

Don’t shoot the messenger.

Details | Zachary Gilstrap Poem

Burst: On the World Behind Eyes

Press your eyes with 
The strength of the
Index and the ring finger. 

What do you see? 
See the shifting orbs of luminescent aqua, 
Starry-eyed fireflies wafting in a 
majestic, arrested stasis.

See the fabled constellations 
Form and appear, illuminating 
The dark void. They tell 
Stories of primitive times, 
Clinking and clunking clubs
Banging on the dusty ground
While newly-minted fire crackles,
Bursting with the galvanizing spirit 
Of God’s creationist firepower. 

See the subdued hues ooze freely, 
Seeping into each other to form
Fractious fractals, each corner and 
Angle forming the triangular wings 
Of angels singing the songs of 
Heavenly peace and joyful sublime. 

Take your index and ring finger off your 
Eyes. What do you see? 

See a darkened world seemingly dejected, 
But with glinting color orbs all around, 
Threatening to burst through the sun-kissed 
Meridians, lingering in purgatory. 

One only needs the strength to find them.

Details | Zachary Gilstrap Poem

Supernova

Blissfully arrayed,
they sit idle in showroom grandeur
akin and accustomed to the cuff
the cuffs of a man respected, a man cosmic.
 
Wondrously gilded,
the aqua sea glimmers between its hands
I can see the stars in its eyes
a glimmer so intense, the envy of all constellations. 
 
Tastefully bedazzled,
golden brims mark distinction
characteristic ticks echo silently, restlessly into the void
counting one, two, three, a celestial metronome. 
 
Carefully crafted,
beige snake scales caress the links
and mingle with my cuffs
a watch from the man who watched over me.

Details | Zachary Gilstrap Poem

Up the Spout Again

Why — with my itsy-bitsy frame — 
Should I try time and time again 
To climb upon this daunting spout? 
It's been years since the last drought, 

And my sworn mortal enemy 
has become the rain,
whose mighty forces ultimately
send me down the drain. 
Damn! 

It is with much disdain that I begin 
To inch up the spout again, 
and again, 
and again, 
My flailing eight limbs suffering from ungodly pain, 
Time and time again I end up just the same. 
I must look mighty dumb, attempting to climb 
Every time I see the Sun, 
Only to see my efforts again undone. 
Oh, why can’t a solution come to mind? 

But, alas, it is my eternal calling, 
To spend my life traversing the spout.
Whether rising or falling, 
I must continue my noble route. 

Despite the scattered showers 
Raining pellets drop by drop, 
I must endeavour to reach the top
And weather Mother Nature’s powers.