ditch,

the poetry that matters

Gavriel Ross

Gavriel Ross resides in Oak Park, Michigan. He has studied advance literature, literary analysis, and poetics at both Macomb Community College and Wayne State University.

 

Shrine

 

One more percent and we

All convert

                                Sold

                                Expelled

In lieu of that lovely figure

                An acquired contraband

Of static

                A shadow in a box

                A change of seasons

And morning is a proper pictorial

Of who placed your secrets

Into a barricade of habit

                Into only one place at a time

                The price of thorns

And I would want those smaller eyes

For my own

                                In fingertips she is a saint

                                In filigree

                                                A shrine

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Scattering of Leaves

 

Heat from the forest fills

Space between my fingers,

Between my lips, and the Spoken

Becomes a weight that falls heavy

Into the debris. You tell me to dream,

But I can't stop the pale blue

Ringing in my ears long enough

To sleep. Eyes water while my chest

Burns, and I can't help but to think,

Oh, Grendel, what have

They done to you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pages

 

Hey little cricket, you can't be

everything to everyone,

 

Fallen kings, incomplete cannot

hold light; a broken vessel

 

confounded, confused.

 

We don't see the ghost happen

from the residue of sun and holes.

 

Little cricket, I don't know where

you went, dark into still life

 

or the shape of a cloud...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yours Sincerely

 

Taken down and out of notice

                this address and clash

 

should be regarded as beauty

of understanding and reason

 

                This red handle

found w/o form

                                w/o temporary regard

                                                w/o intermediate

 

presentation

                                Whatever the author

refers to

                It's still only rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Most Thoroughly You

 

You left your footprint a bullet, a hostile

Flowering, distant and distinct,

                A personally overwhelming time

                To overthrow the changing tides.

These means are ungoverned, the end antiqued.

If I could write you once without effort

                The way dark things are undistinguished,

                I could imagine you a loosened

Knot by way of profoundly moving omission.

 

 

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                                                                                                                             July 21, 2013