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.




One more percent and we

All convert



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?











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



                                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