Monday, November 19, 2007


I stared at the creature before me,
a living relic of prehistoric times.
Leathery, wrinkled skin stretched tight
over brittle bones that creak with movement.
Yellowed teeth worn down with time and hunger
fill a gaping maw that continuously opens and shuts,
emitting strange noise, a constant droning,
somewhere between a grumble and a growl.
Staring at this aged being, I wonder
at the centuries it has survived,
how history oozes from every pore,
and ancient secrets swarm above with a silent hum.
How vast the knowledge stored inside must be,
if only one could communicate and master the mournful drone.
Surrounded by similar creatures, younger and impatient,
each attempting to escape that seemingly omnipotent gaze.
The creature is quick to spot the lazy or restless,
those sleeping or rustling few who dare to defy the rules
of etiquette long established and set into motion.
Creeping slowly back and forth before others,
pacing with the steady movements of one who innately understands
the value of time, and knows that there is more than enough
in which it may bestow its wisdom, wanted or not.
Eventually, all begin to rustle, to peel away from the group,
one by one, two by two, till again it sits alone before me.
It turns its worn, haggard face towards me,
opening its large orifice in a final attempt to relay
an ever-important bit of wisdom hurriedly, barely coherent,
before I, too, depart. “Remember to read chapters 7, 12, 14, and 21 in Social Fabrics and chapters 8 through 15 in your History text.”
“Will do sir.”


I sit and stare out the window of my room,

watching showers of gold dance

towards inevitable death upon the angry shadows

of man-made concrete malevolence.

Torrents of life fly through the air,

soil torn from peaceful slumber by destruction.

Dead and dying fingers of trees more aged than time

litter the restless path walked by troubled youth.

Trees moan in agony as they tilt and topple,


Broken illusions lie side by side

with torn hearts and twisted dreams

upon the pavement, given no more thought

than the discarded cans and bottles

from foolish attempts at forced merriness.

Sorrow and solitude are masked by false gaiety;

the rush of long sought independence

clouds reason and forethought.

Among the forest carcass, callously raped and demolished,

walls of change are built.

Dreams and hopes will dwell in these halls,

some to grow, some to die, some to fade away and be forgotten.

Youth comes to learn of life, yet still oblivious to the death

surrounding that they call home.

I watch out my window, wallowing in the scent of leaves

changing from green to gold, seeing knowledge ripen

to foolishness, then to fade again to realization

of how little knowledge there is.

Much can be learned

from a window, safe behind the glass, without having to risk

the terrors of life.

Safe in my walls of knowledge, secure

in my invulnerability, I sit and watch.

I turn and stand,

stepping out the door.

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Friday, October 12, 2007


My opinion? I'm half German, part Jewish, part French, part Welsh, part Scandinavian, etc. European mutt for a bloodline. I spent half my life living in Germany. A good-sized portion of my family is German, and live in Germany. I see Nazi flags, uniforms, weapons, helmets, vehicles, etc. used in a vast spectrum of ways. I've been to the death camps, the work camps, the hide-outs, the burial sites. I've painstakingly read my way through the Auschwitz chronicles, which is a HUGE book of ALL the records kept at the camp. People arriving, dying, gold teeth collected, clothes taken, medical experiments made... I cried my way through the book. I've seen the memorials, the movies, the scraps of humanity that were the leftovers of this blight on humanity. I've heard the arguments that the Holocaust never happened. I've laid my hand on the barbed wire that still bears the rusted blood color from the people who were tortured and beaten at the camp.

My Point? (I know, about time right?) I somehow manage to make it through my day without feeling the need to preach to everyone around me about these things. I've seen countless images of models in latex nazi uniforms, gas masks, simulated gas chambers.. I've seen the Nazi flag paraded around naked bodies like a red carpet evening gown. I made it through years of school being called a Nazi simply because I had lived in Germany, and was part German. Yet, somehow, I managed to swallow all of this with a grain of salt and continue to live my life.

My father is a retired, disabled American Army Veteran. He was enlisted for 25 years, and retired as a Sergeant First Class. I spent my entire childhood until I was 18 living on various military bases. I still worry and cry over friends that are in the middle east right now. You cut me, I bleed red blood that was born on a military base. I'm very proud to be an Army brat, the eldest child of a soldier who did what he could to make this world better for me and my siblings.

I put up with military bashing, anti-military protests. I put up with tacky girls wearing camouflage bikinis and fake army boots for porn ads and Playboy. I keep my mouth shut when the "thugsters" and "homies" walk around in baggy uniform pants. I kept myself from throwing heavy things at the tv when dog tags traditionally used so that if a soldier died in combat, his body could be sent home to his family started becoming a new source of "bling".

If I can make it through a day without killing someone for wearing or doing something I find personally offensive, so can you. Get over yourselves people. If you're really offended by something that has happened in the past, get off your ass and do something to make sure it doesn't happen again in the future.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Bottom of the Bottle

I'm sitting here,
just staring at the last drops in the bottle.
There's only a few left,
barely enough to cover the bottom of the glass.
Just enough to coat my throat,
a burning that slowly drips its way down.
The heat finally loosens the knot,
the dark, hard lump of pain I've been drinking away.
I reach across the table, pouring myself another from a fresh bottle.
Each sip burns a scar,
branding my heart with the same pain I drown in.
One sip for each heartache,
a salute to every tear I've cried.
One more for that smile,
charming, childish, and captivating every single time.
Another for that laugh,
that warm, enticing sound that haunts me.
Hell, here's one for those eyes,
stormy skies, and grey clouds with silver linings.
Add another for that skin,
tasting of summer dew and smelling like rain.
A thousand thoughts of love,
burned into my heart and drowning me in hurt.
A few more sips,
just a few more, and it won't hurt anymore, right?
I just want it to go away,
one more should do it,
chase that ghost away, and dull the laughter.
It's not really making it go away,
it'll be waiting for me when I sober up.
Another glass, just one more,
back to the bottom of the bottle again.
One drop left for each tear,
falling down my cheeks and mixing in the glass.
Now I'm just sitting here,
staring at the bottom of the bottle.
A few drops swirling, dancing;
I stand up and walk a way.
There's a few drops, just a few left in the bottle,
a few tears left to cry.

Natalie Gibson (c) 2005

*Dedicated to someone .. to a broken heart that was dead, then beat, then died again*