Gibbons Poetryoriginal poems by Tom Gibbons© 2026 Tom Gibbons
I think a lot about creation because, in my mind, it is a universal principle that applies to all of existence. For example, think of an idea – right now, think of one. That spark of inspiration is an event, in your mind and, from that event, creation occurs.
There is a balance between abstraction and understanding. I try to push that balance as far as possible without diluting the colors of understanding until they are so pale that communication does not occur.
These pieces represent my current voice as an author. I love to play with recursion and double meanings, when ideas circle back on themselves to, themselves, introduce new ideas.
principles
themselves
don’t exist,
they are only
of the mind,
like the many
components
of imagination,
free thought
outpaces
evolution
faster than
light distorts
the passage
of time, yet
simple words
create worlds
through this
singular process,
marked for eons
when gifted
in the written form,
inspiring those
who would,
centuries later,
die for what
they believe.
standing
in the
moistened ground,
she hears
teeming water
beckoning
the earth
surrounding it.
sinking ankle deep
she ponders
the notion of
full commitment,
her perception
of surface reflections
loses distinction
from the origin.
the sensation,
at first cool
to her touch,
surrounds her,
fills her with a sense
of true conviction.
her hand
slips between
the water she evokes
with the softness
of her skin.
well beyond
the immediate,
her intention becomes
the reflected,
her body,
accepted by its reward
is drawn, as she
looks back
at herself
kissing
the last drop
goodbye.
life lays before me,
timeless, innocent eyes
looking outward
from inside out
toward the heavens,
at the same time
looking from heaven
inward, looking at me.
those are my eyes
and have always been,
before I knew
they were my eyes.
and they are also
my father’s eyes
and have always been
my father’s eyes,
and have always been there,
even before I knew
they were there.
the shatterer
of dreams
breathes darkly
into the night,
does he
inspire behavior
that opposes dreams
or illuminates truth
that reveals the
darker side
of possibility,
either way
he is mud,
we blame him
instead of
celebrating recognition
that pursuit might be
just out of reach.
do we know the
eternal balance
upon which the
scales decide?
is our instinctual
disdain a requirement
to stand at the origins
of our dislike?
is reality
simply justification
of the direction
we fall or is
destiny governed
by our efforts
in these pursuits?
it seems these answers
are ever more relegated
to determinants determined
in those dark moments
when he comes to call.
is dark
still in the
eyes of the
unwoken,
speakers of
tongues of
ancient words
lie still
behind the tongue
confused about
the word
that is there
but is not
because it
is there
but is not,
then words
then light
then words
come to light
the same as
those
at night
when spoken
comes light
we know
when it is
not here,
its absence
fills voids
left whole,
leaving us
wondering
how we felt
when it
never left
before.