Just gone into the blue sky cascading
down below into oblivion where
the water is cold, yet ready to douse the fireball
spiralling downwards to outstretched arms.

Think. Before you board.
You. With the warped vision
of life and death and agony.

Nothing will save you from the hell
you have created taking your own brother
and sister into your short circuit
of  idealisms bent and bruised
in the cunning radicalism
of your masters mania.

Just as the stars burn for ever
You too will burn in that endless dynamo
of time unmourned , ungrieved, forgotten quickly.

The waters will not wash away your sins.
You have been baptised in a cauldron of hate.
Go alone. Leave others.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Rushing and racing to  dead end driveways full of people
the cars and carts jostle for space on a thin highway
above another highway taking people fleeing from
one part of the city to another, unafraid
of speed, policemen and political rallies
that spring up with orchids blooms and svelte
women in jasmine pink and brocade dreams
of stardom on every giant poster that
speaks a commercial language of
love and lust and night queens in dingy cubicles
selling tanned and creamed bodies
to the almighty dollar.

Come night and the city lights sparkle necklaces
of pearls and petulant lips beckoning you
into the paradise clubs where masseurs knead
you wallet and your wads of fat flesh in a satisfying
slumber of sorts.

Watch out for the snake eyed policeman
who has a forked tongue and licks the wisps
of air, for sent of bribe and drugs that could be planted
on your person. He cares a **** if you spend
a lifetime in prison arguing your lost case
forever.

Nothing will change in a day or year
or eternity as long as the city covers all its
people with a corruption of senses.

Author Notes
Its all true.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The road was broken in segments of dream huts
clinging to 10 sqm of waterless, worthless plains
beside a million flies teeming for life sustaining energy
from rancid smells and miracles of justice that never come.

Living in the light of palaces, the poor understand pain
and poverty like life's  great gifts of wonder
to philosophise and burn in the tabernacle of
rotund politicians. How easy for them to girth
the national wealth under a huge lie.

Out in the open the crows capture the days sound
with raucous caws of indiscretion. Unrestrained
by manners or moments of ecstasy, each crow
sounds off the days entertainment.

At nightfall the city slimmer's to sleep
and the slums awake to underground life
living and moving relentlessly,  from one
moment to another, unheralded, unsung
fully awake with hunger, even as the darkness
closes in and absorbs the days movements
with its blanket of silence.

Tomorrow is another day for the cycle
to turn one more cog in the direction
of no return. Sad. Sad. Sad.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Lining up batteries of anti-aircraft anti-everything
all anti- something this and that
distribution centre for psychological pressure
backed by radio, TV presidents staring straight
newspapers, journals and dialogues around
flash round tables on the whys how’s and who’s
sneaky microphone hidden in flower pots,
long distance listening devices. Telephones tapped
wives tapped, senior diplomats and doormats tapped
wives tapped on shoulders
whispered to: watch out for Joe blogs he has a roving eye.
see me tonight, after dinner.

The russians have warship A into Zone B
the chinese have shifted anti-missile up
the mountains near tibet, near nepal
near taiwan, near  the hormuz straits
into africa, zimbabwe, fiji, and northern china
who cares. Tomorrow they will shift out again.
the pressure is building in the ukraine, turkey is on fire
The north koreans have no power
as seen from satelllites
The president has run of tomato sauce so he has asked
for a shipload from us of a
ship it with some spies dressed as tomatoes

god its killing me
these acupuncture points
three more needles please!

Author Notes
Relentless. ( an wacky I s'pose). Think about it all.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

It was all silk and sawdust
Mamas skirts rustled a sunday mass
and dad wore his bowler hat tilted at an angle
(dirk bogarde -like look)

But he was a farmer.
soon after the service was over
he'd hang his hat by the cowsheds
and wallow in green slushy poo
irrespective of how much it stank
and how natural  he looked
throwing sawdust over the caked green pancakes
and shovelling all that crap into a corner,
with sundays best clothes on!

Mama insisted he change first
but no. "The cows need attention
as much as god does, Mama"

We did not argue with his farmyard philosophy
but that's where we cut our teeth
and tasted a mans love for his animals
both human and beast and that's where
we understood that sunhats, bowlers
and polished walking sticks
were just statements that didn't come
from a book- but society. Somehow
he mixed the two learnings
to get along with everything.

I missed him when he milked his last cow
and lay down forever in that quiet evening
as the sun set in an orange sky. The brightest star
that night climbed over the eastern ridges
to grace the night. Dad?



© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Just a sec
Ill be back.

Hold this for just a sec

Can you wait please
for just a sec

Wait a sec please
Ill get it for you

Hey what the heck?
What's happened to that
new relationship you were in
Just a sec. I'll be back.

Eternity in fragments?

Author Notes
Happen this way?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Flick a long lash
even accidentally
and a world of lust arises
Flick a false lash
purposefully
and watch what happens
Her entire personality
power passion and promise
is compromised by that one single
prompt!
Author Notes

35 words.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

No I didn't. It was all pre-planned.
I wanted to see the stars come out
on your warm accepting lips
and bring the cosmos into our meeting
and I wanted to see if you would close
your eyes in that delicate moment!
You didn't too. Now I wonder why?

I guess you wanted to see
if my universe was locked
in that same embrace and if
( only if) I would melt deliciously
into that ice-cream moment?

But when we discovered that
we were both wide-eyed in wonder
our eyes closed automatically
into an inner self
where the doors locked and keys turned
to shut us into a private cubicle
where two people melted
as one.

Author Notes
Remember this moment?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Snaking through the cities roads into highways
that connect people from all suburbs
to a central spinal cord of lanes that
take you up and away from slum to slum.

The upmarket stores are full of bright lights
and little else that is elegant
its a cosmetic upbringing, mirage that
rises over the city's mist and clogs up the minds
magic as it swerves and rustles up the
the energies of other super cities
where commerce and hard labour have
equally sculpted a life of crime and distance.

Watch out for the airport which swings
in between the mountain of rubble
and municipal mania and parthenium ****
what finds every possible nook and cranny
to manifest itself. The politicians mumble and jumble
their way through manifestos and gimmicks
that endorse themselves as saviours of greed.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

In the subterranean channels
of the giant coliseum lurks a breed
of predators that only need a finger
to cast a vote for power.
Push a button, stab a voting paper
signature on a rung of ladder
that climbs to the top
where roosts other successful animals
that have crawled up from the dungeon
of deceit. Vote now or lose your head
in the lolly scramble for power .

Your reward is a brass plated door
with many secretaries and heads permanently bent
in obeisance at the masters command.

I will be the chief of all
of the land and economy
so come to me with heads down
arms for alms
and go silently without turning left
or right.  Your silence is
my authority. Take heed. Don't cross
the line in the courtyard
from whence I came here.

Author Notes
Politicians in Power?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I will stand in the shadow of the sun which burns a scar
on the back of people who like
to shift in the shadows of the night
and  blame everybody for giving them a homeland
for their excuses.

I will stand where the teargas
melts my eyes and the batons write their scars
on my coloured skin
because I asked for bread.

I will stand in the light and hum
my soulful music that echoes off
the walls of pop charts and make
everybody dance because they do not
understand my words.

I will stand in the pools of streetlights
and sell my body, my baby, my beauty-
because nobody cared
to ask  me a human question on want.

I will stand before God
and question why he taught me
the language of  worship
amd wisdom to know the difference
between skin and colour  and asking
and read the book he has to offer
that says the truth in so many pages.

I will stand alone.
I will stand alone.

Author Notes
?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

the church bells peeled a rhythmic ringing
tinnitus
sending us listeners racing back
into a guilty crime like daze.
the mass begins in twenty painful moments

better rush in the rustle of sunday wear
bible bolstered underarm
front pew glances at the priest
who had a back view glare at late comers.

Mama said the sins of your fathers
will visit if you
miss a mass
canned hellfire will get you
and st peter will tick mark your presence
after communion.

I listened

when I stopped
God became god
and the church bells peeled
the same way

only the new pizzas came
with canned chilli peppers!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

This is a one way journey, take heed,
as splendid as you may be of body
girth and mind, in perfect union with your god and demons
this is your ticket. Take it.

Travel safe. Through the cataclysmic darkness
where you soul may question its origins
or through the blinding light where you have
faced your maker, stay seated
and tread softly as the night approaches!
Always stay seated.

You will never ever know when the day is over
and the curtains close
or the  velvet shifts to give you a glimpse
of that stage where you acted your own part.
Breathe deeply.

And go. Go. Go!
You will never ever return.

Leave behind your book of memories
that all others who read those pages
and understand the language
that came with you. Be spoken again.

Do not turn back. Never.

Author Notes

Life is a one way ticket. No matter who you are or where you came from you have a ticket on this ship that will take you through countless channels, rough seas, blinding and beautiful horizons, through all of your family and friends, through pain and glory, but in the end your journey is one way.

The ticket will be clipped at every entertainment centre, at every pub, at every church meeting and at every birth, death and celebration.Finally you will get off the big ship of life. Your ticket will be collected and you will go alone.

Who waits for you at the other end? Better to have their address and their phone number. Dont be stranded on a strange shore!. Be prepared.

Remember. And please always remember- this is a one-way journey.

There is no return. Go quietly. Say your goodbyes now.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

There is a stillness
unexplainable stillness
precisely at the moment when reading through
all these poems. Flitting from one to another
bird-like, thought to thought, looking for cherry-like
ripe fruits of labour that lay dangling
in tasteful tricks that are ripe and ready
to be plucked and savoured
juices dribbling
down your chin.

Ah, poets write in visuals
and words placed carefully like a painting
with shades and colours and hues
that complement each other
in that crystal moment when the magic happens
and the finest of bright chandelier snippets
hang in the magic of metaphors
sparkling and splendid.

Its the tested and timid that write
in raw and ready lines
that sizzle along a page like  the complete abandon
of a nubile maiden, unable to hide her beauty
behind any couture of class or crass
ready to be taken, as is!

I love reading all sorts of poems
and especially the ones that sing
from deep inside the poet
with abandon. I love them all. Write on.
Author Notes

Saying it as I feel it and know it! Just today there are exceptional poets at work.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

That's the way it is. Try as we might we still falter forwards
into an abyss, where the ground below deceives us
to understand that we can stand upright-but cannot!

The deception is translated into life too.
At one time the complexities purge us clean
and again, without even questioning we spring headlong
into  an unclean state of mind.

We write and writhe in a  godless void
because it is a safe place to be unnoticed
and unknown. A much better way to reduce us
into complete humility. Lose the voice
and still that wisdom. Speak less, listen more.

That's how we must be as we race to a finish
taking with us all our internal struggles
and external dominance imposed suddenly
on us by a society intent
on keeping us within its crushing embrace.

The answer lies wholly in contemplation
and subdued understanding of the unfolding
universe. The moment of birth and death
inextricably intertwined, until we leave
noiselessly into that unknown space
where we all belong.

Author Notes

Philosophy.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

13 billion years later we still discuss
Split second propositions of time
And temperament of infinite particles
That ceaslessley had a mind of their own.
God is still in capitals but cunning as she is
She first created herself as feminine.
Did it take us from the big bang to now just to know
That order began only after the chaos controlled
Pre-universe shadowed itself in a pin-point
Burst into beauty of perfection
Married waves, particles and precision
In anti-matter exactness of itself
To complement the new multiverses
That remained suspended in a gravitational enigma
Split second before collapsing back into a point
And bursting open in inflationary force
Arms wide
Welcoming you and me
From back in the days of confusion
To todays perfection.
That conjecture indicates that
The Master Creator was himself confused before the Big Bang
And so he created beauty and women to counterbalance
The new precision.
I know. Women are not chaotic. Only men are.
( Pssst!) my wife will read this poem.
Author Notes

SNAG: Sensitive New Age Guy! A fresh take on the Universe and Creation of common Sense! ( a Back-up Poem)

Entered for the Contest on Chaos.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Time spirals like a stairwell through an infinite
Space where the beginning and end are never understood.

In the gravitational enigma of atoms and particles colliding
in perfect symmetry against a backdrop of forces
that we attribute to God and his  Mind over matter.

This is, for ‘something’ greater than god himself,
gave Him
the power to possess such awesome precision
that we still do not comprehend. Never.
Try as we might. Who or what then
exerted so much energy to create a man
comprised of infinite possibilities, deviations
and standards in a  controlled mind
to surpass all of creation?
And  and and  
attempt to understand its inner workings
from every angular dimension
yet never give up until he has found
the microscope pin-hole in the universe through which
he can see the face of the creator himself!

Is this a way
to tease this simple mans
understanding of his immense power?

The Body is the temple of God
No doubt about it. You were born
in a thermo dynamic quantum furnace embedded
in the very pulse that the Creator distributed
through another Creator
Another Creator, Another Creator
etc etc.

Accept it on your knees.
Author Notes

Exploring an afterthought. Infinity is the Creator himself.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Every fence a weapon to hold within, those
you wish to keep indoors, but pickets
in the upcoming riot
are stored in geometric lines like
the policies that crafty politicians use
to cling to padded thrones behind glass walled mausoleums.

Pull  a picket
race to the centre of town
join the jostling multitudes in jubilant echoes,
scream an avalanche of miseries
imposed on you by the Power.

Burn down the crystalline bridges
where the nameplates are polished everyday
and set the city on fire. Break the bones
of the oppressors and walk free
from the cages of calamity
into the free night-where waits for you
another cycle of power hungry predators
waiting to capture the conquests
you have so carefully crafted
in your backyard fence.

Fence  them in
or fence them out.

All you have, my brother
are the pickets that line
the boundary of your revolution.

Stay focused. Sharp Pointed.
Author Notes

The revolution continues starting from the backyard fence. There is no revolution complete with the oppressed running into a riot without a picket and pitch fork from his own home. These are the most potent symbols of change.

I will tackle burning tyres in my next poem!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Tyres and fires burning
circles of rubber
Rolled down  black tongued roads
Heading to  city centre
Where  others meet
To greet the mighty ruler
With sword and soldiers dressed
In fibreglass shields, green helmets
truncheons with spikes backed water cannons
snipers on rooftops searching for vipers
to drill bullet holes

The tyres rolled in and rounded in a circle
Cutting off escape routes and
Dividing believers and  non-believers
Piled high, pulled tight with pitchfork  patience

The leaders orders more tyres.
Anything from cars, buses and bicycles
that could hold up the  chains of freedom.
Last desperate attempt - not to escape but die
In the ring of fire -soon lit
Underneath the tyres
Which created bursting black flames and bluegrey smoke
Rising above the rants of leaders and shooters
and crackling. Sparks that dulled the day
And lit the night with sparklers of power.

The paratroopers soon retreated into barracks
and the rioters took hold of the city keys,
And over broken glass and burnt buildings
settled in for the long haul to freedom.

The pawns moved on the chess board
  knights moved in the night,
The queen was cornered
and checkmate came when the hollow president
flew  the palace with his coterie of
ear chewers and shoe polishers!

The tyres burned slowly
the fires  burned down slowly.
Freedom came at dawn on the 21 st day
when the rubber factory churned out again
many new models of tyres with tougher treads.

The circle begins again today.
Author Notes

The Revolution continues. All common day gadgets that could burn and blister the new agenda is rolled down the road into the city centre where the
protesters gather to set fire to ambitious policies, unpopular with the people.

The fires from tyres will rage all night and day.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

It’s a dull woollen grey sweater day
Where the birds too have withdrawn their song
and tucked their wings in for winters chill fingers
that will reach out and capture their whistling tunes.
Dropping pleasantries on the big city boulevards
Hidden from prying eyes, windows shut tight
like mouths with no words left.

Winter comes suddenly.
With no pamphlets announcing a matinee
show of ballet beauties or bronzed horsemen
riding in the sultry sun on careless beachfront.
That shuffle sand and people into shady nooks
and under trees.
Winter does the opposite.

Each evening from now winter will keep the refrigerator door
open for chilled soups  to warm up to toasted breads
to bring a summer inside ourselves with its comfort.

Of course the weathermen will wander of course
talking up storms and snowfalls, ice and wind sleet
and temperature drops to keep the moods down
locked and lifeless, now waiting for summer to come around.

The garden will go limp with excuses
shedding its autumn floral displays
and standing bare and naked before
the mirror of winters reflection.

As each day passes, the mood will dampen down
and slink into caves of warm pockets.
We go from room to room
aimlessly looking out the snowy mountains
Wearing their white  skull caps like chinese market gardeners
waiting to harvest
the last fading greenery around.
Soon the snow will
capture the mountain ranges
and spread its feathery fishnet sheets
all the way down to the valleys.

This is it. The conquest of windchill against a blazing summer
Is complete. Down at the door level of temperatures
it feels unique to be so isolated and lonely.

The sun does come out but it acts s subdued and
lukewarm- not basking, not bright,
just staying for a short while each
day and leaving even before dusk comes rapidly,
never overstaying the welcome.
Author Notes

The seasons now change in New Zealand. Only yesterday it was summer filled with so many pleasant activities. Autumn has its own language of colours, but winter rolls in and rocks, drawing us into ourselves and planning for next summer. It is a warm winter now.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

In the  sculptors dawn when the sun breaks the mountains into rays
and my head swings like a pendulum cut loose
from its bearings of the night before

I am burdened  by the slow tongue and bruised buds
of the binged night drowning.
home is  solace.

What is it that brings pigs of desire
to straddle boundaries of destruction, laughing
at spirits.

that let lose will wander loose in a melee of like minded
pub crawlers, unable to draw from brink
of  no return

Creativity is an excuse
done, wobbling and ill–mouthed ranting
rambling unsteady.

What is it?
that brings us on our knees
in supplication for more.

Trapped in a cage that goes round and round
unable to change course
we stay within its liquidating comfort
until destroyed.
Author Notes

Many have been to this desolate place and many have returned broken. Is there a way to break free?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Whatever it is
that you have in you
its as magical as pulling a rabbit
out of  a hat and have the audience gasping.

That's what is special about you
you are able to squeeze comfortably
in and out of small situations
with the ease of baton waving
and you are able to swirl through rings of fire
swing on the trapeze of problems
and settle like a feather on the funniest
laughter of the day.

You are magical
no doubt, otherwise how could you
stay up so late at night
wide awake at the cooking range
making delicious food
for late evening guests.

I am happy to be a side show
as you go around  doing
what you do best
just being a mother
and always threatening
to pack me into the dogs kennel
if I ever go astray.

That's what I like about your tricks
they have won awards from everyone.
But I get to take the magician to bed
with my own type of magic!
Author Notes

Oh Yeah! What'll I get for this?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Hidden within the dense leaves and knotted lovers of trees
And roots and sly creatures lurking in the shadows of
an untidy mind-there reigns reason to seek,
satisfy all cravings for a life unblemished
in the rush and tumble of a fate pre-determined.

Where you were born and how you lived to become
part of this social structure built on the nuances
of rituals, so bred to burst you into bloom
as you tumble and twist in the days unfolding
in biblical proportions of trust in traditions.

The roots drive into the skin of the earth
and rest sublime to weathered ecstasies.
You are born again  in the forest of dreams
where your cards were stacked against a chain of events
that grew you into wondrous life.

At home in the sublime situation where the city rises
from the cemetery of the living
zombies go to work on busy black snakes, their tongues
twisting in and out of buildings and by- lanes
with bodies racing non-stop to  small cubicles
Gaining income for living, selling subservience
in the slave market of minimum wages.

The forest grows in a fertile plain embedded
in the minds of all people escaping from living
in the detritus of social norms. We are the roots.
Author Notes

We all belong to a social forest which has its own rules on who we are and how we survive in its ever expanding growth. There is little we can do to change those circumstances.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The speed with which it funnels into the sky
******* down to earth the torrents
that reached heaven
through oceans, mountains of majesty
and mists of mystery
now tearing down like a scythe
cutting pathways through manicured towns
and always aiming for stadiums of gathered people
the storm presses its anger
into the psyche of the sacred scared.

Here for a moment
grey willed and dense swirling
in a hula- hoop of swinging hips
dervish twisting
settling, unsettling
Gone suddenly.

Pick up the pieces
and wait for next seasons moods.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

There was always chaos. In life, love and magic
unbroken universes, existed before
new universes formed in the trillion trillion split second.
That idea alone is chaotic. Philosophy begins
first line: Its only from chaos all reason springs
and so we lurch forward assured that
we are still bumbling idiots oozing metaphors
and other cunning devices to write
chaotic stuff, adding to the confusion of thought
increasing the confusion, blasting the fusion
splitting the atom, our brains, *****
and guts explaining why things are so confusing
are they?
doubt swallows me up when I see
a scientist scratching his head for answers.
inside he must be organised
outside chaotic and nonplussed?
Come on, it’s a slant in all of us.
We are confused human beings
Except (hmmmmm) when it comes to ***
we know what fits where and why
and we grind endlessly just as
the entire universe grinds timelessly
in an eternal clock.( ****?)
Like light and darkness
two sides of a day, we too
are organised chaotically.
Now where was that folder with my best poems?
See what I mean?
Its only from chaos that all reason springs.


© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I love apples
round and ready
especially Red Delicious
with a crunchy coziness
that surpasses all other
taste and textures.

I don't understand
how they can keep them
in a cool store for long periods
especially when they are so hot
to handle.

I always loved apples
waxed and round
red pointed and pretty

of course you know the old saying
an apple a day keeps the doctor away
now imagine two apples a day!

Apples for me anyway.
Author Notes

OK. Don't throw stones anymore, throw apples!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The light was eternal
several trillion big bangs away
backed up by several other trillions before
the light has travelled to its current hubble
announcing itself in fragments of time travel

yet the words in genesis struggle to
contain these questions in its complexity
born in a blackhole the signature remains on the rim
while the density dissolves internally-forever.

walking through wormholes
is of course possible. One has to
create one and stitch the two together
to create the footpath that will
bend forward and connect through your own mind
into an ecstasy created in a vortex of time
too complex to understand.

mind is matter, no two ways about it.
raptured in space-time mind is collectively
the entire universe embedded in each living thing.

The Creator as defined in Genesis will only give
                                you
enough Mind to understand the immeasurable
Mind that he himself controls.
You have a minuscule fragment of this power.

Author Notes

Philosophy. Alpha and Omega.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Between bullets and policy planks
between boundary lines and front lines
between to's and fro's and diplomatic tussles
pin-pong, ding- ****, right-wrong or otherwise
between threatening noises and patient posturing
between reasons why and why not
it belongs to us and nobody else.

We sat here from the dark ages
under lamplight, streetlight and flares
and fires from revolutions of evolutions
creating a culture of claim
to establishment of our rights
as indigenous people.

And so who are you?
walking into this quarter of globe
claiming you know better on
what belongs to who and why?

Between round tables
and square tables
round people and square people
beautiful women marching up on stage
books open and ready,

we will place our signatures
to seal the argument that
nothing belongs to nobody
until the signature sits
comfortably on an uncanny page.

" Please sign here, Mr Prime Minister!"
Author Notes

The Revolution continues. A signature seals the fate of all arguments. The first man to get his pen out and push a signature wins the argument.

The pen IS mightier than the sword.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

This early in the morning shrouded
by the negligee of night it feels
a bit silky silly to be working
partly dressed
awaiting for the dawn to push its way
into my strong coffee smell
tasks ahead. So many cups later
the light filters through the nets
and criss-crosses patterns of flowers
on a waking day.

Soon the rush and rustle
of things to be done will invade
every live moment
with acupuncture points of pressure
and to still the raging fires
of tasks undone I will
retreat into small pockets of sleep
to slow the blood rush and tumble
and cut the remaining hours
in frenzied action until
most of my diary completes its watch
over my progress
towards  a jaded evening where
a ***** and orange juice will answer
the leftover tasks asking
to be finished.

Another day. Another night. Gone.
So much yet to do.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

In the burning ghats where the earthly wanderer
leaves his leftovers to be singed and scarred to ashes
taking with him his soul wrapped in a white sheet
God knows where, I am with you on that final journey

In the temples where the joss sticks burned
and childless couples shaved their heads
bared their naked bodies in sacrifice for a gift of life
I am with you.

In the quiet clinical streets where test-tubes babies
are mixed and matched like cocktails
seeking world headlines, guessing at the outcome
I am with you.

In the back alleys of the brain where
dungeons of demons reside purged
from loneliness and depression. Crying
in their incompleteness
I am with you.

In the starry night where lovers meet and kiss
and cuddle and forget that tomorrow is another
day to rethink their togetherness in love. Starry eyed
I am with you

In the unsacred gaps in the scriptures where
fairy tales and impossible connections
are made, broken and burnt, often too old
to believe anymore. I am with you

On the journeys that you take
sheltered by the thousand pilgrims also
seeking the blazing light of holiness. Unknowing.
I am with you

I am with you as you walk the grass verges
of the sacrosanct temples and mosques,
the highways of information and the byways
of underprivileged children looking out for
another day of isolation in the busiest streets
of desperation.I am with you.

Even as you gird your ***** and prepare for the battle
that will help you survive in this raging metropolis
of unknown faces, names and destinations
coming from  no particular place
I am with you.

As human as I am and completely in synch with your ideas
of humanness and love and laughter
husbands wives and children and futures
I think with you.I am with you. Human as......

Nothing can separate me from your own journey
into that limit beyond the limitless
where chaos, culture or organisations
are born from the same mother of reason
I am with you in that questioning. Why?

Author Notes

A reflective poem that asks ourselves on why we are human and yet
set out on journeys that takes us different directions. We are here for a reason and what is that reason?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

It was only a line, a flash, a blurb
but it lit a lifeline to
mangrove minds, chandeliers in the street,
peacock feathers,
art ****** sunsets trapped
in bleeding orange and emails
of honesty.

Who was this vibrant artist
waddling colours of purple passion
aubergine temples of trust
murals of majestic visions
nights of bright lights
and poems from the streets of dawn
bohemian Queen
painting ecstasies in double entredres
whispering apologies
collecting little bits of jigsaw life
making sense of sublimation
unafraid to speak the truth

She must be special.
in the selfie of the moment
she opened a window
to let me peer in and
I stayed well past the
unreasonable hour. Fascinated.
Author Notes

The Artist. Have met her many times before.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The landscape blurs often
as poets go about their business
crafting metaphors of unexpected delight
in forests of jangled words and visuals
unable to contain their excitement
at having conquered that crystallised
moment of love, hate and everything else
in a frozen sliver of time
inescapable from their minds excursion
into unknown unshaped lands.

Not all succeed in this endeavour
most try, few unable
to melt the metal in a crucible of colour
sound, taste or touch, to smell
emphasis and cocktail curiosity
bringing the best to the fore.

The newcomers tremble at the awe
of maestros watching their work
and dissolve in disasters.
There is the odd one that unknowingly
write splendid poetry
and when noticed and heaped with praise
often springboard into showcasing talent.

Reading the works of the masters
is always good. If they think it
is good then it must be good.
So many footsteps to follow and learn.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I have walked......
I have walked in the footsteps of dinosaurs
bruised and barbecued in the minds of generals
who strode the earth in the shadows
of empty politicians, who finally said:
I follow orders.

I have been trialled at Nuremberg
and World Courts by panels of learned men
who asked all the right questions but
were debated to defeat by fishhook questions
that derailed the course of justice by cunning
and unscrupulous men who decided
I was better alive than dead
by their careful questioning. Checks?

I have been at war with my neighbours
and nieces, friends and fraternity,
families and fence builders and all the while
I stayed indoors in my mind
and familiarity not asking for
redemption or resurrection
but tranquility.

I am human. Thats all it is.
Human.

You are born into  a gps place where pinpoints of  religions,
rituals and romances have been inbuilt into the waft and weft
of the world from the fabric was rolled out in rolls
of generations that went before you? Think back.

There is little  you  can change abruptly but slow
careful threads woven into the final pattern will reveal
how you wish to include, direct
and introduce a new pattern of thinking
into the new curtains you may hand hang on the walls
of a society that needs new furnishings!

Soon you will find yourself in the middle
of a movement shifting between traditions
that lay suppressed and controlled
by a segment of society that deemed
belief in change impossible without
tick marks from the elders of
a stagnant culture unable
to understand change and consequences!

I say to you. Go change traditions
to make society adapt better
to what lies ahead
not back! Change now. Its your time.



© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago

We knew reflections of every second
considered each tick of time as gold plated storehouses
of discussions together
It was us alone,
Cruising in comfort on the high seas
of our freshly found emotions.
You added to the svelteness of the image
through constant change in beauty
and I absorbed all the finesse, as if,
it would never  reflect in the tomorrows
of our world where we lived fully engaged
and completed.

You belonged to me, just as sure as,
the tree to the earth, the sky to blue
the sun to warmth and ice to winter
so sure we were of the others reason
to be bound in such a way as to be
fulfilled.

In the streams of your eyes I saw
the waterfalls of longing and on your lips
I tasted the meaning of spring and the ripest
fruits of desire and the make-up of dreams.

Everything went so well
the reflections and reasons
and we still look at ourselves
and laugh at the millions of reflections
that have built up inside and outside
of ourselves.

" The mirror sees not but itself,
Dew on a flower, tears or something?"
Author Notes

Thanks to Arseny Tarkovsky, the Russian Poet and the closing lines to Ghalib, the Persian Poet.  Without their outstanding poems this could not have unfolded the way it did.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 hours ago

Equinox  pulling nights shadows
back over bright days. Swallows head home
where the sun grows stronger. The garden, slows down
packs up it belongings and bundled into seeds
awaits the pickers and packers.
Autumn takes on its rouge
cosmetic sedentary demeanour,
as leaves drop off into shades
of brown and bark, burnt from beauty
in the summer caress, now yielding
to the cusp of cold winds taming the
North and East, slowly changing the landscape
into a damp squid waiting for harvests of
last fruits and flowers, before winter comes
softly in with icy winds and blanket mist coloured
morning and evenings,
fireplaces roar  life and laughter.

Winter settles like a city smog
shading the last gasp of warm sun
under a duvet of dainty dreams.

We look out for the coming Christmas
of family, friends, and greetings cards
that will burst upon our sense of beauty
with a carol honed in honeytones of harmony
practised over weeks of preparation.

Another year will drop on the calendar
of events that we carry forward
to every season.

You leave Haast in the velvet valley where the bras
hung just before, dangling ******* of mountains
rearing their ******* of snow at your watching.

The road licks the mountainside as I climb
high up her  body  to gaze at her beauty
as she succumbs to my wonder and awe
at such balanced beauty
hidden in jurrasic worlds
away from city made concrete wonders.

High up
a slender waterfall that gathered
all the mountains thin ribbon streams
gracefully spills over in a flush full
****** of satisfaction
as we held hands and watched
the tourists more interested in pictures
than passion racing to a finish.

I slid my hand around your buttocks
to remind me
that you too were blessed with mounds
and softly rising mountains
which I will devour when we settle
into discussions on love, later.

And of course, every single time you read
my new poem you ask:
' Do you always have to bare you soul
and my body is such a way
as to make your readers think
that all love-making was dressed
in mountains and valleys?"

"Yes" I replied to the laughter
between those apple bites!

Around the pool of chandelier light the movers and shakers gathered
in tight knots, unwilling to untangle from the policy books
intent on pushing fences further out into the Caspian Sea
across the Black Sea and encircling the whole Artic Circle
from latitude whatever to wherever.

The chief fence maker arrived with a pair of pliers
and rolls of barbed wire twenty thousand posts
and a battalion of unnamed soldiers all hiding
behind masks of make-up

" Now listen, people, roll out that spikey wire starting from here
to eternity and keep going around the globe until you return
five hundred years to meet the beginning with the end!"

A few bald heads bowed but wary of  cross-hairs
hiding along the ceiling behind sharpshooting
shapeshifters.
They knew instinctively, that unbowed head may be bowled
over and transported to Siberia in a meat wagon
for permanent freezing with the mastodons.

"Go Now, do not turn back, ever, or you will become
a pillar of salt."
The band played The Last Post
as the last post rolled out.

Peace began as soon as the war ended
and the fences were built around the entire
Northern Hemisphere.

The embers blushed before the caressing eyes
of my new lover reaching out to snuggle against
the flickering light of welcoming warmth
naked and close
the room smelt of subtle wood chips and ash
roasted coffee beans and aftershave lotion
sexuality.

She was radiant in her skin tone
so exposed to accentuated curves
carving the fireside flame
into a furnace of wantonness. Uninhibited.

The snow outside cocooned the cabin
into a nest of togetherness.

I found here basking on a bar stool
eyes cast deep in thought on a gin and tonic
contemplation of dejection.

" He found another woman"
" Oh yeah, I just found my own woman!"
We giggled into the glass.
"Take me home to the mountains
of your mind and share with me your
meteoric rise to a metaphoric magical kingdom
where poets live and dream!'
" I have a furnace waiting for you"
" Lets go !"
Very short introduction to ecstasy.

Two days later
I dropped her off mid-city
near a replica of the Statue of Liberty
in a shopping window full of
picture postcards.

I had enough stored in the memory bank
to write a whole new dash of fireplace poems.

In the stillness of simplicity your heart still beats.
If you listen carefully you can hear the muscles moving
and the blood coursing through your veins
even getting past the rich waterfalls that journey
ceaselessly up and down your being
for as long as you live.

If you listen to yourself,
search the insides of bone and bristle
deep within those compact spaces
there is respite and rest and wonder
at the magnificent shell within which
you carry your presence.

If you stop for a moment
and look through all the mirrors of your mind
you will  see reflections of a past to present
and glimpses of a  future. Profound.
There are connections everywhere
to the entire human race
to the unfolding universe
to the vastness of space and time
and the emptiness
within which everything exists.

You will come face to face
with who you are.

Sit still, listen and learn.

No aeroplanes should leave the capital,
incoming traffic should be diverted into hangars
loaded with soldiers of no recognisable denomination.

All passengers must surrender to security checks
at Gate 3, where security personnel will stamp
your passport for onward movement to selected
hotels on outskirts of city. Journalists are not allowed
to take pictures of cats and dogs without clearance from
Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Men in un-uniform should not disclose their barrack
locations. If any passenger sticks a flower in your rifle
pull the trigger!

Foreign guests posing as tourists may be allowed
into city centre where the riots rage. They make take
pictures of selected zones where tyres burn and
firewood has, at last, come out of homes into the street,
to protest against the snow and icy conditions.

No citizen should have duck roast for a week
the president has just gone duck shooting and assures
everyone there will be enough left for everybody
for the coming festive season.

Real peace will be over in a week
and everything will be normal again.
The firewood may go home and all the cats
dogs may return to the barracks. An announcement
will be made when journalists , may, at last
photograph people at war!
( pssst, with their neighbours)

Old T Rex stood on the mountain top
And watched the brontos stroll
Little did he know that further up
Moses was on a roll

The critter knew that one day soon
The tables would be turned
He hunched his back  and gnashed his teeth
The tablets wont be spurned.

Both together made mankind fierce
and splashed the fear of hell
One did better with no rehearse
Casting an eerie spell.

The tablets were used
To keep temperatures down
Ten doses a sop and a lollipop
T Rex the centre of town.

Its a Sunday morning when the world works to a different pattern
housework claws in and takes control
of the daily tasks
last weeks work looks at me with doleful eyes
and a feather duster tickles my fancy.

Soon the clutter will unclutter itself
the vacuum cleaner will **** out the symphony
of dust and dirt and unhidden memories
and my desk will be tidied up and paper
towels will do their job.I spend time
re-arranging ******* in a more distinct pattern
" Ah, so there's that telephone number I scribbled last week!"

I return after an hours homework
and settle at my desk.
" Now where did I leave that phone number again?"

I survey the scene on AP
and skim through the comments
"God, he did not like my last poem,
She said :Keep it real
He said: What does this mean?"

and and and
The Green Eyes are forever smiling

Its a worthwhile Sunday

I better take up Chapter 36 of my book
but open Mathematical Universe instead.

Those eyes are haunting!
Its a beautiful Sunday.

The colours swing in a pendulum attached to the mind
as if
each shade knows its final resting place
in a landscape packed with the purity of clarity.

All of the brushes have been tenderly placed
in a potholder soaking
up the sensations of previous lifetimes
now slowly turning to ageing grey shades
of temperament

To touch the sunflower grey would be a sin
against the sun it glints off the minds magical array
but green beckons in an eversoft seduction
with silver on the undersides to offshoot
the tantrums of the painters reflection.

The scene emerges from a warm blanket of texture
into a tone so gentle that it seems to whisper its presence
in a vase of rounded personality.

I watch
as she loses herself in every stroke of deftness
stepping out into the limelight
taking a bow before an audience of murmurs
soon retreating into that world
that has captured her for today.

She will return when she is ready.
to live amongst us again.

The giant beast sat straddling two highways
legs apart and thin cobwebs of power for miles down
a street as far as the telescope could see,
at each interval a bulb burst bright  dangling
in the dark where street lights cast a yellow pool
around the thin pole
reticulated at each junction.

So do powerful men
cast shadows instead of light
across the nations pools of people discussing
dreams of freedom with electricity and water
and food and clothing

The presidents palace came alive at dinner
at dusk under glass chandeliers
suited and booted, gold plated walking stick,
just two kilo-meters from the seething slum.
Diners and hangers-on stood to toast the success
of themselves and the power they ****** out of electric
dams and bridges and diamonds from the dust
of backs of workers toiling
in the pitiless depths of mines
straddling another highway
where the rows of buckets, mud and slime
and grit mingled with the sweat and pain of daily work
for a two dollar night.

Oppression depression counterbalance.

Sipping champagne while the workers
squelched in grime
did not make a difference to the people in power
as all they wanted was to keep the lights on
in the national interest of greed.

Will someone pull the plug please
will someone pull the plug
will someone pull
will someone
Will?
Nothing left of it?

Around a big glass table reflecting chandeliers
suits, oxford knotted ties, long tongues gathered
to move an anti-aircraft division across the western border
straddling two different opinions.

at dusk under the silk of darkness
the satellites zoomed in on the convoy
of green dressed camouflaged trucks,
Slinking down the back roads
under infra-red eyes six hundred kms
across the mountains
to take up new positions.

At dawn the satellites spoke to each other
and defied opinions made at the round table.
The longest tongue now hanging out
in sheer delight at operation well done, like steak!

Without discussion the satellites ordered the trucks
back to where they came from!

When the war began the anti-aircraft guns
were ready and waiting for the enemy
in the wrong location.

A flock of geese migrating from Canada to Kazakhstan
were met with missiles attracted by the metal tags
researchers had strapped around their ankles.

As the feathers settled into the waiting valley
two satellites in outer space
laughed at each others games
And switched off.

systems of all kinds collapse and crumble
under the stress of painjoy fumbling
at the seams of life.

take time to feel fear
in a world conquered by the mighty
for their power is extruded from within false walls
that are thick skinned and faulty
to the touch. One push
and the system they so delicately carved
around themselves in citadels of falsehood
will also collapse
if one small ***** lets the light into this
thick darkness.

Look around you
at the gravy trains that roared on one way
tracks to destruction in quarters
of the world
where blood built empires
let lose vampires  to ****
the energy of life
but succumbed themselves
to the same blood bank. The system
closed in and choked them off
even as they struggled to stay afloat
in the approaching maelstrom.

all will perish
in the system
where greed is gilded in gold
temples of power.The Middle East
will become fertile by the black gold on the outside
and the crushed bones of the inside

History has a long list of such
flimsy empires
with terracotta temperaments
and hieroglyphic heros

I climbed the high mountains
of her body  tip by fingertip
and slithered down valleys moist and melting
under slow slides
along smooth beautiful buttons
until I stopped and caressed sighs that
slipped and silked
into memories of magic.

The alphabets I read were sheer poetry
unspoken and unvoiced
of its own beauty
as I ran the rose red petals across
pink and petulant lips to be kissed
and cuddled as we joined forces
as strong and sensitive
as our closed eyes.

As we lay back looking into nothing
but our own darkness, sensing a pulse,
a rapid heartbeat, a stifled sob of satisfaction
did I realise that we were made to feel with our fingers
and speak with our haunting skins and kisses
our own beauties hidden within and open
to the touchtone sensations
of our minds.

This was the way it was meant to be
my love. It will be.
We hold our secrets inside ourselves.

In this part of the world its sunny and sweaty
and the just- past- spring air is making a mockery
of the ice and traffic jams in other parts of the world
where people are freezing.

We did not send the weather gods to capture
the sunshine and bring it here. But we did pray that
it rains equally in all parts and the weathermen
makes less mistakes on the forecast.

Whoever spoke of global warming must have had
a cold heart, or his wife would not have massaged him
the morning he took  his notes to the world forum
of weather watchers and spoke all that dribble
about two inches of the ocean rising!
He is now a wife beater.

These weather tricks are dished out by people
up there, around a round table who decide
who gets what. Anyone who mocks a weatherman
again will get an umbrella and a sunhat
as a punishment with a note saying:
Please use this in summer and this in winter.

But even as we argue about such small things
the grass grows quietly
above or beneath the snow and ice.

There is a moment when all things will come equal
and the people upstairs will sleep
and the people downstairs will make
children.

Its not easy to cross an invisible bridge
with a friend on the other side asking you
to step over an taste what lies beneath
the flowing water of rapid emotions.

Lost worlds collide and collapse
in the thinking and knowing
the excitement that wraps itself
around your own safety harnesses
as you step into the void of trust.
One step and the pyramid of pleasure
will come crashing down into fragments
of excruciating pain.

But try we must - to span
the wide divide to reach out and touch
the other hand when the bridge
suddenly becomes visible.

Sometimes the bridge may lead to a nowhere place
strewn with broken dreams and feeble attempts
at crossing the vast expanse between
knowing and unknowing.