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Or migrated pod
       Or fleeing refugee
            Or corban
                  Or carbon dioxide
                       Or yubitsume
                            Or van Gogh's ear
                                 Or black Friday
                                      Or lazy evening at the carnival

                    (Tomorrow has already started)

Or free range
     Or gated community
          Or breast exam
               Or storage crisis
                    Or fallen leaves
                         Or germ warfare
                              Or temporary file
                                   Or permanent wave
                                        Or thigh gap
                                             Or physiognomy
                                                  Or soap made of heroes
                                                       Or multiplanetary living
                                                    
(There's a floating graveyard between this world and the next)

Or logical fallacy
     Or irrational number
          Or elementary analysis
               Or college guess
                    Or cardiopulmonary resuscitation
                         Or extrasensory perception
                              Or ten fingers and toes
                                   Or a dozen eggs

                  (They say there's strength in numbers)

Or fifth floor, corner room
     Or high as a kite
          Or bellwether
               Or mingled with bells
                    Or police sirens
                         Or loitering around in silent films
                              Or rule of thirds
                                   Or tombs of second-hand kings
                                        Or face in the rain
                                             Or pareidolia

(Otherwise, at first light you might be smiling...)

~
Over recent years I've watched the ebb and flow of talent coming and going through our little pond of creativity. There is a steady group of consistent writers who contribute regularly to the pool. They interact with each other amiably, encourage, enthuse and occasionally, mildly criticize the work contributed. Many demonstrate their dissaproval with a stoney silence, some leap up and down, others pontificate.
Generally we all splash around and find satisfaction in our own damp sphere of appeal.

We who dwell in the creative waters of this pond are comfortable with our lot. We are satisfied that we are in common ground with like minded people. Few rock the boat.

Diversity is the theme where the offerings range from personal tragedy to outpourings of passion and love. Political posturing has been known to rile whilst others have been brought to tears of intense sorrow. Gales of laughter occur and the odd snicker of amused connivance sneaks out from many, quite involuntarily.

We have no William Shakespeares, no Nerudas, few of the calibre of
Leonard Cohen or Emily Dickinson....but we do have layers of excellence. Inspired outpourings frequently amaze from the most unexpected corners of our gathering. There are those who elevate themselves above the many on frequent occasions but any and all of us are capable of producing the odd inspired Masterpiece.
We all aspire to produce our very, very best as happily often as we are able.

Sadly there are those who choose to retreat into the ether, vanish with their art into obscurity for reasons of their own.... leaving a vacuum in their wake...and then there are they who tragically slip under the veil of death. All of us have lamented the passing of these dear souls, recalled the valued past moments shared in their verse and their companionship.

Occasionally, a gem wades into our pond, producing work of such clarity and inspired quality, words and phrases of such unqualified beauty and enchantment that they command universal attention and amazement. These poets shine like the sun and are the focus of the moment of the many....admiration, inspiration, enjoyment and occasionally, feelings of envy. Few of these shining stars endure for long, for they recognise and realise their talent, their potential, and aspire for higher things. They tend to migrate to poetic elevations in ponds of a higher strata.

Yea verily, there be elevated ponds in this domain, reaching right to the very top! Stratified ponds in rarified air where, unless you measure up, you don't belong! Expectancies are decreed and insisted upon in these regions. Membership is limited, controlled....and expensive. It costs to belong up there and membership is not without a constant level of stress. In these waterways you are dealing with the very top echelon of performers, the egos and the prima donnas and the fancy. There is an insistence on adherence and compliance. Here you are either in or you are out...and expulsion, from this  domain at these heady altitudes, can be sudden, permanent and quite malevolently viscious.

So thee, who may aspire to soar up there with the eagles, ponder the benefits of thy current caste, breathe the clear air and sip the nectar of this pleasant province. Count well thy blessings and then consider the quiescence and the harmony of your current company prior to making any descision to venture to take that leap!

With respect and gratitude to the denizens of HP.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
24 March 2024
Bob and Kathy lived next door
They picked up our leaves and
swept our driveway and porch floor
Neighbors. Yes, but so much more.

For thirty five Glorious. years
We Watched both our families grow
Love and respect Is was all we know

Bob’s passion ,was restoring old cars
That’s what they lived for, who they are.
Car shows , The annual Vetran’s parade
Bob was celebrated for his choices made
To showClassic 1920 Henry Ford model T
Custom detail a delight for all to see

The United States pays obeisance to
The military on Veterans Day
Bob an Army soldier, Green Beret
He was a bad ***,  that’s what he would say

In the blink of an eye, Happy Time passed
We realize why, Good things never last
Full of laughter, love and Many tears
Inevitable realization of their fears

As they age, Life turned the page
Health became their Clock, their gage
Out of the blue ,One fateful day, Bob fell ill
Cancer slows the body to a still

Bob would say “I’m not ready to die today”
We all knew Death was waiting at Bay
The Next phase ,The long goodbye they say
Bob wouldn’t have it any other way

Cancer in remission
Life was a condition
Weakening body in transition
Stealing lives without permission

Bob fought the good fight
Holding on with all his might
After each procedure ,Bouncing back
It was tough to keep Life, love on track

Family came over to watch him die
Only to see him fight and try
Bob put on a brave face,
which was a lie
His wife Kathy Sneaks off to cry
Cancer you cannot deny

Finally Death came to call
Eventually it will ,for us all

The children live in town,
Now, they are never around
The house sits dark and bare
Nobody is ever there

Kathy lives in the house alone
Their house is no longer at home
BLT where did the day obeisance
means acknowledgment of superiority showing respect synonym homage
Her smile sits
on the curb of a road
between Summer
and Fall.
Where is my Lil Sister? I saw her walking to school. I hear her silent whispers.  " I'm gone too soon! "
Mom drove to the store, and she didnt return. We still wait like always, with desperate heartburn.

OUR INDIGENOUS WOMEN ARE MURDERED AND MISSING!
North America and O Canada, No one cares to listen
So to our tribal Matriarchs, we say "Do  nada*."

Auntie walked into the woods, she wanted to get an herb.
Now we go where she stood, she hasnt been seen or heard.
Who took them away and why? We mourn their disappearance.
We ask Mother Earth and Father Sky for our Intertribal quest prominence.

Until they leave no more, and we stomp grass again together,
Our Sacred feminine core, Turtle Island's own precious Flower.
*MMIW = Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women
*Do nada =   "until we meet again" ( no 'good-bye' in Tsalagi ),
~
December 2023
HP Poet: Marshal Gebbie
Age: 78
Country: New Zealand


Question 1: We welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Marshal. Please tell us about your background?

Marshal: "My name is Marshal Gebbie and I write under "M" or "M@Foxglove.­Taranaki. NZ". I am 78 years old and a native son of Australia. I came to New Zealand for a looksee with a pack on my back and a guitar under my arm, intended spending six weeks but absolutely fell in love with the Kiwi people and this magnificent little jewel of a country nested deep in the waves of the great Southern ocean of the South Pacific. I've now been here 54 years and counting. I married darling Janet back about 35 years ago and we produced two fine sons, Boaz and Solomon both of whom have great careers, wonderful partners...and in Solomon's case, produced a delightful granddaughter for us to love and spoil to bits.

From ****** agricultural college I went to the darkest, deepest wilds of Papua New Guinea as an Agricultural Officer, returned to Australia two years later to become a secondary college teacher in Ag Science. Easily the most satisfying profession of my life in that I succeeded in drawing the pearls of enlightenment from within the concrete mass of the, then, recalcitrant, brickheaded studenthood to realise the wonder of discovery, involvement and engender, within them, a genuine spirit of endeavour. Stepping off the boat in NZ I took a bouncers job in a rough public bar, three months later I started my own brand new tavern @ the Chateau Tongariro in the skifields of Mt Ruapehu.

Seeing a unique opportunity and with no money of my own I bought a derelict motorcamp in the small country township of National Park, named the place "Buttercup Camp" and set about making the enterprize one of the very first destination holiday venues in New Zealand. I pioneered paddle boat white water rafting on the wild rivers of the North Island, commercial adventure horse trekking in the wilderness trails, guided adventure hikes across the active volcanos of Ruapehu, Nguarahoe and Tongariro. Cheffed three course roast dinners and piping hot breakfasts for up to 150 house guests daily and initiated an alpine flightseeing business and air taxi service to and from Auckland and Wellington International to the National Park airstrip, a long grassy, uphill paddock liberally populated by flocks of sheep and/or herds of beef cattle.

Somewhere along the way I earned myself a Commercial Pilots Licence and owned, through the duration, 7 different aircraft. With the sudden fiscal collapse of tourism in the late 80s along with several inconvenient local volcanic eruptions, I divested myself from "Buttercup", moved my young family to Auckland and took up a 20 year lease of a derelict motel in Greenlane. Within three months I had converted the business into Auckland's premier truckstop providing comfortable welcoming accommodation, piping hot dinners and early breakfasts with the added bonus of a pretty young thing serving drinks in the bar....Super service with a smile for the nations busy truck drivers.
It worked like a rocket for ten years then the local matrons objected to the big rigs starting up at 4am and the Ministry of Transport and the Local Authority shut me down.

I worked the last 12 years of my serious working life as a Storeman and Plant Coordinator for a major construction company building motorways and major traffic tunnels in and under Auckland city and in rural Hamilton. I loved every minute of it all and objected furiously when they retired me at age 75.

Now I'm happily a Postman Pat in a little rural country town on the coast called Okato, have been for three years and shall continue be, gleefully, until they put me in the box. It has been a helluva run....and I wouldn't have missed a minute of it all."



Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Marshal: "Poetry started for me when I wrote a beautiful ditty as an exercise at high school.....and the caustic old crow of a teacher said, publicly,...."You didn't write this!" That got the juices flowing and set me off on the tangent of proving my worth as a writer....and I have never stopped."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Marshal: "Falling in love for the very first time kick started the romanticisms....it took me years to mollify that. Since then and throughout life Poetry has hallmarked discovery, achievement, white hot anger, combat and delight!"


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Marshal: "It is the medium of expression which allows the spirit to enhance and colour my world."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Marshal: "Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, Emily Dickinson, WL Winter, WK Kortas, L Anselm, Victoria (God Bless her), and a character, sadly long gone from these pages, JP. All favourite poets of mine."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Marshal: "With the slowing of my battered body these days I commit myself to my darling wife, Janet, our kids, now grown and living out there in the big wide world, and in growing and nurturing the truly magnificent gardens of "Foxglove" ......following the All Black rugby team and enjoying the serenity of a cut glass noggin of Bushmills Irish whiskey (neat), sitting in my favourite chair, watching the sun set in golden array over the grey waters of the distant Tasman Sea, far, far below."


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us an opportunity to get to know you, Marshal! It is an honor to include you in this series!”

Marshal: "Greetings Carlo and thanks for the opportunity to unload on my fellow poets."



Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Marshal better. I learned so much about his fascinating life. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez & Mrs. Timetable

We will post Spotlight #11 in January!

~
Below are some of Marshal's favorite poems and links to each one:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1620867/windwitch-of-the-deep/
Windwitch of the Deep by Marshal Gebbie
Click to read the poem and comment...
hellopoetry.com

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1274911/running-the-beast/
Running the Beast by Marshal Gebbie
Click to read the poem and comment...
hellopoetry.com

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/386523/so-wetly-one/
Once, so wetly one. by Marshal Gebbie
Click to read the poem and comment...
hellopoetry.com

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/435103/perchance-in-a-bus-shelter/
Perchance, in a Bus Shelter by Marshal Gebbie
Click to read the poem and comment...
hellopoetry.com

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/389195/white-foggy-days/
White, Foggy Days by Marshal Gebbie
Click to read the poem and comment...
hellopoetry.com

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/266893/cheetah/
Cheetah by Marshal Gebbie
Click to read the poem and comment...
hellopoetry.com
Still the fires of slaughter burn
In this dry and ancient land,
Still the caustic scent of hate
Pervades the hand of man,
Still the blood drips from the blade
As Arab slaughters Jew
Then Arab children die in dust
As fury blasts anew.

Long the torment taints the sun
Long the wailing cry,
Incarcerated innocents
In dusty rubble, die.

It all began in ancient time
When men in armour strode
In sandaled feet, their fate to meet
Whilst Alexander rode.
Macedonian slaughter fought
In desperation, all
With every soul decapitated
Without so much as judgement call.

Long the torment taints the sun
Long the wailing cry
Incarcerated innocents,
In dusty rubble, die.

Titanic and gigantic now
The pachyderms attack
The archers launch their waves of arrows
From the creatures back.
Trumpeting their fury
In monolithic charge
The elephants run rampant
Through the terrified discard.

Long the torment taints the sun
Long the wailing cry
Incarcerated innocents,
In dusty rubble, die.

Through the ages blood has run
From Cleopatra's reign
Roman legions metric stamp
And Caliphatic stain,
The Manlucks and the Ottomans,
To Napoleon's brief try
That led us to the British pledge
That Israel's flag must fly.

Long the torment taints the sun
Long the wailing cry
Incarcerated innocents,
In dusty concrete, die.

One hundred years hath passed us by
Unreconciled, unchanged,
Now hatred drips from every pore
With attitudes deranged.
Now all out warfare rules the day
And battle shrouds the sky
What chance that fortune swings to peace?
In hindsight....Pigs might fly!

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
3 December 2023
The agony of Gaza began in 330BC and has been a litany of blood ever since.
The current cataclysm is a continuation of the everlasting emnity inherint in the  denizens be they Hebrew or Arab. The blame delves back centuries. Nobody currently lives who can point the finger at who started what.
Can it all be resolved? Wiser men than I have just shaken their heads and shrugged....So say I, reluctantly and with a sense of deep sadness.....

SO SAY I.

M.
 Dec 2023 Don Bouchard
Ivy Rose
I hope you wore a sweater,
in your favorite shade of blue.
It gets cold in late November,
(it gets darker faster, too)

I hope the shoes you wore fit snugly
(even if your socks don't match)
I hope your last day wasn't ugly,
I hope the pain was over fast.

I'm sure you felt your sadness deeply,
I'm sure you felt your heart ache too.
When you took a walk when all were sleeping,
in your favorite shade of blue.

I wonder what it felt like,
to pick the perfect tree.
To end your painful heartache,
snug shoes on dangling feet.

But my most pressing question,
that I would ask of you,
is where did you lose your earbud?
(you're wearing one, not two)

They moved you to the metal table,
(the one that tilts down at an angle)
They cut the sweater off you too,
your favorite one in midnight blue.

They make their notes:
your weight,
your height.
They check your shoulder width and write:
"He will fit a standard casket"
(they carry on with their assessment)

"Rope indentation - on the neck
Eyes and fingers - blue and red
Socks mismatching
Nike shoes
One earbud gone"
(that's all I knew)

Tell me why'd you take that walk?
I know the road ahead looked bare.
Tell me how you chose a song.
Did you brush your teeth and comb your hair?

Did it happen on a school night?
(your file says you were in 12th grade)
Did you tell your mom you loved her?
- with your mind already made.

So to the boy with just one earbud,
I'm sorry this world felt so wrong.
I hope you're in your favorite sweater,
and you're listening to your favorite song.
Written after reviewing a morgue case of a young boy who left the world too soon
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