<>
"for the vanity of man is as porous as dust...and, in their supreme wisdom, because of this failing, the Gods have decreed, that mankind deserveth no more, no less than his designated allotment of being.
And such it shall be."
writ by
The Marshal Gebbie
June 2023
<>
rise up, rise up,
son up, sun up!
see for yourself a newly birthing day,
the early rays licking the unlocking of a grinning earth's face,
humbling humans and their perpetuity e~mo/notions of eternity.
how are the daily~we, to measure ourselves, versus our ancestry,
by whom shall we~be set forth as examples to our posterity
what tools we fools think, we possess, an etch~a~sketch,
to imprint of who we are,
what we were, and
who we might become, and
be  beauty becoming,
marking our time with ensigns of
words of integers in some giant network
authored, offered, up unashamedly

and even though the sun
does not always greet & meet
the discombobulated human riffraff
every diurnal,
daily identical,
when it shines,
it shines for us all
in an equality of glorious,
it shines upon us all in equality,
it, great equalizer, who restores and
replenishes our colored planets blue green,
a methodology of air, soil and water interactively,
for we are all chemicals, forever effervescent rebirthing

and so it goes.
our cells, are a
rare earth depository,
we plant ourselves
eternally, fed by
foodstuffs of
our ancestors cells,
their brewed ***** dust,
and thus each of us singly
is thus remembered, reconstructed
as are we, both, individually and collectively,
from dust we are, to dust we return, the matériel futured…


postscript
We Hebrews have a knowingly foolish,
a most beauteous custom, gifted to us by
our forefather Jacob, who when espying a
solitary grave by the road, a nameless marker of
piled-on stones, marking an unknown person last remains,
added one more, add-on to ensure this nameless one yet remembered,
so we too do not pass by without adding a stone, a tiny pebble,
we encumbered, to solidify, perpetuate, renew, ever sustaining,
cannot pass by without adding another rock,
another pebble, that time will surely shift,
but as long we follow this custom,
spiting time's erosive nature and until today,
yet the same, for at a cemetery, every grave,
all marker, ego big, humbled small, topped,
festooned, with small stones, we top them
signaling that this, very spot here, here!
for now, until for ever
shall never
be forgot

<.
and so this peculiar, deteriorating canister places
one more smoothed handy beach pebble, upon
this, his unmarked resting spot
nml
<>
Monday morning
7:10am
an august, August dream day
specified as the 11th day of this
eighth month in one particular
calendric methodology
and as the
17th of Av 5785
in his ancestral calendar

I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
you’d best step back.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
and it won’t take your crap.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
it’s tuning up to sing.
I’ve got a bee in my bonnet
and it’s ready to sting.

This bee is sick of it
no value for money,
each bite costs more
but fills less of the tummy.
Every shelf’s a con,
every packet’s a cheat,
cutting corners,
stealing meat from the meat.

What kind of world
puts profit before need?
Where greed is the harvest,
and we’re just the seed.

Look at you
corporate swine.
You’ve turned the good wine sour,
poisoned the bread,
and smiled as we choke
on the lies you’ve fed by the hour.

You wrap it in glossy packaging
that costs more than what’s inside.
You sell us a promise,
but truth? That you hide.

If you could slip in poison
to save a good buck
you’d do it,
grinning,
and push your **** luck.
Then feign surprise
“Oh, we didn’t know!”
while your profits rise
from the puppet show.

It’s like your “medicine” that heals
but maims.
“Take this pill for your headache,” you say,
“but it may cause blindness,
baldness,
or death someday.
Insomnia, itching,
your manhood might quit
but hey, the headache’s gone,
so that’s worth it, isn’t it?”

If the law didn’t chain you,
you’d hide those side effects too
crammed in fine print,
folded so tight
the font itself would fight your sight as it already do.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I’m the bee today.
And I’m here to say
there’s no love in your work,
just poison in the play.

You know the harm,
but keep your mouth shut,
while stockholders
pocket the cut.

It’s daylight robbery
clear as glass to the blind.
Greed in broad daylight,
looting humankind.

So
when do we say, Enough is Enough?
When do we rise from the grind,
and tell you we’re tired of bluff
of bleeding our wages
for trash in a package,
for lies in a label,
for crumbs on a table?

No, Mr. Corporate *****
we’re not your game.
And if you still have a conscience,
you should learn the word shame.

How distant do you feel from our ideal life,
and how hard are you willing to go, to get there?
You’ve got to pull a big swing sometimes, to get there, you know?
You’ll flourish in the aftermath.
What I’m carrying is joy.

Notes for an American student in Paris..

Be less intense
tone it down
pullback.

Enough scrappiness, hustle,
and intensity on repeat.

Sure, honesty is sanity,
but give them a better version
some ‘church girl’ energy, maybe.
win ‘em with winsome

Don’t welcome them, immediately, into your tense, inner world.
.
.
Songs for this:
Oh Honey! (I Love You) by Peach Tree Rascals
Nothing Breaks Like a Heart (feat. Miley Cyrus) by Mark Ronson
Tear Off Your Own Head (It's A Doll Revolution) by The Bangles

If a demon sours of harrowing,
cannot the Angels sing in barren too?
birds weigh less than the tall grass,
and a sight is much more beautiful,
than we could have ever imagined
of nature's true gift of existing
and the angel's gift of receiving
of the grand in our hearts
can be of swapping
of the apricots in the tarts....
Sweet and ever so brief.

little light belittling the darkness,
I kinda need her pecking on my neck,
and avoidance of war of the roses
I imagine her sweet brown eyes
ever so gently as this lazy lay
gives not the bad but the good cries
and there's no thorns in my crown,
push me over to my front side
as you sit upon my tummy
and cheekily give me a smile
I met you in a pub down-town
and silence are the exasperation
of a locked door excitement.
I need gently demons released
upon a shore of kisses on my chest.

the cracked mirror
splits my face down the center.

one eye opened wide.
the other eye heavy.

one shard shows me young,
the child with dreams
filled with wonder.

the other sharp edge, old,
etched like tree bark in winter

(cuts deeper than jagged mirror glass.)

waxing moon, waning moon,
ashes and the flower blooms.

one eye looks back.
the other eye forward.

morning light, midnight,
all in the blink of an eye.

the mirror---no lies here.

On the last page, a question lingers around,
A little gem for the reading crowd.
“Look up at the sky,” the book does implore,
And you start to ponder what you read before.

“Has the sheep eaten the flower?” you ask yourself,
A cosmic riddle, revealing itself.
For in this thought, the universe sways,
And shifts our view in wondrous ways.

If the flower still stands - proud and untouched,
Is the sheep’s hunger forever unhushed?
Would it dream of petals, soft and sweet,
While munching on grass beneath its feet?

But if the bloom has met its fleecy fate,
Is the prince’s planet now desolate?
Would stars shine dimmer in the night,
Mourning the loss of that floral light?

No grown-up sees why this matters so,
But children understand the question’s glow.
In pondering sheep and flora’s dance,
We glimpse the magic of happenstance.

Perhaps in asking, we become more wise,
Seeing the world through children’s eyes.
For in life’s garden, strange and vast,
It’s wonder, not logic, that truly lasts.

So gaze at the heavens, mind roaming free,
Imagine the possibilities you might see.
But watch out for a question, horrific, yet deep:
What if the flower ate the sheep?



Oh, but to love this great land
beautiful, whole
I grieve for what you have become,
your proud embers now shallow ash.

Once, your hand extended care and love
What has become of you over these fallen year?
overrun by tyrants and thieves,
looting these fine soils for selfish gain.

Where is the hand of care?
Your hand now grips the throats
of every honest man, woman, and child,
choking hope and dreams from every mind and soul.
Bodies toil through day and night
to feed your ever-growing greed.

Oh, land of hope and dreams
where have you gone?
Who is this that steals the souls of so many?

Leadership of fools
you dealers of incompetence and corruption,
unworthy kings upon thrones of gold and myrrh,
chariots laden with coin you did not earn,
waited on hand and foot in castles of stone, feasting while your children starve
while people drown in debt and lost hope.

You take and plunder
raising your keep with each day
while the land lies unwatered,
its fields dry,
its people hungry
as your bellies swell.

Thieves and convicts have stolen
what once was proud.
You live on the past and call it fairness.

Oh country of mine,
why do your arms no longer hold me with care?
How can we be the victims of servants
who know only how to destroy, loot, and lie?
Incompetence knows no bounds among you,
yet you walk without shame.

If you fell to a breeze that blows in from the north,
how could I defend you,
when my own people have done more harm
than any bringer of peace could do?

I cannot pledge loyalty
to systems that oppress the innocent
to what has become broken,
fallen to the wills of evil men.

Oh God of this earth
how could you let this great land
fall into the hands of plunderers and liars,
those who breathe corruption
and silence truth?

Freedom does not live here.
Mothers cry for their lost children,
fathers are gone,
streets lie empty under the glare of lamps,
for none dare walk that road.

They say this land is not mine
but I come from your soil,
born of your dust.
How can any man claim ownership
over what was never sold,
but created?

I see how evil hearts poison you,
Oh country of mine.
Your rulers speak with forked tongues,
weeping only when the world’s arms withdraw
and your tables grow now bare.

Oh beautiful land
when will it end?
When blood slicks the streets?
When the sky burns,
the ground shakes,
and bodies scatter the fields
where no seed will grow
and the soil runs red?

What happened to freedom?
To building a future
for those yet to come?
Now they steal from the unborn
and blame the children for their fathers’ sins.

When will peace and prosperity return?
When will your arms hold all
born of this ground?
Foreigners come to plunder,
kings dine on wine,
and I wonder

Is God watching?
Why dont you answer my prayers
or cleanse this land of corruption and hate?
Will He bring unity among its children
or must the hand of peace
come from distant soil
to bring order where none exists?

Nuances of antiquity
In the roughness of the stone,
Mirrors of the past
In the faded paint, alone,
A touch old humanity
In the feeding of the birds....
But long abandoned nuances,
So sad, adorn the words?

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ