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i sing the body eclectic, and mourn the failing day
as the luscious night unfolds a myriad of shadow
and pours the hearth of nightfall upon the weary.
i glean no good from my hard liquor, but sup
the dregs of my shark fin soup and wither, expanding...
i command the barge of my going to the yonder pier
and peer into the cauldron of my fickle mist.
the first blink of a marble statue must be for love
and i see now, the dreadful splendor of a constant.
the unfocused fist of a star on the horizon
and the stillness of a riot in my lungs.
  Jan 2024 Marshal Gebbie
Anais Vionet
(inspired by "Gifts of the Most High" by G Alan Johnson.)

The crows know me, and I, in their untamed glares,
and wild, accepting, onyx eyes find a solace.

No need for ID, for they’ve been watching me,
my face, yet unetched by time and life's own artistry,
is a passport for their uncivilized and predatory attention.

The corvid and I are kindred in many ways.
We've all scavenged for fortune's scraps,
shared the sting of bitter winter snaps,
and feasted on the meager leavings of the day.

In this dark pact, of watcher and watched,
a silent truth is proclaimed, that all that’s done
beneath the sun, is seen by dark, intuitive,
discerning, if not caring or humanly wise eyes.

The carrion crows know me,
and those feathered sentinels of air, mark
my coming with raucous, heralding cries.

They gather, black against the sun-kissed sky,
in councils held upon the wind's swift motions,
like children, they argue - observing still - as they play.

They causa no fear, but someday I’ll disappear,
unraveled, bit by bit, not by malice from on high,
but by beaks and claws, to caws they mantric-like cry.

Perhaps death really does have an ebonite beauty
and, like angels, his servants have wings, and pick us apart
when our time is through - and those sharp bills come due.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Kindred: “similar in nature or character."
  Jan 2024 Marshal Gebbie
irinia
I listened only to voices of pervasive enduring loneliness today.  that's right, no point in altering it through symbolic transformation, the metaphor has its decency. no wonder i found this place where silence has infinite nuances like a love slipping through your fingers, like a time obliterating the intensity of the systolic wind. I thought about writing a letter of intent to the world just to say No! (after much yes, a no is vital). No, i don't want to understand, i don't wanna know,  don't wanna shed tears, read books about the meaning of violence, dream war, fear devastation. if you zoom in more and more you can catch history repeating its fractals. the more you look the more you might feel the ******* of pain. somebody asked : do you tantra today? No! today let only this particular silence be
To my Grandchildren, those great and beyond,
  whom I will never meet

Know that I love you and have seen you in the
  eyes of your parents when they were very small
  
I’ve heard your voices in the trees, when the
  wind blows softly calling my name as I walk

I’ve seen your arms reaching out to me in my
  dreams, as you cry “Papa" and then drift away

Your spirit is mine, as my spirit is yours; and no
  lifetime can keep us apart

I watch over you now and will watch over you then,
  whenever the need is great

I’m that voice you hear when no one else listens, and
  no one else understands

And the heart that feels what you will feel, when no
   one else seems to care

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2017)
  Jan 2024 Marshal Gebbie
Nat Lipstadt
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay 


this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,

even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,

what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.

to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,

my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
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Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York

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read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
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truth is never old.” Pradip Chattopadhyay  lipstadt
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