Marshal Gebbie

Marshal Gebbie Sep 26

Slowly slips the light of day
Across the rim of ridge, at play.

Golden in its cadenced glow
Deep ochre 'neath the bridge, below.

A fillagree of forfeiture when misting intervenes
Alas, the frolic interplay deploys her in the in-betweens.

Shadows cut by sunlight in a deftly hewn montage
Where the heft becomes the hewn and the hewn the **** fromage?

Interspersed, a flicker in the foliage on the mound
As to toy with the gestation of illumination's sound.....

A devastating show on the rim of ridge at play,
With the sinking of the sunlight in the orchestra of day.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

A thematic interplay of permanence and transience...an orchestral metaphor which elevates landscape to a stage where the magnificence of the light conducts its final act, a weight beyond the visual, a reckoning, a farewell

Sep 23

William A Gibson

Equinox

This lilting night
in a world still trembling,
streets sag with silence,
the hush tastes of smoke.

A crow cuts low,
black wing against orange,
leans into the wind,
folds, veers.

Above the trees,
the sky wears a copper bruise,
clouds thick as wool,
the light already retreating.

Air carries the edge of change-
sharp as bitten tin,
wet as stone on the tongue.

All sound brittle:
screen door whining,
tires on gravel,
a match struck to nothing.

your page turning,
the small sigh after,
your breath, mine,
keeping time with the dark.

#equinox #night #silence #crow #sky #bruise #change #autumn #wind #branches

Marshal Gebbie Sep 22

The Apothecary Paper

He lumbers forth, an obscene myth,
Truth gagged beneath his gluttoned pith.
A plodding gait, a sneering stare
The crowd exalts his vacant air.

He speaks in slogans, not in sense,
Each lie a brick in ignorance.
The sheep applaud, their minds on lease,
Their souls exchanged for false release.

The sky turns static, facts decay,
The clocks strike thirteen every day.
He sneers decree, they call it law,
While reason gnaws its bleeding jaw.

The Ministry of Truth rewrites
The past in glowing orange lights.
The Ogre grins, the masses cheer
Their thoughts erased, doubts unclear.

He points, they pounce. He sneers, they kneel.
Their hearts adorned with black appeal.
They wear his name like sacred thread,
While truth lies bleeding, left for dead.

Yet somewhere deep beneath the din,
A whisper stirs, a rebel grin.
A pen is raised, a voice is born
To mock the crown, to scream the scorn.

For in the shadows, rebels write,
With ink that glows with fury's might.
Through whispered truths the world forgot,
Where lies obscenity, it shall not!

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

A blatant Call to Arms @ Charlie Kirk's memorial framed a chilling tableau : where grief and martyrdom was used through mass media to amplify loyalty and suppress dissent, potentially laying the groundwork for future public crackdowns on the political opposition?

Marshal Gebbie Sep 20

Equinoxial

Warmth in gentle feathered nest
Enticement from thy avian breast
A nuance of a stirring soul,
Deep, from intuition's role.....
A pulse of life engaged within
From Equinoxial breath of wind,
Nuance of a stirring soul
Reminiscent of the surge of shoal
Awash, as gentle wavelet tide
On stone....now, deep within, abide.

In light of silver harvest moon
From far horizons distant tune
A zephyr rose, in infancy,
To soft caress of waveless sea.
Building in its pulse of life
To strength of equinoxial strife.
Amplified to have withstood
That scarred and windworn, ancient wood......
A signature of life's domain
Upon thy wicked gale's refrain.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

Some of you enthusiastic souls actually beat the gun.....or perhaps, I let the cat out of the bag, prematurely?
M.

Sep 20

Geof Spavins

Last Friday, Hello Poetry

On the last Friday of each month, the poets gather
not in one room, but in the hush between screens,
the glow of shared breath and blinking cursors.

They come with verses tucked in sleeves,
with metaphors still warm from the pan,
with hearts half-rhymed and stanzas that ache to be heard.

This month, the theme is Equinox!
balance, breath, the tilt of light.
Some write of harvest moons,
others of lovers crossing hemispheres,
some of grief that splits the day clean as shadow.

One speaks of sugar levels and sunrise.
Another, of church bells and glucose meters.
Someone reads a mirrored poem that turns
at the solstice line and walks back through itself.

There is laughter -
the kind that lifts like foam.
There is silence -
the kind that listens.

And when the last poem lands,
when the final line finds its echo,
they linger,
not to critique,
but to hold the weight of each word
like a mug of something warm.

The meeting ends,
but the poems keep orbiting,
little equinoxes of thought,
balancing dark
and light
in the inbox of the soul.

Meeting on Friday - for more information please ask