No law or compulsion

In the history of man

Has vanquished the spirit

Or sullied his plan.



No preponderance of nastiness

Or heavy of hand

Have diluted the soul

Of a son of this land.



No oppressive demeanor

Or depraved mood

Have squandered the heart

Of my family brood.



No rule of despondency

Patterned or plain

Will blunt the edge

Of this febrile brain.



No damaged tissue?

No rendered dream?

Pass on cruel smile

With your cold eyed gleam.



Yes, get thee gone

Oh despoiler of men

Or feel the fury

Of my vengeance then!





Marshalg

@theGate

Mangere Bridge

24 March 2009

Emergent through emotion
In a sychophantic way,
Thrilling through my system
In recall of teaching’s fray.
Those years of inspiration
As an aspirant of they…
That concrete mass of youthfulness
Wherein I spent my day.

Each hour of nervous questing,
Each confrontation stored,
Each shred of indignation
When the master plan proved flawed.
Through gyroscopic reason,
Through footless halls of pain,
An exultation’s bright explosion
When that child said... “Please explain?’

And the myriad of starburst
When the sky came crashing down
When, as if, by touch of magic….
Realisation there…profound!
From within that mass of granite-ness
Poured enlightenment as gold
And hot jewels of satisfaction
Flowed within this soul… untold.

M.

There's a well of disappointment
In observing human nature,
For regardless of the colour,
The religion or the creed;
There's a metabolic failure
Apparent in the makeup,
And it's all about ego
And materialistic greed.

I see it in the corporate's
And the hallowed halls of banking,
It drips like grease from politics
And stains God's children too.
It permeates the populace
With a cloak of ashen pallor
And extends from Kings and Demigods
Through humanity to you.

And even little children
Are caught up in the maelstrom
Through television's fanfare
Of fashion and excess,
I feel tragedy unfolding
In our hedonist behaviour
I see brother clawing brother
And the future in distress.

Take a look around you
At the evidence of trouble
Observe the calamity
Of Wall Street's greed.
Feel the discomfort
Of intrusion by Government,
Feel the pain in the pocket
Of taxation's bleed.

The war drums are pounding
All over the planet
Greed and anxiety
Run hand in hand,
Corporate warmongers
Driving the politics
Flailing for more
As their empires expand.

What of the people?
We ordinary people,
Who invisibly strive
Insignificantly?
Pushed and shoved
Bought and bartered,
....In this tempest of greed
What chance have we?

Marshalg
On another sick, sick day.
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
12 February 2010

Hark the stalwarts bray a song to heavens far, to heavens seen,
Gone the miserys who dwell in sordid tales of wrong.
Now the thing interred is wrapped in joyous thoughts to preen,
Of *****, substantial thigh pronounced and dancing eyes in song.

She who challenges the very ground you traipes upon each day & tread,
She who walks with  angulation's undulations deftly spread,
She who wears a tongue so sharp t'would slice a hand or dice a fruit
She whose eyes would dance for thee, for thee to seek pursuit to root.

Hold that brilliant thought in cortexed fields of pain, my son
For foreplay in the wildest scheme I've seen to date, has now begun,
And should you bring the very shards of war upon me then
Despite this death, with her envisaged, I shall rise to thrive again.

Marshalg
In vivid recall......of a very tall and particularly comely Irish *****.
7 November 2013

Makes me pause to wonder why
I conjour thoughts to let them fly,
Float them forth as dreams do sing
Of hope's eternal leavening.....
Leavening the quiet subdued
Of retrospection's agate mood,
As still as glass in hidden pool
Soft utterings of maudlin fool.

M.

The little towns near Egmont
That nestle on the plains
To gather close the winding roads
The homing trails and lanes,
The little towns near Egmont
That sleep the whole night long
Cooled by the scent of mountain breeze
Lulled by the sea wind’s song.

The little towns near Egmont
Will ever seem to me
Like stars that deck the evening sky
Or isles that dot the sea,
Like beads that sprinkle here and there
On Taranaki’s gown
Like figures in a rich brocade
Of yellow, green and brown.

The little towns near Egmont
Seen through a summer haze
How fair and fresh and free they lie
Beneath the golden days,
Not crowded in deep valley’s,
Not buried in tall trees
But open to the sun, the rain
The starlight and the breeze.

The little towns near Egmont
What busy lives they hold
With happiness and health to keep
Secure from heat and cold,
The comfortable homesteads,
The park like lands so fair
God keep them restful, clean and pure
As Egmont’s snow peak there.

Hanna Hair
Dawson Falls Lodge
Mount Egmont, Taranaki.
January 1926

This poem, hand written and forgotten, was written by a guest of the house, in a thick, ancient tome of comments and articles, secreted in a dusty corner of the beautiful and quaint Dawson Falls Alpine Lodge, nestled comfortably in the dense, high podocarp forest, far up the snow clad slopes of volcanic Mt. Egmont in Taranaki, New Zealand.

From its high vantage point on the mountain looking out toward the curving coastline of the vast Tasman sea, the lodge affords magnificent views of the sparse settlements and farmlands spread widely on the lowland plains before it. By day the smoke rises from farm house chimneys, by night the warm honeyed glow from scattered windows dot like an expanse of fire-flies amidst the velvet blackness extending out to the luminosity of the line of breakers pounding the distant coast.

This delicate work captures the sparse beauty of this magnificent rural place, it further affords a snapshot of that particular era and of the pioneer spirit and rugged endurance of the settlers who made this isolated land home.

Marshalg
Dawson Falls Lodge
26 October 2015

Winds blow,
Reeds bend,
Coriolis force
Will lend
Momentum
To dispersed
White seed
Which, caste aloft,
Doth spread
And breed
Young reeds anew
On distant lake
For wind
To whip
And bend
And break.

Neath the pale and crescent moon
I saunter with the call of loon,
This haunting note through reeds on lake
Reflected moonlit ripples make.
I pause to ponder beauty stark
Of monochrome in Willmont Park,
In sillouhette of black and white
Through lakeside, rippled reeds at night.
Again the call of haunting loon
In silver light's reflected moon,
The chill air causing breath to cloud
My footfall crunch in sand, too loud,
Distracting me from beautious sight
Of moonlit lake on darkest night.
And yet again that haunting call
To conjour Willmont's phantom shawl,
Descending mist now brings the damp
Necessitating my decamp....
So.... with regret, I disembark
From gracious, moonlit Willmont Park.

M.
April 19 2014

Across the blistered gibber plain where flies die in the sand
Through swamps of prickly sago where rotting death is planned,
To stride in windblown tussock hills where wind vanes carved their say
To saunter groves of green tree fern where moa giants did play.
In clearings cut with alkali, tusked elephant would loom
With crevassed hides, Methuselah, once aged in terms of doom.
Whilst high above the rocky crags of ancient mountain high,
The keening screech of kestral soaring up to deep blue sky.

Heavy boots in crusted sand where tiny lizards flee
Amidst the rust red rubble of volcanic rock and scree,
To clamber up the ignimbrite, great Vulcan's steps of stone,
Encrusted with thick epiphyte in lichen's mossy home.
Up into the altitude where dark cloud clusters here
And the threat of rolling thunder indicates that rain is near,
Torrential in it's downpour with sudden squall of gale
Surmounted, all quite suddenly, with a blinding blast of hail.

Staggering to shelter in a tiny alpine hut
To find hot coffee on the woodstove and a curvy, hot young ****,
To find us frollicking together beneath a patterned patchwork quilt
Was quite beyond my imagination's comprehensions built?
And afterwards in slumber through the curtains of our room
I watched, in fascination, at a hanging, frozen moon
And wondered, in amazement, at the doings of the day
And speculated, sleepily, where tomorrow's prospects lay.

Blearily I stretch out from the covers, nicely warm
To nullify persistence of that alarm's intruding horn,
Yawning into morning I remove myself from bed
With panicked realisation....all dreams evacuate my head.
Vanished are the alpine hut, the dolly bird, the caves
The crash of rolling thunder and the plunge of mighty waves,
Gone are those phantoms which dwelt inside my mind
Devestatingly dismissed until re-dreamed another time.

M.
Pukehana Paradise
13 December 2014

Beetles creep & earthworms writhe
In soil and leafage mould
Where men, in towers' ivory
Broach loud and souls are sold.
Honesty and purity
Enflower places plain
But pompousness and leather hearts
Merely promulgate distain.
Distancing the words, effete,
Conjure portals cold
Whilst wallowing in self esteem
Seldom glints of gold.
Instead the psalms of simple chime
The bells of true release,
Where meek and mild and unposessed
sweat blood and bleed for peace.
Where the stroke of brush, unfettered,
Lets the masterpiece unfold,
And children sit enthralled, only,
When tales of truth are told.

M.

Sensing loving whispers
Which slide into my mind
To conjure soft enticements
Invoking ***** to find,
Finding warm inducements
Temptation calls its own
When locked inside a fantasy
Wherein we sit alone.
Alone in darkened corridors
Where sensual shadows slide
Where, without preamble,
Eroticisms hide.
Where, within a gentle touch,
All light would flush confirmed
Causing demons penned in caverns deep
To writhe in passion earned…
In harmony such symphony
Of gentle, moving song
Would dwindle in the offing down
To whispers, softly gone.

M.
14 November 2014

When you live on the wrong side of sixty
You flirt with cold death every day,
You **** sweet air in like nectar
And you hold your breath and you pray,
For tomorrow may bring a black tumour
Or a spasm, or seizure or more...
Then whatever you do, whatever you say,
You’ll end up prone on the floor.

For our time on this planet is temporary,
Our time of enjoyment is brief,
Just pull out the stops and let loose man
Live it up, kiss your girl, take relief.
Tomorrow is lost in the dreamtime,
Today is the essence of being,
So kick up your heels and spin all your wheels
and send all those worries a-fleeing.

When you live on the wrong side of sixty
Your skin has a penchant to sag
And no matter how hard you diet
Your gut gets as wide as a bag.
Your whit was once so exciting
Your repartee so sharp
Now you mumble and wheeze
And occasionally sneeze
And frequently squeeze out a ****.

Oh life was once so enticing
The sparkle and crackle was there
When you danced on the floor
The crowd yelled for more
And you dazzled with lights in your hair.
Now the dance floor is silent and empty
The music has faded away
Just to have it once more
My poor heart does implore ?
... But the crimson has faded to grey.

Now you’ll think I’m buried in sorrow,
Enmeshed in self pity galore
But the fact of the matter
Is served on a platter
… I really don’t care anymore.
For you see I’ve learnt a great secret,
Discovered a pearly white truth....
That life is as free
As a bird in a tree...
And remorse is really uncouth!

So no more do I wallow in sadness,
No more do I tear out my heart,
Instead I rejoice in my gladness
And retrace all the steps from the start.
For living’s a sequence of pictures
To give or take as you choose,
If your selections awry
Then you’re lost in the sky
...you pick the wrong one... You lose!

The sun comes up in the morning,
The light erupts in the sky
And the beautiful song of the blackbird
Brings a tear of joy to my eye.
The golden greens of the shadows
The crystal glint of dew
Encapsulates the rapture
I feel on seeing you.
For a friend makes life worth living,
A smile a golden door
To the promise of tomorrow,
Oh! The future’s good ..once more.

When you live on the wrong side of sixty
Life’s lessons treat you right,
You separate the wheat from chaff
And celebrate the fight.
You make the most of good stuff
And embrace all the fun,
You interact with positives ..
DO THIS,
AND FRIEND ….YOU’VE WON!

Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
21st January 2007

Twilight falling makes me sad
With expectation seldom met
As wistful evening bleeds away
Ambition fades with soft sunset.

Dawn creates a surge of blood
As tumbled plans carouse to day,
Enthused, this finest moment met
With hope arranged in fine array.

By noon the schedule lies in rags
The tether hangs in tattered state,
Dullness in the discontent
Lies brutal on an emptied plate.

To build a castle in the air
And frustrate dissipation’s fight
When time and time a proven fact
That good intention fades with night.

Daylight flees with ebbing tide
Coolness in the furtive air,
Expectations start to slide
As resignation takes the chair.
  

Marshalg
At the calm of ebb tide
21 February 2013


© 2013 Marshal Gebbie

A toast to the life of my good mate, Bill Massey


We toasted life with “steinies”
Watching Ngauruhoe smoke,.
We clambered over tussock
Laughing easily, “bloke to bloke”.
I Knew him as a good sort
Those forty years long past
But realised much later
That Bill’s friendships last.

To appreciate the standards
That Bill would always keep,
The quality of thought
That his ministrations reap.
The camaraderie enjoyed
And the bounteous Joi de Vivre,
And the lengthy conversations
Over occasional  cold beer.

Elements of friendship
That once won are not lost
Until cruel deaths intervention
Is counted heavily, as cost.
But the flip realisation
Is now readily made clear
That time shared gave value
That we both held as dear.

Bill was a good friend
In a firm, gentle way
And I thank my good fortune
For that long distant day,
When he entered my door
And smiling, held out his hand
And I entered the realm
Of a Gentleman’s Man.

Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 June 2011

Jetting away to your far away home
I'm left with your fragrance and image alone,
To sit on the chair with a scotch in my hand
Miserably aware that I can't understand,
Why you left, why you cried,why you sped for the door
Leaving pungency there in the sheets on the floor.

The aching emptiness, hollow inside
The confusion and rawness of pain, I confide,
That I'm lost. Tomorrow is pointlessly there
When I wake up to find that your gone, in despair.
Just yesterday, we lay spent on the bed
Entwined and sated, unseemingly spread,
And now the ghost of passion's done
When then, we were so wetly one.

Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
26 October 2009

- From "Watching the Ripples Radiate."

Across expanses far and flat
The freezing wind doth howl,
Through desolation cold and harsh
No sign of beast nor fowl.


No feet have trod these arid lands
No eyes have sought a path,
No heart has longed to venture here
No settler built a hearth.


Far horizons curve the flatness
Cold stars spray the sky,
Freezing diamonds in the blackness
Crescent moon hangs high.


Sleet and snow and driving rain
Assault in winter’s bleak,
Whilst blazing sun and baking wind
Prevail in summers fleet.


Grasses blow in rolling waves
As far as sight can see,
And cobalt skies of burnished blue
Are cloud and eagle free.


Sand grains blowing, heaping, rolling
Dusty dunes do form,
Moving west in steady flow
Sand waves without a storm.


Silent, silent, shrill and silent
Wind’s persistant howl
Shreiking in the rolling grass
No trace of beast nor fowl.


Far horizons defy logic
Something in the dark,
Huge and vague a shadowed something
Ghosts from Ancients hark.



Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
4 May 2009

Splendour surrounds with exquisit-ness found
In the coo of a dove and the worm in the ground,
With the look in your eye when you smile at my face
The lift of the brow as penny drops into place.
Exquisit-ness found in the phrases you write
And the softness of shadows when day turns to night,
The touch of your fingertips touching my brow
The wonder engaged when you show me how.
The love of the feeling of being alive
And the buzz of the bee at it's honey filled hive,
The taste of tomato, acidic with bite
And the roar of the laughter when joke telling's right.
The scent of the lavender, colours of rose
And the joy of the tones in a violin's prose,
Pink cheeks in the frostiness, dancing blue eyes
And the look on your face when I spring a surprise.
Hot bacon for breakfast with two poached eggs
And I've swallowed my coffee right down to the dregs.
Such splendour surrounds on this beautiful day
I'm at the top of the world in a wonderful way.

Marshalg
Taranaki bound in an hour or two
27/6/13

I’m phased out to sepia, Pet,
The last cab on the rank,
My good looks and *** a memory, Sweet,
For which, I’ve you to thank.
One day blending through to next
Increasingly a blur,
Dissatisfaction total now
For things ain’t what they were.
Ignored by all and sundry
Quite invisible to they
Who converse in hieroglyphics,
Incomprehensible, I say.
Overtaken by technology
Can’t figure out the phone
Facebook, watch and wallet mishmash
Won’t leave us alone.
Confusion at the pace of things,
It’s all moving far too fast
Queuing up for life
Leaves us, inevitably, last.
But bitterness ain’t with me
For I’ve loved your churlish ways,
Tho we’ve sailed through life on cobblestones
That old sunshine warmed our days.
But now I’m phasing out to sepia, Sweet,
Cos I’m the last cab on the rank
One quick kiss before departure, Pet,
For which..... I’ve you to thank.

M.
Auckland
22 April 2015

Aloof you stand, aloof, alone
High moral ground you make your throne,
So sacrosanct as one to be
Despoiled by pride's hypocrisy.
Above the fray that hostile stare
Entrenched, assured to show the care
That others err whilst you yourself
Preen with sanctimonious wealth.
Aloof you stand, aloof, alone
Enshrouded destitute, poor crone.

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie

When the rain is cold and pelting
When the windstorm shreds the trees
Do you find your courage wanting?
Is there weakness in the knees?
Have you faced the dark intruder?
Have you stared that challenge down?
Have you summoned forth the fortitude,
To keep humiliation gowned?
Camouflaged the leaden spinelessness,
That dreaded empty space,
Where once there was a warrior
Who wore courage on his face.


Felt the thrashing of the current
As the waves come pounding in,
Inexorably it lacerates
And tears the fair white skin.
The brutality of bedrock,
The blackness of the night,
And the fear that runs like mercury
Through the torment and the fright.
The uselessness of effort,
The lassitude of limb,
It’s the cramping ague of gutlessness
That is consuming him.


Dissipating storm clouds
The skies begin to clear
And with it go emergencies
And with it goes the fear.
Residually it lingers
As a gnawing hollow blend
Of anxious blue inadequacies,
Of unsubstantiated end
To performance under duress,
Compared to that which is the norm,
It’s just a blinding lack of courage
Whilst in the torment of the storm.


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
24 November 2008

A beastly wind with savage heat
Blew from the north with dust,
The brazen sun relentlessly
Baked skin as red as rust.
To scan the near horizon
Is to ***** the eyes to squint
And a man would **** his brother
For a cold beer from a ****.

There’s orders for the gunners
To load cannon with coarse shot,
To prime them with dry powder
And ram them all till hot.
To keep the eyes upon the hills
And be ready for the call,
Because the savages are massing
And our backs are to the wall.

Release the carrier pigeon, boy,
To recall the horse hussars
Because before this day is done
Our blood may run in jars
For the drums of war are beating
And they’re sweeping from the hills
And God help the luckless fusilier
Who dallies with his skills.

In waves, the savages do run
And roar their chant of war,
Beat their spears upon hide shield
And roll their eyes and more...
A wall of pure malevolence
Descends upon us large
And we gird ourselves for battle
And the bugle screams the charge.

Black naked men pour from the earth
In hoards of shrieking mad
With rolling eyes and streaming hair
And rancid breath, so bad.
Roaring shot and cannon volley
Cut a swathe through flesh,
Spear and shrapnel fly opposed
And axe and bayonet mesh.

Swearing men are head to head
Blood and guts do flow,
The agony and roaring triumph
As blades trade blow for blow.
Good and bad are dying now
Their bodies fall like rain,
Young cry for their mothers
While the older scream in pain.

Blood is running in the sand,
Twitching bodies lie,
The jagged sound of battle dims
As vultures fill the sky.
There’s silence with the setting sun
As  horse hussar arrives
Too late, by far, to save the boys
Who lay in clouds of flies.


Marshalg
@The Bach
Mangere Bridge
18 January 2011

Gorgons in the grasses by my window
Phantoms in the corridors of mind,
Elves and Angels flit amongst the fairies
But Godhead is the hardest thing to find.

Experiments with rationale confound me
Argument, well meaning, leaves me cold,
I've thrashed it out with he who has seen the Holy See
But futility has left me feeling old.

Millions feel the joy of their religion
Base their lives on regimental right,
Alone I meet the day and feel no need to pray,
And stride with independence to the night.

I read your words of beauty for your Maker
I felt the passion living on the page,
I cried for your belief and in so doing, felt relief
For the singer not the song, for me, engaged.

So there, my beauty, lies our living quandary
For you and I the chemistry's the same.
For you with God in hand inhabit my agnostic land
And simultaneously, we exult in falling rain.

Marshalg
To Christine and Anselm, with happiness in having found new friends.
The Pukehana Paradise
Auckland
12 March 2013

When I look into the mirror
Each morning after dawn
To peruse the wrinkled skin
And slack musculature drawn,
When I snore upon the couch
Before flashing TV screen
To be woken by my sweetheart
For a dinner yet unseen.

There’s an overriding likelihood
That achievements made to date
Will be my lot for evermore....
An admission that I hate!
And the scent of hot seduction
Though a feature of my youth,
Shall be confined to flash of fantasy
Amidst pains in nagging tooth.

Enduring twinge of aching joints
To the whistling in the ears
And the apnoea of sleeplessness
Which just consolidates the fears.
Homeopathy has promise
To the happy road to health
But pharmaceuticals are farming
For my meagre worldly wealth.

Though the promise of the afterlife
Which held aloft on high,
Presents a gaggle of good churches
Who will proffer you the sky.
Best to form your own religion
With philosophy of POW!
To say" IT’S ALL ABOUT ME, BROTHER"
AND I WANT MY YOUTH BACK NOW!!


Marshalg
Wielding the Gold Card with an impotent flourish
AUCKLAND
25 January 2012

They have their own immortal feel
These monolithic trees *****,
The ancients with green wash and brush
did etch these hills, I do suspect.
The Gods did bless with outstretched arm
Descending mile on mile of pine,
Fir and spruce cascading *****
In green and turquoise laughter mine.
Delicate in tiny spines, cones of copper rough are born
Nostrils twitched in acid scent of conifer, of coniform.
Magnificence across the hills as far as eye can see they span
Share wilderness with bear and wolf.... I weep with joy, because I can.
M.

A curling green tendril climbs from its’ birthing nest of rotting bird ****
The creeper wends its’ way up round and around the stalk of its’ slender tree host. Leading vigorously ever upward, it climbs toward the light of day. Upon bursting through to the sunshine, it explodes into a huge and suffocating dominance. Wrapping its’ leaders tightly together, writhing skyward, smothering all else. Blotting out the sun. Inhibiting its’ host tree, ultimately killing it ...and every other living plant located below it.

In late summer the creeper produces bunched, masses of frothy, green, seeded florets. Clouds of green plumed waxeyes flock en mass, to flutter, competing ravenously to feast on the banks of seed heads.
Once replete, with full crops, the tiny birds fly off to distant shaded woods there to indiscriminately drop their ****, unknowingly further spreading the insidious creeper pestilence.

I trudge through my wooded glades,
Indignantly I sever taproot after taproot with my trusty sharp blade
….and watch that creeper limply sag and die
With a glint of satisfaction in my grim and vengeful eye.

M.
6 February 2016
Foxglove farm, Taranaki, NZ

Americans live with fear.

Fear of being found out for what they are….an incredibly insecure people populating the most powerful nation on earth.

The power of Wall St. feeds their fear in the belief that the nation’s leaders and political machine have been bought and sold by big money.
In fact the only candidates registering positively in the current Primary elections are those who feed the fear. Trump feeds the fear every time he opens his big mouth.
Hillary engenders fear because she is a WOMAN who can, most probably, win the votes which will give her the Presidency in November next.

Americans fear the resurgence of Asia in China’s burgeoning thermonuclear militarist stance, the utter unpredictability of the simmering, India, Pakistan standoff
And the instability of the plump, demonic, demagogue armed with the atomic weaponry in the bleak wasteland that is North Korea.

Islam’s mobilisation scares Americans witless. The savagery of the Isis personifies all that is promised by an expanding worldwide Islamic threat.

And then there is Putin's Russia.

The encapsulation of American fear though, is painted graphically, starkly, by the nation’s absurd fascination, obsession, with the hand gun.
Everyone has a hand gun, in the car, in the office, in the mall, in the bedroom…..some even strap a hand gun on the hip to go to church.

Americans, first and foremost, fear each other.

Fear of the fear exacerbated by more fear.
Americans live with fear.

M.
Auckland NZ
13 February 2016

Donate to the destitute
Sniff at the rich,
To seek the improbable
Quest is a *****.
Porcine platitudes
Lost to mules
Who ignore good advice
To play us for fools.
Dead giveaway dreamers
Floating on air
Who stroll past pearls
To preen their hair.
Contentious *******
Grind their teeth,
Obsessing with conflict
Asleep on their feet.
Beautiful bodies
Deplored by the boys
Who prefer their own gender
To feminine ploys.
Bearded babies
Found dead in the sand,
Mothers distraught
Militarily grand.
Losing the truth
Is humanity's skill
In removing the just
In the rush for the ****.



Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
5 October 2009

Stringent to lilly livered
Toxic if afraid,
galling to goers
Who thrive on being brave,
Enthralling to observers
Who see finer tones,
And fatal to loiterers
With shrapnel in bones.
Loose lips in the war zone
An anathema to we
Who strive for control
In adversity.
Loose lips in the war zone
A systems relapse,
Which preceeds establishment's
Rapid collapse.


Marshalg
@the bach
11 May 2011

I sit quietly by myself
and let your features drift through my mind,
let the thrill of recollection
stimulate my eyes to wrinkle
in a slow and happy smile.
 
The warmth of intimacy remembered
causes a searing red response
to my glowing personage.
 
Drenched with pusating happiness
am I at having shared so much,
in so short a time,
four days of the happiest Easter that I can recall.
 
My expression fails me
 in my urgent need to tell you
of the excruciating love
you cause me so easily.
I am consumed with the most intense feelings
of sensitive , sweet longing.
Christine, this hurts me so beautifully.
 
My fancy runs to a grassy glade
splashed with deep green shade
and warm April sunshine;
excited children splash amid the stones
of a bubbling creek
and shreik with delight
in their careless fun.
 
To us, scintillating sights and sounds,
a spiritual bond of unhampered, happy humanity
and a grassy sunlit swath of beauty.
Together we sit and warmly enjoy
the conciousness of each others nearness.
 
Smile on my man
for you are loved
by one who, in all truth,
deserves a Prince.
Amble off to bed my friend
for you are tired and happy.
Dream of her
and remember when
In a moment of love,
she did softly whisper
“Happy Birthday my Darling”
 
And, as I recall,
your heart almost burst.
 
Marshalg
Albury
9th April 1969

Bending my brain to a mighty confusion
Casting tangential thoughts back through the years,
Try to come to terms with opposing profusion
From the conquering of Everest to Locherbie’s tears.
From soaring the heights in the conquest of cancer
To scouring the depths of depravity’s bin,
In rescuing pilot pods beached at the isthmus
To severing heads in The Killing Field sin.
How man can conceive of a Monet’s magnificence
Yet “Zeig Heil” the field grey of Germany’s brute,
Whilst fashioning spires of Westminster’s cathedral
To pushing ******* in a blue, pin striped suit?
A tenderness shown to a toddler at bedtime
Depravity’s best when they used Zyclone B,
The grace of His Holiness blessing the children
Hiroshima’s glowing from mountain to sea.

This weft in the weave of the psyche of the people,
This black and the white and the right and the wrong,
As long as he breathes on this beautiful planet
Man’s behavioural leap will determine the song.
The yin and the yan, the fall of the domino
Depicting the way the human mind bends,
The roll of the dice and the fall of the cards
Shall determine the outcome… in the way it all ends.

Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
Auckland
NEW ZEALAND
25th January 2014

Aaargh yes.....
With mighty clap
The Thunderhead with venom breaks.....
And jagged lightning streaks across the sky,
Blindingly, the white flash downward snakes
To impale the earth where frogs, unlucky, die.
Ha!

But...Tantric mumbo-jumbo Joe
Issued from a dribbled lip.
Issued from a tortured mind
Which writhes in phraseology to slip.
....slip between the now and then
Slip between the right and wrong,
confused about reaction to
Our capacity to sing your song.
....that eerie tune of deep lament
Lament for what should be, but won't,
For we is but a subterfuge...
Who says it did but knows it don't.

M.

Murmurings of memories
Whispering in my ear,
Nuances of notions felt
From long ago, so dear,
Nuances of feelings held
From deep within my breast
Like the quiet stroll by lakeside
When love became our quest.

The way our fingers intertwined
That shyness in your eyes,
And the lovely way you giggled
And the way you softly cried,
The gentle touch of fingertips
That time I kissed your palm,
And the glory of the setting sun
Whilst strolling arm in arm.
Running up the golden sand
As white surf swept our feet,
And laughing at the joy of it
The  magic so, so sweet.

And now ….
Those distant murmuring’s
just trickle down the years,
Those nuances of yesteryear
Sweet whispers in my ears.

Marshalg
11 May 2013
Pukehana

It’s very nice in Heaven
     Very gentle underfoot,
     God’s temple is so icy calm
     And that’s conservatively put.

     There’s three flags at the gateway
     They’re there to set the pace,
     Hebrew blue and Moslem green
     Under Christ’s bewhiskered face.

     Hindu’s have got a leg in
     And Zen for Zen’s sake’s there,
     But the Proddies and the Catliks
     Are in dispute as to what is fair.

     Amazing how they bicker,
     The Proddies and the Micks
     You’d think in time they’d sort it out
     Take the Irish…Silly ******!

     Getting back to Heaven…
     The golden pathways there
     With avenues of crystal gems
     To welcome you upstairs.

     And high above a shining light
     Burning in the sky,
     Which symbolizes passion,
     I suppose, or pigs that fly?

    This symbolic high Heaven stuff
     Is very hard to read,
     It could be ornamental
     Or perhaps, exactly what you need.

     One thing’s very certain though,
     When you glide into this place,
     It pays to have a solemn look
     Of seriousness on your face.

     They don’t like silly buggers
     Who joke and act the fool,
     Commitment is the keyword
     And the Bible is the tool.

     Confusing when you get there
     You’re read the riot act
     And threatened with damnation
     If with the Devil you’ve made a pact.

     The heavy condemnation
     The steely searching eye
     And then the tome of absolution
     Because He loves you, so must I ?

     So think upon it brother
     If you think you cut the cloth,
     Then walk right up and wing it
     With the Angels, like a moth.

     But should you have your doubts
     I suggest a quickish about face
     And leg it with the villains
     To that other warmish place.


Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
28 April 2009

Disillusioned, is the word I use
To show you what I know,
When ponderous poets empathize
With undeserved word flow.

Analysis of purpose made
Dissection of the theme,
This superficial commentary
To hints of depth... Unseen.

The need to  taste a stanza's flavour
To roll it on the tongue,
Like merlot spilt on burning stone
In searing midday sun.

Tossed banalities for empty lines,
Back scratching for the crew
Who choose to curry favour
With the elevated few.

Bring forth the real word smith, I say,
Release the razor's knife,
Carve substance to selection's choice
And breathe this site some life.

Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
12 December 2009

Ordinary people
Doing ordinary things
On an ordinary day
Slaughtered,
Suddenly.
Violently.
Causlessly.
Irrationally.
B­rutally.
So that
Jihadists
May salve their lust
For Power
And
Caste havoc
In their own
Misguided image,
...In the name
of their own
Perverted cause.

Allah the Almighty
Surely quails in horror
That they do thus
To the innocent,
In His name?*

M.
15 Nov 2015

Trouble looms on yon horizon
Scan the body language near,
Signs of agitation pending
Thinning lips to eyes of fear.
Perspiration at the temple
Ire suppressed in florid face,
Amplitude of conversation
Hold the stance and maintain grace.
Pace yourself in torrid moments
Stand as though you know you’ll win,
Gird yourself for fiery challenge
Brace the strength you hold within.
Confrontation rears it’s mane
Conflict will now have it’s way,
Gird yourself for battle friend...
Initiate and win the day!
(Or take a breath and walk away.)


Marshalg
@theCoalface
Mangere Bridge
22 October 2009

An ode to my long and satisfying relationship with the product of Portugal’s Douro Valley.

Golden amber, smokey smooth
Rich with pleasured bite
Spreading warmth to ample girth
The brandy’s fine tonight.

Dustless, standing on my shelf
Bathing in half light,
Golden highlights shadow deep
Paints Douro Father's right.

Born amidst the hills of schist
On vines that root in rock
In patterns neat and quite arcane
Of ancient grappa stock.

Old men sit by river barge,
Mustachioed and wise,
To argue politics and sip
God’s amber nectar prize.

Tepid sun is setting low
To throw long shadows tight,
To bathe the vines of soft green tones
In liquid amber light.

Golden spirit, smokey smooth
Glows with silken light
Satisfaction’s spreading warmth
Paints Douro Father’s right.

Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
Sipping a tumbler of amber warmth in New Zealand’s Autumn sunset.
26 March 2012

Blue haze is in the air at dusk
Wet dew descends on grass,
Sunset’s red striations touch
Horizon’s clouds of glass
A heavy silence permeates
With the settling of the day,
And clouds of starlings flock to roost
With nightfall underway.
The homestead paddock’s horses
All graze quietly in the gloom
As evening light turns purple red
To a distant blackbird’s tune.
A golden leafage carpetry
Is spread across the road
And the farmer trudges through it
homeward bound, beneath his load.
The cottage lights are glowing gold
As daylight dwindles now.
The softly spiraled chimney smoke,
The lowing of the cow,
The leafless alder branches
Stretching to a sky of stars
As the chill of late Autumnal
Celebrates the birth of Mars.


Marshalg
In the Autumn leaves
Victoria Park Tunnel
24 April 2010

Portrayed in an artiface
Of long and grey rhymes
Replayed in a video
Of really bad lines
Lost in a tangency
Of bitumen and brick
Tangled in quagmire
Of cigarettes and sick.

Lurching through life
In yesterdays clothes,
Acting the part
That nobody knows,
Chic desperation
Apparent to all
With the certainty
She’s for a terrible fall.

Miasma of moods
Through a *****, blue haze,
Insulting a friend
In an instant of craze,
Sprawled on the street
In a leopard skin skirt,
Makeup awry
Broken nails in the dirt.

Screaming abuse
To the well meaning hand,
Lost, alone
In a drug ridden land,
Fearful of shadows
And clinging to those
Who lustfully use
To so casually dispose.

Blond hair falling
Down over her face
Mascara running
In smears of disgrace,
It’s dangerous to stagger
Through traffic in rain
With lost high heel,
Tear streaked in pain.

Vagrants for company
Hunched in a cell,
Shivering cold
And ****** to hell
In a moment of clarity
And startlingly clear,
A small shimmering hope
Lies so distantly near.


Marshalg
@theCoalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
8th May 2010

What would it be to be a soldierTo seek the God of war,To make your mind a death machineTo long for peace no more.To make your sinew hard as ironYour muscle ripcord tough,To bend your thinking mercy freeYour soul enshrined in rough.Conformity in dress attireMeticulous black shine,The gun oil on your sidearmThat rigid stance in line.The taughtness when you march en massThe crunch of boots on stone,The flash of steel with bayonet thrustThat splash of blood on bone. Your hatred for the enemyA lust for ****** war,Abhorrence for a personal styleJust compliance with the corps.The stare that sees a thousand yardsThe spines are ramrod straight,The disciplined magnificenceThe Corps d’Esprit is great! Afghanistan & GazaMogadishu and TehranThe terror strips are globalAnd they’re hell for beast and man.To imagine you’ll enjoy yourselfIs madness to extreme.If you’ve seen a man's face liquefyIn a flailing shrapnel stream.If you’ve felt the fear of God nearbyWhen tribals mount a charge,With the shriek of “Allah Ahkbar”And the stench of death at large. “See The World”, the poster said“Free Training for a Trade”,Develop stiffness in your spineWith the army you’ll be made.Comradeship, companionshipIs the essence of the force,A fast, pack march of twenty clicksAnd chanting till you’re hoarse.The Sergeant kicks your backsideThe corporal licks your boots,Lieutenant has you dodging leadWhist digging trenching routes.The Major trims his moustacheThe General drives right past,Dismissing all the riffraffWho are well beneath his class. This-is-the-Army All khaki and brassy shine,You get to brandish riflesAnd wear berets when in line.So pull that chin in soldierKeep the thumbs straight when you march,Or we’ll have you peeling spuds or worse,...We’ll ream your young white ****. You wanted to be manlyYou longed to make your mark,You signed up  to be countedNow you're Army, hard and stark.So give it all you’ve got young manBend your back and be a knave,the alternative is purgatoryEngulfed, consumed, enslaved.Now you're in for the durationMake the most of what you’ve gotOr they’ll Court Marshal you tomorrowAnd with pageantry.. YOU'LL BE SHOT!MarshalgMangere Bridge27th April 2008

The die is caste, It’s do or die.
Attack, invade or fold and cry?
Send the hordes across Ukraine
Or sulk with International blame?
The banks are bust, the coffer’s dry,
Friend China’s left him dangling high,
Pro-Russian thugs in full retreat
From Ukraine Army booted feet,
His wagered bet became a farce
When Ukraine howled…”Up your ****!”
His revolution died it’s death
In white hot hatred’s foetid breath.

Decision time… retreat or strike
Fly in the face of world dislike?
Throw caution to the wind, attack
In the knowledge there’s no going back?
Risk global condemnation’s scowl
Or chose humiliation's howl?

Putin writhes in clefted stick
His destiny in cross or tick.

M.
8 August 2014

The blue smoke spirals round me
As I taste the nicotine
And the acid smoke of the tar cheroot
Calms a wild mind to serene.
For this my friend I thank thee
For the balm of your advice,
For the smuggled loot of a good cheroot
In your way of being nice.

For this , my friend, I thank thee
For your ever present arm
A sturdy man to lean on
When the evil-ness does harm.
When the plank of rank misfortune
Falls upon my shaven head,
When the doctor's heavy hand
Writes me off as being dead.

And the blue smoke spirals round me
As the tangled panics clear
And a lung of smoke really calms a bloke
And the tar suppresses fear.
Do you see the complication?
Do you see why I am wild?
Can you see what this is doing
To my poor, dear wife and child?

For this, my friend, I thank thee
For your comforting warm word
And your gentle phrase of frank concern
Was the sweetest I have heard.
But alas, the hard oppression
Has me clawing for my breath
And the weight of my confinement
Has but smothered me to death.

And the blue smoke spirals round me
As I taste the tar cheroot
And the maze of my mind is so utterly confined
That I’ve given hope the boot.
Farewell to bright tomorrows
Farewell to laughter’s peal,
Farewell to the taste of my darlings lips
And how good her ******* feel.

And as blue smoke spirals round me
It’s the bitterness I see,
For the game was lost when the dice were tossed
And what has been, will be.
For you, who stood beside me
I raise my arm’s salute,
As the final smoke deserts me
I stub out the last cheroot.

Marshalg
@thebach
Mangere Bridge
14 September 2011

Howling Gale of Winter moment
Blossom pink from cherry tree,
Driving snow which blankets all
Hot Summer sunset glows for me.
Parched and hassled hens in shadow
Scratch the sand to find the cool,
Starkly solid ice in blueness
White and freezing skating pool.
Green and turquoise in the sunlight
Brilliant hills of verdant shawl,
Autumn tones cascade in colour
Silently the dry leaves fall.
Surging surf parades the beaches
Roiling up the shelly sands,
Lightning strike on green pine reaches
Baking sunshine warms and tans.
Windswept on the dry Sahara
Silently the tree ferns drip,
Alpine streamlets splash in torrent
Hot and parched dry grasses flick.
Honeyed scent in orange blossom
Fills the morning air with bees,
Pollen on the air carousing
Noses twitch and often sneeze.
Globally the seasons vary
Hemispheres of colour thrown,
Glorious in shade and texture
Flavoured by aroma’s own.
All enticing motes of pleasure
Each engaging jolts of joy,
Layerings of seasonal treasure
Mother earth’s artistic ploy.

Marshalg
@theCoalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
13 April 2010

Gone before tomorrow
Is the fellow who insists
That the day of his retirement
Is the workday he resists.

Where he pulls the plug on having
An excuse to leave his bed,
Which escalates the likelyhood
That , perhaps, he’ll soon be dead.

Because...
To lose the joy of purpose
Is to lose the will to try
And when the spirit of endeavour's gone
The soul begins to die.

So do yourself a favour son
Recant on how you play...
Excorcise retirement
And live another day.

Enjoy the flow of living
With purpose at it’s hub
And magnify the meaningful
Yea brother... that’s the rub!


Marshalg
Magnifying the meaningful@the Bach
Mangere Bridge
24 January 2011

Thunder's Rolling drum
Across the churning heavens,
Lightning’s mighty discharges
Flash across the waves,
Illuminating torment
Of a momentary vision
In portraiture of Hades,
A kaleidoscope of craze.

Hard rain horizontal
In howling gale of deluge
Revealed momentarily
In silver sheets of rain,
Writhing tongues of lightning
In jagged forks a-searching,
An instantaneous funeral
Through a million volts of pain.

Standing at the cliff edge
In the drenching after midnight
Fearful pulses racing
In the violence of the storm,
Spectator to the vastness
Of Devil’s work unleashed here
Spectator to a fearsome sky
Where the Gods of Wrath were born.*

Marshalg
Witnessing the most spectacular, violent lightning and thunderstorm immediately adjacent to my hilltop front door in Taranaki @ midnight..
11 April 2014

Notice how the whisper dies
When strangers near a gathered few,
How laughter dwindles in the air
Where yesterday, free breezes blew.
Our public forums disappear
Like dominoes, they fall in turn
And each in turn consumes a truth,
Like ******* in a flame they burn.

And everyone’s opinion fades
As nervous glances flit the room,
A menace in the silence felt
As whispers hush, suspicion looms.
The banks call in the mortgages,
The Cops demanding hard
The language of the press subdued
And every one’s on guard.

And the failing economies
Across the whole globe,
And contrived **** happening
With oil price hikes disrobed.
Grinning cartel monopolies
Who manipulate fare
To cause catastrophic collapse
In the market elsewhere.

Government’s tone has altered
From homilies of home,
(God bless our land & honour the flag)
To harsh Corporate drone.
Big Money’s in the mix you see,
Pharmaceuticals and Big Oil
And the Military have the casting vote
In cashing up the spoils.

How has it all come to this ?
Where have our freedoms fled ?
If they ever really did exist
Were they... only in my head ?
Restricted private ownership
With travelling curtailed,
And the information black out
Shows the freedom press have failed.

But the repetitious broadcasts
Which they want us all to hear,
And the droll propaganda
Which confuses the  ear,
Those brainwashing dogma’s
Which stifle the mind,
Oppressing the rational
To keep we souls aligned.

Why, my friend,
On this bright summer’s day
Should my heart be bleeding
It’s freedoms away ?
Who sanctioned oppression,
Who opened the gate,
To admit the dark forces
Who thrive on the hate ?


Marshalg
Feeling the vibe of what is beginning out there...EVERYWHERE!
AUCKLAND
20 February 2011

A sadness has come over me
As I pass this corner bye,
A junction on the highway,
A lonely cobalt sky.
A sodden pale blue teddy bear
Stands pinioned to a cross
And the glassy glint in Teddy’s eyes
Transfix a sense of loss.

The traffic whizzes past this point
Most people fail to see
The sadness manifested
In his glassy stare at me.
The sadness of a lost young soul
Who failed to take the bend,
Who with his motor cycle crash
Did meet his Maker’s end.

I know not why he died so young,
I know not why he sped.
But know I do, the child like love
He felt for his blue Ted.
The sadness of a pale blue Ted
When pinioned to a cross
Stands sodden on a lonely road
Invoking tears of loss.

Marshalg
At Blue Ted Corner
Highway 20
Taranaki
14 August 2012

Some years  ago, there was a Mensa convention in San Francisco .  
Mensa, as you know, is a national organization for people who have an  IQ of 140 or higher.








Several of  the Mensa members went out for lunch at a local cafe.   When  they sat down, one of them discovered that their salt shaker contained  pepper, and their pepper shaker was full of salt.     How could they swap the contents of the two bottles woithout spilling  any, and using only the implements at hand?   Clearly   --  this was a job for Mensa minds.








The group  debated the problem and presented ideas and finally, came up with a  brilliant solution involving a napkin, a straw, and an empty  saucer.






They called  the waitress over, ready to dazzle here with their  solution.






"Ma'am," they  said, "we couldn't help but notice that the pepper shaker contains  salt and the salt shaker  --  "




But before  they could finish,..........

the waitress  interrupted.   "Oh  --  sorry about  that."


She leaned over the table, unscrewed the caps of  both bottles and switched them.








The was dead  silence at the Mensa table.