as sure as every morn when the rays wade into the nights receding
the traffic lanes build up closely
and from all streams one  by one they crawl
on their four round wheels into spidery webs of white lines
heading to the city where their lives have become entangled
by the frailties of living.

Little kids crying and scrubbing butter on test testing
patience and time and reluctance to head to school
that boring daily task of learning little
from tired teachers, working towards an overcrowded
weekend mauled by paper tigers and red tick marks.

I too, join the spilling  web towards city
where scholars who know everything that
should be known from the wider world
invade the cafeteria with frizzy coke and custard pies
and armed with massive heavy books saunter
off to numbered classrooms and halls
to get educated. I dread the latecomer
who looks askance at me and with disdain
when I question punctuality.

The day unfolds as we weave in and out
of technological wonders, bringing sense
to  the complex throb of learning that entraps us.

I race home at 3, checking my phone for all
the days signposts of my location and living.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11594853-rush-hour-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.itJTgZiN.dpuf

hey you
up against the wall
keep your hands behind you back
walk now nice and slow
ok ok
down on the floor. you *****.

what's this you have under the seat
smoking paraphernalia?
you know what the law says about drug use?
no sir, officer,
shut up I didn't ask you to answer.

where's you dad
wait till I get some details on you
you been in this business for awhile- uh uh

no sir
see this packet here my boy
one press of the trigger
and you are history

wheres your mama boy?
dead sir, dad too, three brothers
and my granpappy

what happened
accident
police chase rammed into them

oh yeah?

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11593131-oh-yeah--by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.kfLIO49n.dpuf

we climbed sideways up the steep mountain
fighting chill winds and caressing our goose pimples
as we reached the summit
where the views may have been like what jesus
saw on the mount
with the devil in attendance.

I will give you all this land
if your worship me, he said.

on a hungry belly things happen,
like skyscrapers full of food
and ***** dancing girls on tables
beckoning you to sin.
tomorrow has no promises
and thirst is a sip away in a stream
way down below.

as we sat at the tip we
looked down and felt how small
we were against this mountain,yet
balancing on a ***** as fragile
as yesterdays dream of plenty
we fell silent. miniscule.

the journey down raked up strange philosophies
of god and man and whoever created this
world from a pinpoint as dense as the emptiness
of our understanding of creation.

Once down we washed those questions
with pints of beer
and loud music and went home
satisfied we had, had a good day
climbing mountains and majesty.

my best friend never forget that day
when ten years later he said:
we were smaller then...
It must have worried him for a whole decade
that he had a question with no useful answers.

Author Notes

This is a real story. My friend joined a monastery just to find out how he saw himself in Gods creation. Even after a lifetime of learning, it bothered him that in the big scheme of things he was just a dot. Yet, he felt getting closer to the truth, was more satisfying than climbing any other mountain, once gain.
All it took was trip up a hillside.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11591928-mountain-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.6KphPWCY.dpuf

I wondered where you were
at this time of night
snuggled in a dream of little babies
wrapped around yourself
and chocolate biscuits courting tea
with the waiting for  tomorrow.

I wondered what you'd be doing
alone near a fireplace
stretching your arms to the warmth
and sighing with relief
that I will be home on a late flight
to hold you close again
to carry the weight of your worries
of sleepless nights.

I wondered if you'd miss me
as much as I would crave you
my world a winter of loneliness
your time a summer of silence.

I wondered if I'd ever told you
the we were designed opposites
in age and magic numbers
yet we compensated for the difference
with our give and take..

Is it no wonder
that all the lights of Paris
would not be equal
to the one sparkle in your eye
when I finally reach home.

Author Notes

Real and happening. Another love story with lights.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 6 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11590319-late-night-call.....-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.7r9e1jSw.dp­uf

power rises in the production
deep in intangible factories
churning digestive juices into valuable
spittle
extracted through death in a warm bowl
battling with tweezers and collected
in spools to make silken wonders

for this you lived on leaves
gorged on mulberry
to vanish in a pillowcase
silkscarf, maybe a tie
poor thing whoever discovered
your intestinal value

give up your secrets
gut wrenching rainbows of delight.
man knows how to breed you for himself
somehow.

Author Notes

silk production happens this way.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago

you on a continent climbed
into the hollow of a sacred tree.
me
on an island climbed into your continent of symbols
together we found the Black Eagle
and apple juicies
clock towers striking 5.10pm
roads leading out of ice box cages
into the wild yonder where
meteors lit the sky with meaning
and shooting stars sprinkled
stardust on our words

I offered you that kiss
and cuddled you back!

There was nothing else I could  do
when trapped in destiny,
but sync with your heartbeat
and write you 57 poems
explaining the meaning of love
and  oceans of distance.

Even as time ticks
we will crawl into a tepee
and cherish these moments
of separation.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 6 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11588370-you-on-a-continent-climbed.....-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.­8ajbLeUM.dpuf

I reached deep into a pocket of words and assembled
you in perfect shape
eyes and lips and slender shoulder neatly placed
in exact position and then I kissed you
to breathe life back into me.

As each part moved in exact rhythm
ticking with precision I realised
that we made each other as a reflection
of a dream that was embossed with gold lettering.

Whenever the batteries ran low
I asked for your pulse and you willingly
shared power, and sprinkled it with laughter
and wonder and words of endearment
until I became so used to each single poem
in your repertoire of symbolic dialects.

Two seasons later we know
that clockwork emotions roll and tumble
with the same words that created
love between us.

Author Notes

One.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11585814-I-reached-deep-into-a-pocket.........-by-Marshall-Gass#s­thash.s4ECNwVy.dpuf

The city is slick with neons winking
at unwary pedestrians
inviting wallets into opening up
credit cards and false dreams
of luxury. Few care about seduction.

The rain drops gently
scattering sparkles
that nobody cares about. None.

at 5pm
the only interesting pathway is
home. All.

Day pulls its shutters close
and the nightlights
imitate day.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 days ago

One little sparrow rounded the corner of the house
and tweeted its way down the electric wire
until it came close to the spilt grain patch.

its undecided fluttering swoop an inch closer
dancing on its slender legs curled tightly around
the wire, ti balanced with its tail flaring in the breeze
head bobbing this way and that but

one eye firmly fixed on the morsels of grain
the other watching competition. Joined by
another chirpy companion our brave sparrow
suddenly found herself with strength building.

Together they flitted  in the down draft
and announced their seed war on humans
with loud chirps and flutters, but bent at the knees
in case urgent flight was necessary. It wasn't needed

I ignored them completely looking away, but
the corner of my eye, absorbed the terrain completely.
I  conjectured that the second chirper said to the first:
'yeah, I know this guy. He sits here looking at things
in his free times, and watching birds all day!

He has that cellphone that deceptively tweets
bird sounds, and whistles  when he gets emails.
Come on, girl, lets grab a feast, while he's busy
writing about us. He will leave us alone for a while'

Author Notes

Bird-watching is a great hobby. Sparrows know?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 9 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11583510-The-lone-sparrow.-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.G14ILmff.dpuf

a stray row of marigolds
defied autumns call
straggled along a fence
leading to a gate
where a burlesque woman
spoke gently to a cow.

the brazen marigold patch
clung cleverly to the winds shadow
and stayed put
until sons in seeds matured
and laughing at the woman
fenced in by the cow

split its pods
and withered as winter clutched
the surrounding grass verge
and neatly stapled fence
posts at internals
as sturdy as the seasons

the seeds burrowed deep
and waited for spring to pull
the tender hearts from the earth
learned from its parents.

spring will have a bigger clutch
of marigolds this coming sunshine.

Author Notes

so is life. clinging desperately to the fateful fence, braving all distractions.
the young and restless will inherit the earth.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11582732-marigolds-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.nLO2q91g.dpuf

we were made for love
searching in the littlest corners for every message
seeking solace even in the silence
sighing when the words spill out on viber
or whatsapp, sweet words that mean so much
and yet we have oceans roaring between us
closing the distances, and mountain ranges
and majestic trees and deep green valleys
and cobalt skies and turquoise silks
of language that spell complex meaning
and little, little things that mean heartbeats
like monarch butterflies gracing to the winds caress
and a hundred thousand songs that each time we listen to
means new passion.

thats what love is
and we were made for it
the may december meeting
that never seems to fade away
and how i treasure those few minutes
in a day which lights up the lamp of  our knowing.

we were made for love
there is no other explanation
on why this works so well.

if we ever found different journeys
imagine what a wasteland it would create
for either of us.

we were made for love......

Author Notes

its true.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 9 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11581979-we-were-made-for-love...-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.PTzQwhm­t.dpuf

Nimble fingered she scaled high mountains
teary eyed swam in delicate balances of mozart
saint saens, beethoven, schubert, unmindful
that i watched in awe and grace at her aquiline features
melting in those crescendos of throbbing chords
and intricate switches between registers of scales.

i struggled to keep the pace, tame the tempo,
feel the texture and tone, sing in my heart
that which felt pure crystalline diamonds
sparkling at an evenings lesson. I went faithfully
every two days just to watch and wonder
at the magic she spun with her fingers.

No orchestra ever came close to this feeling
no symphony ever beat its pulse in my passion
as this piano tutor did.

Did she play alone for me,
for somebody else
or held a conversation with the masters
while I watched  as a witness?

The only time she ever played chopin,
and the minute waltz
the tears rolled down freely
from both our cheeks.

'thank you, sir,  for listening'
she said smiling
' you alone made an audience
of a hundred and fifty'

Author Notes

She was beautiful.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11580746-The-piano-tutor......-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.yW3jTCNC.d­puf

The fog rolls in billowing ******* open buttons undone
searching for those little crevices to hide
bringing the chill sensation of  a long sad winter
copying the slow warmth of duvets
and dreams woven in magic.

The fog will lift again someday and fly
into wide open spaces of freedom
testing the air for strength
climbing high over despondency
and solitude to a near heavenly spiral
where waits redemption.

Come now
dont let the darkness make you lonely
capture the light from the clouds
and spread the white light symbolism
into all your being until complete.
Let the fog pass.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago

as slow as the heart beats
in a void of no feeling
so does life breathe
in a space with no air

even as the sounds emanate
and the echo returns
from the void of months of waiting
so does understanding

i sit here
under this atomic tree
lost in a whirlwind of  explanations
unable to tune in.

stilled by the  seeds of contemplation
my mind finds a new river
that froths in its fury of  journeys
and settles into a calm stream.

i wait here for the oceans solace
and the escape from the turbulence
of knowing the words of the world
and the silence that resides in me.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 12 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11578157-silence-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.3qXsvg5X.dpuf

The serrated edges of the arc of reason cut deep
into the normal daily fabric of living
and strange unwelcomed thoughts spill over
into the uncontrollable urge to be
medicated and managed by those
who do not understand the demons
that reside within-
people not invited  stay longer than dinner time
and that which was once normal
becomes a cascade of fear.

It was time to take the pill
keep the cages locked
control the fright and frailty
walk in the sunshine yet feel the ice
wake in the morning and feel night
dance in the town hall-feel the distance
and wear my heart on a sleeve.

I know
She will survive the strange voices
worship after the sun and sand
and walk in the light from the shadows
and sleep in the arms
of tenderness and love
fly with the angels of happiness
when life is ready to accept her
into arms waiting for  the comfort
she so deserves.Be blessed.




Author Notes

To a very special friend, who fought these very demons, everyday, and is now rising from the ashes of a long, long nightmare. I just want to say to you-that there is hope in everything. You are blessed.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 13 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11577005-Trauma-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.f7Vpmdgv.dpuf

I could have shied away from the glassy worm
attaining nirvana at the bottom of this drink.
But no, it was hard to resist
especially when the night needed fire
and dancing girls to swing the music bending
in that savage twist and turn hips pulsating
lips pouting and hips thrusting
in that primal passion for evening song.

Ten down and arabian mexican twilights
defying the tranquility of thinking
the sunset stirred the fires and the embers
glowed red with swollen passion.

I joined in the circle of wiggling
sinner pelvic girdles, raw and beautiful
uncaring of the language that radiates
with music and 80 per cent proof
of dynamite, once past the vocals.

The morning found us wrapped
against the waves constant fingers
lapping at our senses
as we woke to the sunshine of naked bodies
fumbling for protection against the bright
lights of excess libido. We wrote new memories
and mammaries that summer holiday.

Author Notes

Holiday of excess?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 15 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11574206-Tequila-and-Temptation.-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.ByRaDdDZ­.dpuf

we will take our fires
to light the stars
and paint the horizons
with its flames of red

and from the ashes
we will rise again and again
with phoenix wings
to soar the heavens
searching for the real meaning
of love.

We will take our fires
to the icy polar winds
if we ever feel the chill
of not knowing
what love means.

we will take our fires....

Author Notes

Simple and adorable, trying to create imagery opposing each other.
Indian Poets did a great job of poems like this.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11569677-We-will-take-our-fires...-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.TJvWEH­7g.dpuf

the atomic seed enveloped in the universe
presents reality in material *******

unknown to us the ideal shadow adheres itself
within the pod invisible yet known

the two weights balancing on the fulcrum of life
must swing either way to watch and wander

this journey from beginning to end
birth to death continuum. we are dead

even before birth. The clock ticks gently
between being and un-being. we decide.
Author Notes

We present ourselves in material form as visible beings. This is reality in a physical form. Yet we have an idealistic side on the other half of the coin which is shows who we are- idealism. Put simply: what we are/who we are.

Therefore, life itself can 'balance' only between these two 'weights' on the fulcrum of life itself. The moment we are born we are also dying- based on this perception.  We were never born or never die!

Theoretically, we are not really born or dead, but just a continuum in the greater scheme of things 'universe'. Materialism cannot exist without Idealism or vice versa.

Once we  recognise this fact, all the answers of existence unfold.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11568576-Seed-Pod-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.uS4NVdZN.dpuf

Autumn has slowly left
Winter just jostled in
Rusty leaves reminders.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 20 days ago

Its winter here and clutching at warmth
and woollen jackets that once seemed silly
when the sun conquered the day, I recall another winter
not so long ago when the mood was mixed
up in happiness.

The lady was back from her sojourn to warmer places
and suntanned and *****
she arrived at the office in a summer swirl
with  the rest of us beaten down with low temperatures
rates hikes and interests climbing over budgets.

The swirl  lasted long all winter and regaled
by stories of men with brawn and fat wallets
we listened quietly as the tales
unfolded.
Winter set in when the wallets crumbled
and the interest rates chewed up next holiday.

We worked all winter
for a week in the sunshine of the family.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 20 days ago

The other side of joy is pain, the dark shadow that lurks
As joy resonates its fullness and draws you into its embrace.

Joy flourishes in abundance unknowing of the meanings
while pain waits patiently to bring you down when not watching

So is Love, that soars above all other reason and rests in clouds
of ecstasy, mindful of the elation and splendour and euphoria

aware that pain stands nearby, watching and waiting ever for slight
tumble that he may walk in and toss his horns about your wonder

and unsettle you as much as he can. But Pain also makes Joy
feel better, more fulfilled and last longer and more understanding.

So it is with life and love and longing all sides of the coin
that we toss high into the air to clasp and cuddle, waiting anxiously

to see what surrenders. Heads or Tails? No matter. The other side
stays underneath waiting passively for the next toss.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11561422-Coin-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.HeNufYzd.dpuf

Its those little things so sweetly said, the firelight
captured in a moment and bringing a twilight
into sharp focus as the evening spills its wonders
on our day.

Its those things we knew that existed between us
not spoken, not proclaimed or shouted yet
the signs and symbols, gathered day by day
until we were sure we were reading the signals right.

Its the way we understood how we were inextricably
intertwined in some strange magical spell
that came upon us unexpectedly and drew
us into that same circle of knowing.

Maybe it was the voice, the words, the visuals
maybe it was the differences that found solutions
in the knowing, because it seemed built
on  a mountain of moments with memories
that spiralled us into whirlpools of love.

Even now, as we hold tight together
in this knowing we look back at the journey
we undertook in the knowing.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11552909-Its-the-knowing....-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.LnQVkWk4.dpu­f

The solstice sun emerges from behind a cloudburst
of emotions, sweeping the vales of isolation with light.
Unbeknown, within  the shadow of questions
lie impregnable fortresses with insurmountable odds
making every step a conquest of arduous insight.

We arrived at a point driven by relentless
unforgiving  forces.
far beyond the journeys we ever undertook
cascading in 33 waterfalls of knowing
yet unknowing of meanings and symbols.

In the silence of night before sleep captures
our imaginations and tumbles our dreams
in the dishwasher of sanity: I want to know this?

Did you, for even a split second kiss
understand
that our lives are turbo-charged with horizons
that hyperlinked to the beyond where nothing
can be explained as easy as it happened?

We were bruised and beaten in some
raging  fiery furnace on an anvil
where our silk-like flames merged and moulded
our thinking into a cartwheel of meaning
that rolls on a road to somewhere.

Yet we have no map to plot the next journey
into the Twilight Zone!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago

Jostling on the sidewalks of a  busy street
I was absorbing every face for a stand out feature
to invest in chapter 23 of my new novel.

None appeared, look as I might
the world was busy today and people
were moving with their minds safely tucked
in deep folds of thoughts, lost within themselves,
unable to let anyone else peer into their prisons
or open a small window for me to look in.

Then he appeared before a huge glass window
this reflection
this plain face all wrinkled and worn
with walking the streets, looking for ecstasy
and pain and joy and thrill and eyes wide open
hoping to catch a glimpse of his best character
to embed in his novel.

I looked long and hard, sketching these features with my mind
looking deep in this soul, watching those eyes
move this way and that,
his hands in his pockets
hair tousled, shirt buttons undone
and his heart filled with hope.

In that split second
I saw me!
And walked away to continue writing
Chapter 24.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 12 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11576667-Caricature-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.gqRWhQzQ.dpuf

through the fog
the headlights of awareness
search for eyes approaching
maybe brown and bursting
dark skin hues
of continents unknown

i stand here
counting galaxies
in an endless sky
where your numbers
come up 33 times
through mystical forces
draw me down to earth
where i once planted a seed
to grow, reach and search
beyond  all arcs of reason
and bring back meaning.

illusion still remains
undeciphered in the thirst
of waiting.

where are you?
who are you?

Author Notes

Mystical and metaphysical. The number 33 seems to pop up at unexpected places, dreams and people and I don't understand what that really means or why it is so. Someone will comment.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 16 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11571008-33-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.vDtOeybV.dpuf

You are ten thousand pieces in perfect symmetry
I am just about right there with some irregular ones
yet we mesh and melt in perfect unison
moving shuffling dancing doing thinking
with clockwork precision.

Each piece reflects a bigger you and my shadow
lurks comfortably behind watching as you
transform and translate everything to fit  in snugly
balancing it all against the light.

We are soulmates, no questions asked
the answers lay in reflective puddles all around us
as we gather ourselves and ride the furnace
taking the sunlight into our twilight years!

We can't let the pieces fall out of place in this jigsaw
that came together unexpectedly from a blur
and formed into one gigantic whole.
If ever it came about that one little piece may
go missing, we know that the other can fill in
to complete the picture back into its photoframe
of the mantelpiece of our lives.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 17 days ago

There were capital letters
shouting at me from every corner
of the page where I huddled
at the last knockout blow:
YOU ARE NUTS!

Love has a funny way of expressing itself
it lurks silently in photographs,
one-liners, red faces, swear words
and internet roses gripping and clipping
memories and magic into tight little *****
of lust and longing
less spoken more said
and peeks out of its quiet hiding place
now and again. That's love?
Its never sudden but slow and casual
and funny and faint and building
block by block until it feels complete.

At last when the windows are installed
we can look in or out
and feel secure by the four walls
that were built by bricks of words
that sat tightly embracing each other
to keep us safe in its cocoon.

I think everyone wants to hear it
spoken softly or shouted.
As for me
I like them like the knock-out blow
in CAPITALS!
I LOVE YOU.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11567359-Capitals--by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.5mDyY9ne.dpuf

In the darkness that dispels all hope
we fumble with meaningless insight.
What we said does not relate to what we want
and yet we embrace  boundaries to punish ourselves
with unnecessary hells. Languishing in the thought
that silence will answer these loud questions.

We love because we are created to love
unconditionally.We hate because we don't understand
what vast oceans of meaning lie in love.
Silence may answer  the ascetics
monastic and contemplatives but
rarely an equation for relationships.

When its grey it rains tears of knowing
where we belong and to whom we belong
in the worlds whole people. Love binds us all
in this understanding fabric of contemplation.

Yet in the darkness we find solitude
and hope in the isolation of reason.
The silence between the drumbeats
announces the rhythm of the song.

We walk in silence
yet celebrate without it.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11566249-Grey-Skies-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.8dgLQUr8.dpuf

You didn't say you loved men with suits
dressed as barflys, buzzing around the counter
for that one last drink. Home a memory slushed
in ice cubes and excuses.

You didn't say either, you needed a sunday church- goer
dressed in a grey suit of psalms and canticles
and ropes of revelation wonders
which would send you scampering to the pages
of eternal life, wisdom and penitence.

You didn't say that you wanted a one-eyed wonder
with the other eye permanently fixed
on butts and guts, ***** and tubes
and one night stands in a circus tent
of  innuendos.

You did say, however, that you wanted
a quiet life, of roses and candlelight dinners
and wine chilling in a bucket of excuses
of fun and frolic and fame
and when I married you,
you danced the night off
in satin, confetti and cake and whatever
and I admired your mother
in her wonderful
up
lifting
dress.

I married right.

Author Notes

Joking.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 23 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11561722-Ceremony-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.UDj0xs1j.dpuf

The splinter  pain
it just sat there, tingling

as if, unconcerned
small and below deck

like fibreglass invisible
I could not do a thing

until I removed the sensation
of a sting from its new home

stray words stick deeper
to the bone. I struggled for a week

a walk in the woods solved
the sensation the tingling
replaced by tingling.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 26 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11557971-Tingling-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.snFFe3Fn.dpuf

To the centre of city, its a four laned highway
with cars zipping up on the southbound lanes.
I am northbound towards the sun
where it streams down watching us racing
to early morning appointments

I wonder
How many people must be watching the road with one eye
and next door drivers with the other
and the ones on the right, by instinct,
always in a hurry to grab those 3 meters of vacant
space, only to get stalled a little further up
by an old lady following
the intricate road rules of speed.

Cruising along is a survival thing
one wrong turn or twist
and the ambulance will need to scrape
the remnants of you from the road
police sirens wailing
and rubber-neckers keen to see
who was the *** that didn't learn
to survive in a race to the finish!

Thank God  I've survived
another journey to the centre
of the city
(not the earth!)
If I don't keep my attention on the road
I may be the one
being scraped off the road.

Author Notes

Happens everyday at 7am and 3pm. Each day going down or returning is a lucky day. All it will take is one small mistake.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago

ten men fishing
on auckland wharf
all with thin fibreglass rods
just that exact distance
(made in china)
all watching each others baits
bobbing in the silver sheen
no one watching his own sinker
bobbing

one twitches down the line
a reel swishes
reeling in
nine men watching intently now

20 cm struggling catch
not much, so back it goes.
a bronze whaler
slinking slowly
under twenty pairs of dangling feet
decides
the distance was too much
to crunch a man for snack

quietly slinks
to the opposite shore
where she senses
feet splashing on a shallow beach.

primitive.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11438556-the-fishermen-on-the-wharf-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.HWKsl­wYM.dpuf

six decades later i'm still saying
i've read the bible
not really. it was too big a tome
to start with and to read along like a novel.

yes, there were lots of little stories
that were drilled into us as guidelines
to a better life
but now at the *** end of life
these stories have worn thin
with the changing of the times. thank god.

all of us are prodigal sons in some way
wallowed with pigs
spread our wantonness
swore and cussed
been adulterous
broken every commandment
(except ******).
and lived unholy lives
when measured against biblical yardsticks.

so be it.
imagine a world without sinners.
can you?
me? for sure, i am  a sinner
my yardstick is eternity long.




Author Notes

Yep.I own up. I was grinning when I wrote this poem. Just this morning I had two lovely people wander up to my doorstep, telling me where I was so wrong in my belief. I listened for a while. Then gave up. They had a colourful magazine, nice colourful ties and pink rosy cheeks too! But they were trying to change my pagan ways to their side of the fence of thinking.

I thought it was too late. As someone who knows how long his biblical yardstick is, there was really no point. I could argue till the cows came home and it wouldn't work. So, blah blah.blah.

They said what they had to say, i listened, now more convinced that the world is full of jokers like me!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11437496-the-yardstick-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.6P7TaJez.dpuf

‘Im taken’
She said nonchalantly.
No I wasn’t shattered or heart broken
It was the way smart women described
their final journey to the altar
Good on them for being so positive.

I'm told life was a breeze for them.
for a few years, that is.
Roses and red wine, vintage art
cruises along the Mediterranean
Two kids growing sweetly and
A social circle of upmarket
Ittle finger protruding mates & maidens
who spoke queens English
and had upturned noses.

Tut Tut…
he had a roving eye.

They soon fought in the courts
and on the streets
at home and by the seaside.
The friends vanished
The wine evaporated
and the little fingers all folded in.

I met her again, a decade later.
At the railway station
( I usually like to travel home
with friendly people)

“Helllooooo” she cooed
“And how you been?”
“Good” I am a man of few words.

She looked tired.
My gym mates forced me
to get some abs & some new skin
I was alone and happy.
Not willing to fall over with any more full figures.

Miss Taken got off one station earlier
I carried on regardless.
In hindsight my words were not enough
to stir up any  heat or dust from the past.
I just watched as the train whistled out of the station

Miss Taken wiggled her way home. Alone.

Author Notes

Another bedtime story. "and they lived happily never after'?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11440353-Miss-Taken-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.mslV4Gah.dpuf

My friend bought a shipping container
for a thousand quid.
He cut some windows and doors
latched with solid hinges
even cut a sun roof
toilet outlets
and drop down bed of metal strips
all so well engineered.

he was the only guy I knew
who sat on his roof to sip his beer
moved his house around from beach
barbecued his pork chops on a drop down
makeshift oven
and slid out of bed when fed
and made love on a hot tin roof!

The storms and gale force winds
passed him by -knowingly
and floods and foundations
did not move him around one inch.
He was a happy man.At times he joked about the fountains
( he actually said funtains!)
that he sometimes got inside in a heavy downpour.

But us idiots
ran to the bank to pay mortgages
and **** up to the manager
when the interest rates hit the roof.

My friend laughed and laughed
while the rest of us cried
working for the bank.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11442130-Shipping-Container-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.Y9Brd3Rm.dpuf­

The machine can only tell the truth
spit receipts( sometimes out on the street)
calculate how much your worth
and make you blush
if your bank account is below expectations.

Each time I stand before the Master
punching secret numbers
searching my memory bank for the last figures
I left behind
I am apprehensive and afraid
the ATM may punch back at me.

There is a long Q at the back of me
and the people that know their value
often shuffle the most.
Its us poor guys that must endure the pain
of exposure.

One of these days I going to tell
the teller in the ATM that my value
is more than just dollars and sense!
Thank you. I'm out of the q now with
twenty bucks. Phew!
Author Notes

These days I am writing poems of ordinary things. Bus Tickets, ATMs, Cellphones, Railway Tracks, Mr and Mrs Ordinary and all things that keep us attached to life and living. There's more around us than what we care to notice.

As a past time, I sit on a street bench and watch people as they go about their daily lives. The odd one deserves a poem. Thank you.

My last series covered Revolutions and Power. This series will cover Ordinary.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

I knew him well. Ten years attached to his clinic
like a stethoscope dangling with ailments
I knew the carpet threads
The old painting on the wall
The posters on rheumatic fevers
Pains in the chest, nurses call
And the vague smell of antiseptic cream
Liberally applied over every visitors hands

I knew all those dangly instruments and probes
Designed in the middle ages
And given a stainless shine just now
Bright and sparkling.

I knew his receptionist too quite well
Her big *****, had just a button undone
But I had xray vision and a sharp brain to imagine
Tropical island and coconuts

I knew his voice, his signature
His way of asking questions
And his way of checking the big fat book
Of pills and potions that held his practice together

Every time he called my name out
In the reception area
He always said it funny:
The Gass rhymed with a donkey
And never with a glass.
( I corrected him many times)
But as old as he was his memory could not hold
my correct name for more than 3 seconds. He won.

On leaving his clinic, I always wished
The Tropical Islands goodbye-and winked
That 'just cured wink' like I knew
how to collect coconuts!
It never worked in ten years
But hope is not a medical condition. Thank you.

Author Notes
Ha ha.
Please check out ISBN 9781493137848-  my new book published last night. The Trilogy is better than all the poems I ever wrote. Unashamedly, promoting my book, currently on Amazon.Com and soon on all e-books.

Thank you.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

She was fluffy like a cotton ball, as cute as a summer salad
but she had a vicious bark. It rang out loud across the street
and got your teeth on edge, all the time.

My cat played innocent. She was cute too.
Somehow she had learned to walk along the fence
uncaring little beauty
got  this shrieking, frisky little pom
jumping up and down and snarling
at poor little Tiggy. My innocent Tiggy.

There was nothing I could do
to train Tiggy to behave.
She hated dog biscuits, hated being disturbed
while she steadily walked along the fence
and never came home until she did the same trick
a few time each evening.

That's what you call a catwalk.
Brave, majestic, brutal! ****  Tiggy.

The day I went over to complain to the neighbour
about the dog barking. She looked at me long and hard.

"It was your cat that was barking"
I scratched my head and walked home defeated.
Lesson number 1: Never argue with a womans logic!
PomCat, TomCat or RomCat. They always win.

Author Notes
www.amazon.com/Chrysanthemum-Trilogy-Part-Transition ISBN 9781493137848

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Pharmacist with the funny face
I’m not sure how the lines were etched
and set in place across a severe brow
like storms had raged and winters chill
had set the frozen expression
into an acid dipped contour.

Each time I went with a prescription
to collect remedies for a cough and cold
a limp here
a sore there
some racing bp charts
an erring heart muscle.
His face remained stoic.

His face alone would frighten me
as pale as death he looked at me
over the rimmed glasses
and just that one second longer
than necessary.

My guilt soared. I felt like an addict
come into store to fetch
a high kick of something
suspicion hidden under the GPs scrawl.

I dared to look back
flushing red at his store.
It became a battle of the blush.

Twice I won
And never went back for a whole six months
Is he the guy that protects our streets
from the throaty lozenge
that may contain crack *******
hidden in its entrails? I dont know
but I always felt he had a secret sleeve
from where he pulled out those potions!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

All he could see were numbers
that reached out and grabbed taxes
and takes, invoices and expenditures.
He could not see explanations of delight
that little mistake I made with fringe benefits,
those royalties that never came.
In the end his only concern was to pay the taxes
to build the roads, skyways and airports
where he would travel and stay.

I wondered how he slept at night
cocooned in numbers
just 1-9 with a hefty zero
that made the difference between rich and poor

I wondered how he could survive on numbers
no cucumbers, sunshine salads, beach beauties,
high waves of reckless living, low tides of penniless nights
and endless days of counting little many times over.

He said to me once: Save every cent,
fortify yourself against depression and
natural disasters, don't spend lavishly
there's a price to pay
cut up your credit card. Live austerely.

Oh yeah?. That same day I got an extra CC,
a nice Merc, some good looking sunglasses
(to shield my eyes from the accountants glare)
and a cruise to the Mediterranean
where the blue waters beckoned.

The accountant visited the GP
twice more than me that year.
I'm still working the fat off at the gym.
( I suspect petty poets do the same thing all the time?)
Author Notes

Anyone know this guy?

Check this Novel out!

The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition
Marshall E Gass
ISBN 9781493137848

The writings done the baby born
five months of painful paragraphs and haunted
by commas and full stops, scenes emerging from
insidious places and characters being polished
or demolished with uncanny accuracy
scenes unfolding and moving slowly
though transient prose and articulate poetry
down twenty nine chapters
and a hundred thousand words
telling a story of gripping interest
I finished at last.

The galley arrives in a red cardinal cloak
of crystallised chrysanthemums
graced by a beautiful girl
who smiled demurely at the photographers asking
and the flash captured her radiance
for the book cover.

Done at last and out to market she now goes
driving experts around with crafted
tricks to sell the books through any means
and make a buck for themselves.

Here I sat in this warm paperbag writing space
carving words in an endless stream
enjoying the river gathering
not allowing to burst its banks
and cause floods of words
and unnecessary meanderings
keeping the water tight within the dam
of chapters and structures
so readers could enjoy a careful
display of novelty and task
as they read every line looking for
the essence of the language
some searching for faults
others for ecstasies.

There are two more books to spit and polish
and send them packing to the editors
who will take a magnifying glass to demystify
the populated characters.

The power built up from being on this site
reading a hundred poems a day for 4 long
months and absorbing all the richness
and variety that hundreds
had to offer.

My time here is done.
Now I must move on to write
the Magnum Opus.

Author Notes

Check out my first Novel: The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition

on www.Amazon.com/author/marshallgass

ISBN 9781493137848

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

the hand you touched
my dear
in the darkness
and thought
was not me.

the mirage had taken me out
and left you with a shell

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Metaphysical hyperstrings
connecting
two abstract layers of embodiment
in a substantial partnership
driven by a need
in togetherness

I stretched my hand out
in a secret gesture
knowing fully well
wide open spaces
also hold secrets
sublime in its creation
and sponsored by a willingness
to defy the norm.

We have time to unravel
what this means
and it will remain a secret
if only you and I understand
what secrets are.

Come to me
now.
I wait for your longing too!

Author Notes
A secret narrative unfolding.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

around the ring of fire
continents burn
in the blistering logic
of claims to islands and air spaces,
waters lapping on wrong shores
cultures and creeds
unearthed from a hazy past

The crew-cut dictator
still stands at attention
at a starving army decorated like peacocks
for a world watching

rockets out of fuel and fire
damp squids plonking in nearby oceans
decorated with plastic medals
sycophants
saluting goose steppers
with polished ironies
and propaganda to hold power
within themselves

the bonfire burns bright
as people perish without bread

crew-cut is unable to see them die
myopic vision and overseas education
he will also have to die one day
with porcelain soldiers
guarding his tombstone.

sad. anyone crying?
**** the ones that don't.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

the entire universe entered through this
umbilical chord
strumming in tune
its lifeblood housed
in place now.

cut
when the cry woke you
to life
and now
you cover the connection
afraid
to show you could exist
only through this orifice

the central forces
deposited
in you as you strode
into your leg and life span
from birth to death
unconnected
yet connected with being reminded.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

The first time I met the Specialist
he shut me up with a bunch of big words
which I never found in any poem. Anywhere.
(So I swore I would break the rules
and write a poem on painkillers. One day)

He had a knack of pressing a rib
and complaining about my foot.
He touched my head
and told me how badly battered my kidneys were.

I marvelled at this transmigration
of ailments from one body part to another.
( but I never dared ask him to spell it,
in case he got it right)
I knew for sure that big sounding sicknesses
always produced hefty bills to pay
the smiling receptionist who took my CreditCard
with nicely painted and sharpened) fingernails
( that she may have used as a weapon)
if the specialist got high on any of his own pills!
( it was only a suspicion)
I have no notes to prove anything.

The Specialist was my friend,
so he said
but I wondered many times why he
never remembered my first name.

The last time I saw the specialist
he was racing down the motorway
with the sharp painted nails lady
and they were both smiling.

Author Notes
www.amazon.com/Chrysanthemum-Trilogy-Part-Transition/dp/1493137840/ref=sr11">http://www.amazon.com/Chrysanthemum-Trilogy-Part-Transition/dp/1493137840/ref=sr11?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1396992920&sr;=1-1&keywords;=The+Chrysanthemum+Trilogy
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

For a man who held fire in his homilies
and set the souls aflame with hell
he was gentle at the apse, smiling, smiling
warm hands and crisp cuffs and collars
no burns or bruises
nothing to give away his belief
in kingdoms buried in the clouds
of scriptures that he could quote
adding references to each little parable
like he himself, managed the manuscripts.

Come Easter, and the darkness would settle
on his purple robes and sceptre
as he walked down the aisle resplendent
and roman as Pontius Pilate
with a cleaner soul.

Christmas was different, he patted children's heads
blessed the old nanas who dropped off those chocolate
cakes and port wine, fortified with ***
and brandy biscuits. He was always thankful for the spirit.

But the day he looked at me long and hard
the spark of hell ignited my guilt
at not going to Mass for a whole summer of sun
and without a twitch of his bushy eyebrows he said:
"Been busy getting a suntan? Hell will make you black!"
but he grinned that extra-sip of wine grin
and I entered the church to repent
for all the sins I did not commit!

Bless me Father.... blah blah blah....

Author Notes
I know him well. He once called me an 'outstanding Catholic' because I stood outside most of the time!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

And so why do you want this job?
Because I need work
Why do you need work?
Because I want to go on a holiday each year
Why do you want a holiday each year
I need a suntan, relaxing time. clubbing.
that sort of thing
How much will that cost you?
about a years salary, if I save up and am careful
with my money.
That's a pretty good answer. But how can you save up ?
I'll collect my pay, put it in the bank and watch it grow
That's lovely, very assuring
Will you take your friends with you
No. I'll find some friends on the beach in Hawaii
That's really good.
What can you do to help this company
some. Im special
what qualifications do you have?
I did not pass finishing school, the teachers were lousy
I worked in a grocery store packing goods
I also did night shift at a petrol station
was really good at that. got some tips now and again
Oh all of that sounds good
whats the last book you read?
don't remember
when did you go to church last
don't remember. don't believe in god
where do you live now?
at home
do you help you mom at home
not really. she does not think im good enough
ok. I think you are a good lad
but this business needs serious workers
you have some distance to go yet
Have a great holiday. Thanks for coming in.
Please pull your pants up and zip  your trousers.
We are looking for hard workers not holiday makers!

Author Notes

Oh sorry.

Please check out my new novel.
ISBN 9781493137848. Paste into browser. You wont regret reading this book.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

home at six
to a loose socket
in your thought
so mechanically
our minds churn like machines
and our bodies
wheels and cogs
of inane comfort

we climb into an elevator
to high landings
in a breathless finish
of our fires
blown out  by years

going at nine
every morning
the car driving me
ahead of what i'm thinking
******* unknown women
split image of the day

at six we will practise again
our machine like movements.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

emptiness looking for tenants
a library with no books
being read
but full of people talking.

the starfish dancing
in whirlpools of fire
slabs of light underbelly

spineless me
reading landfall
lurking in other poet minds
watching metaphors
like meteors
bounce off innocent images

some ******* will graffiti
the walls and windows
we will need to decipher those squiggles
as art

guessing. guessing

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago