The manicured lawn behaves splendidly all summer
never pushing its way through the throngs
of flower beds and razor cut edges.

How pleasant to look at a tempting golf course
in my backyard with no nine holes in it
but a coffee club sunk just out of sight of the lawn-mower blades!

I guess that's  a way away from the lady of the house
who cannot always see how men must tamper
with manicures and pedicures with brazen coffee cup
tricks to catch a bit of practice on handicaps and nine holes!

I like those Sundays, especially, when she goes off to bombard
the saints with a litany of rosary beads and complaints
on why I bring the outdoor golfing into her indoor lawns!
I don't want to talk about how poor my putting is though!

If I had all the money in the world tucked into my bank account
I could go off and buy me an 18 hole ecstasy
but that's not possible. So until my numbers show up
on the one dollar ticket, I'm happy to build my dream
on this one hole, 10 sq yard coffee cup implanted
retirement plan. How about you?

Author Notes
Mini golf course at home.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

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

We knew reflections of every second
considered each tick of time as gold plated storehouses
of discussions together
It was us alone,
Cruising in comfort on the high seas
of our freshly found emotions.
You added to the svelteness of the image
through constant change in beauty
and I absorbed all the finesse, as if,
it would never  reflect in the tomorrows
of our world where we lived fully engaged
and completed.

You belonged to me, just as sure as,
the tree to the earth, the sky to blue
the sun to warmth and ice to winter
so sure we were of the others reason
to be bound in such a way as to be
fulfilled.

In the streams of your eyes I saw
the waterfalls of longing and on your lips
I tasted the meaning of spring and the ripest
fruits of desire and the make-up of dreams.

Everything went so well
the reflections and reasons
and we still look at ourselves
and laugh at the millions of reflections
that have built up inside and outside
of ourselves.

" The mirror sees not but itself,
Dew on a flower, tears or something?"
Author Notes

Thanks to Arseny Tarkovsky, the Russian Poet and the closing lines to Ghalib, the Persian Poet.  Without their outstanding poems this could not have unfolded the way it did.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 hours ago

Miss Shaped
With that hourglass  figure
shifting sand from one orb to the other
She knew her time
was ripe.
Walking into the alleyways of wilderness swamps
where lurked men of all contortions of mind and body
She met her match
in mister muscle.

Not a nerve twitched in her entire
body when he flexed his biceps
and wooed her with no words.

The years of steroids had tied his tongue
into strips of knots
and crosses unable to stop
pumping iron.

Miss Shaped loved this muscular
feast of a man.

The years rolled by
for misshaped

mr muscle had no iron in his heart
only triceps biceps
he left when too many wildebeest
chased his moll.
Author Notes

Just a crafty play on words with several different meanings. The poem will dull you into deception. Say what you will to break it apart.

It took time to assemble

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

‘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

Once in  a while
your countenance collapses
into laughter
even as the insults bully you
into submission
but no you will not take pain
treat it as a private crucifixion
your cross seems unheavy
your burden blessed
Miss Understanding

Author Notes

A play on the word Understanding. Bullying is a no-no yet there are Miss Understandings that understand the meaning of taking it on the chin without being pulled into the misery  of others.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 16 days ago

All it takes is two words spoken with eyes of wonder
finding its way to the sublime.
How only some could understand the vastness
of its poetic meanings -is amazing

Yet it spins whirlpools of countless words
that silk and sing in wondrous unison
making sense of itself all the time.

Such is love, the look askance,
the touch felt through great distance
understood clearly
as if skin melted against skin
in some ethereal furnace
moulding beings who
'are on the same page'
every single time.

There must be the four seasons
written into their genetic make-up,
as if,
they were moulded in the same crucible.
Permanently.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

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

You leave Haast in the velvet valley where the bras
hung just before, dangling ******* of mountains
rearing their ******* of snow at your watching.

The road licks the mountainside as I climb
high up her  body  to gaze at her beauty
as she succumbs to my wonder and awe
at such balanced beauty
hidden in jurrasic worlds
away from city made concrete wonders.

High up
a slender waterfall that gathered
all the mountains thin ribbon streams
gracefully spills over in a flush full
****** of satisfaction
as we held hands and watched
the tourists more interested in pictures
than passion racing to a finish.

I slid my hand around your buttocks
to remind me
that you too were blessed with mounds
and softly rising mountains
which I will devour when we settle
into discussions on love, later.

And of course, every single time you read
my new poem you ask:
' Do you always have to bare you soul
and my body is such a way
as to make your readers think
that all love-making was dressed
in mountains and valleys?"

"Yes" I replied to the laughter
between those apple bites!

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

of course the sun peeled another layer of my onion skin
barbecued and burnt to a crisp finish
like lettuce in a deep dish of saucy
spices and herbs, coriander and cumin parsley and pain
thyme and rhyme, sage and age
beer and blue bottle flies
all in the name of  nature.

soon the dialogues became dialects and grandpa
guzzled too much ale so he went off to nourish
a rose bush discreetly behind the party pack
of people, swirling about in champagne glasses
and tight skirts tempting us slowly getting drunk voyeurs
with glimpses of heaven and tight buns
packed with ham and cheese and spikes of hot
chilli *******
all in the name of the great outdoors.

as the son set in the evening sky old dad
was eyeing up a guest on her third bubbly
her thinking swerved quickly to burnt sausages.
I was still enjoying the barbecued chick
with the two toned honeysuckle skin
and 34DD sized mushroom concockion
and that, my friends, was purely my nature.

when night came around in a flimsy dress
which showed figures of mountains and sparkles
the ideas in my head bruised by too much *****
buns, bottles and bronze conquests
had to answer the call of nature.

I returned to a field of many victories
grandpa was tending roses head down in the dirt
dad had disappeared with his 34DD mushroom delicacy
Mom was busy discussing politics with a horn-rimmed
gentleman, who this minute would take off
his spectacles and put on his testicles
and I went to bed with hot buns waiting.
all in natural instinct!

Author Notes

An evening party on a  nice barmy day with guests gathered to enjoy nature and all its offerings. Nature is to blame if things went a little astray. Nature does that!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Even as the neon lights lit up the street with seductive winks
of blue promising colours I slid past the tonne of a beef burger
doorman, muscles tensed in conversation with his power.

I had no identity, no number to call to confirm
my foray into the ****** of sincity doom
but my adrenaline turbo was greater
than all the indulgences laid out by the church.

Soon the show started and it was neon
seven course  greasy meals of delicious
red rosette ******* and bulging cabbage
bums that were only found in naughty books,
so against my catholic upbringing
of saints in halos, sinners in chains-
all collecting at the ankles.

My eyes were young and  untrained
to the slow naked lights and movement
so I had to stare
through the shadowed light and dancers
throbbing to the music of  savage drums
gyrating to  the  pulp of night.

That's how I mixed up
poetry and lechery
in one single escape from innocence.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago

Look quietly at the journey you have taken
the road was never straight never easy
along the way many travellers returned
and you stood and watched as the fatigue
built up and you were gasping for breath
to take the next step forward to a place
fixed on your mind. But stopped short
because you were not sure the journey
would end at the sunset or you would
see the sunrise again. Stay still as you walk
slowly into that lonely night taking your fears
with you, as you stumble forward again.
Be patient with the cobblestones and dense
traffic whizzing past. Don't feel alone
for in the waiting you may have missed
many accidents.
When you reach the end
Now look back and stare in wonder
at what you have achieved.
You are a star traveller with no ticket
to no particular place. The destination
is always unknown.

Author Notes

Don't we all look back when we should be looking ahead?

A certain poet on this site asked me a question the other day. I gave him the best answer I could. The answer may not have been the best, considering that his own journey had taken him only part way to mine. But age has its advantages. You have to live life to its fullest to know what it has to offer. Guessing is no good. Its the road that we all travel on.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Just after the ebb and flow
of staying locked for a lifetime
in an earthly connection

comes an unknown
spectre
we can only guess

all those theories
from holy books and men
untested

we go because
we have to
your time is done

and the pulsating final
flourish
leaves behind a memory

shackled to those we love
until they too
must let go

of who we were
when we lived here.
once upon a time.
Author Notes

Fairy Tales come to an end too. "And they lived happily ever afterlife!" who knows?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The bristles on the boulevard clicked and clopped
splattered into flat rain drops
sped to join bodies with other playmates
now rushing to the rivulet gathering
into a big bang of floodwater
which nobody watched
with physics and formulas.

The pin-striped drops that caused
a rising revolution, spears dangling
for brief seconds in  a war cry of splosh-splashes
finally raced to lower ground
to bring down the dam and city
and invade peoples front porches
and backyards
armed with mud and silt
and strawberry colored slime.
The night was camouflaged
with raindrops on the roof
all with the same intention.

Children went to sleep
as parents drank whisky and prayed
for such a thunderous night
of rhythmic staccato symphonies.
Tomorrow the rain would recede
and the fields would be fertilized
down to the roots. Or so they thought.

The flood crept up to their toes
and emptied the refrigerator
of its half-eaten sandwiches. The carpets
soaked up the spilling sauce
and ironically the windows locked
tight to keep out the rain!

As the floods subsided
the newspaper got their headlines:
ONCE IN FORTY YEARS!
it shouted for a dollar and twenty
Everyone read the papers
on how the  neighbors got caught.
Cruel *******
always poking into other peoples business.

Two days later the sun returned
to cause a heat wave.

And everyone prayed for rain!.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

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

Through the waterfall cascade of hope comes
a misty spray of miniscule memories
of the a time when we surrendered to impulses
and walked through a 3 phase electric shock
of departures.

I never saw you again
although I looked through every window pane
for a brief reflection of a time we understood
as our own. Decades blistered past us
and now a number, a recollection arrives
unexpectedly
and I am unsure, if I should call
or just forget that you would even remember
how I longed for your touch
of a long ago moment.

The words you now speak still tingle
and tease as I collect all the pieces of a past memory
and my solitude reaches out for your  laughter
and laissez-faire as a reminder of how much
I missed in these intervening years.

Author Notes
A fragment of the past.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Once the night spills its stories three shots down
the wives are always *******
and 'he' the prefect one. How come?

Little did he know his drinks
were earned on the backstreets of ******
and the greasy twenty was to keep his mouth
shut the **** up. But no, he blathered and blathered
of his own inadequacy, on the home front,
and the two children he never knew
ignored his weakness
to sell crack on the doorstep of doom.

The day he went to investigate
this moral uprising in his mind
they found him filleted like a big fish
in the factory backyard where the
slabs of ice kept him frozen for a whole month.

He was shipped on a container to nowhere
frozen with the tuna.

Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a day ago

This is a one way journey, take heed,
as splendid as you may be of body
girth and mind, in perfect union with your god and demons
this is your ticket. Take it.

Travel safe. Through the cataclysmic darkness
where you soul may question its origins
or through the blinding light where you have
faced your maker, stay seated
and tread softly as the night approaches!
Always stay seated.

You will never ever know when the day is over
and the curtains close
or the  velvet shifts to give you a glimpse
of that stage where you acted your own part.
Breathe deeply.

And go. Go. Go!
You will never ever return.

Leave behind your book of memories
that all others who read those pages
and understand the language
that came with you. Be spoken again.

Do not turn back. Never.

Author Notes

Life is a one way ticket. No matter who you are or where you came from you have a ticket on this ship that will take you through countless channels, rough seas, blinding and beautiful horizons, through all of your family and friends, through pain and glory, but in the end your journey is one way.

The ticket will be clipped at every entertainment centre, at every pub, at every church meeting and at every birth, death and celebration.Finally you will get off the big ship of life. Your ticket will be collected and you will go alone.

Who waits for you at the other end? Better to have their address and their phone number. Dont be stranded on a strange shore!. Be prepared.

Remember. And please always remember- this is a one-way journey.

There is no return. Go quietly. Say your goodbyes now.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The landscape blurs often
as poets go about their business
crafting metaphors of unexpected delight
in forests of jangled words and visuals
unable to contain their excitement
at having conquered that crystallised
moment of love, hate and everything else
in a frozen sliver of time
inescapable from their minds excursion
into unknown unshaped lands.

Not all succeed in this endeavour
most try, few unable
to melt the metal in a crucible of colour
sound, taste or touch, to smell
emphasis and cocktail curiosity
bringing the best to the fore.

The newcomers tremble at the awe
of maestros watching their work
and dissolve in disasters.
There is the odd one that unknowingly
write splendid poetry
and when noticed and heaped with praise
often springboard into showcasing talent.

Reading the works of the masters
is always good. If they think it
is good then it must be good.
So many footsteps to follow and learn.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Spilling ink on daily fluff is a credible past time
one never knows when gems are unearthed in rambling
along on a slow lane watching as the world cruises by.

poets do this all the time, just tuning into the deep caverns
of the mind, searching for those hidden trinkets that were
probably stored away  in a lifetime of looking
sometimes intentionally, most times unconsciously.

then strike! the words and its magical meanings
come together in a wet, juicy kiss
and the fires jump alight in the darkness of the mind
and  roar with  the pristine clarity of metaphors
similes and poetic nuances that rarely appear
in normal  insipid conversation.

Everyone who writes, experiences this torrential surge
of raindrop-like writing sometimes with hailstones
often with snowy winds and chill structures that
weave in and out of unexplored tunnels somewhere
deep within the muse.

Write if you must.....did I just write that?

Author Notes

Backdrop to continued writing. Watch the world go by but take from it the best you can. Be aware.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11584264-On-writing-as-a-habit.......-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.PBt­DtRDm.dpuf

I could have stapled your heart
on the right hand corner of   this page
written you abundant verses
or smoldered in absolute rage

Instead I wrote you a poem
recalling those abstract days
when we were young and foolish
and unsure of  so many ways

Today I sit here and  wonder
the things I sorely missed
the page fills rapidly yonder
from first time  we ever kissed.

Those dreams will never repeat
Those days  will never return
Together we shared and we parted
Our memories left out to burn

Just today I picked up a letter
Written in delicate hand
Of things we promised and said
Some silly, but mostly so grand.

I know that castles are built
From  simple innocent  fare
Time stamped and stored in a vault
Only you and I ever share.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 12 days ago

I once lived in a paper jungle
conquered by post-it notes
and formulas for living
that didn't make sense.

Soon the paper tigers
came out of hiding
with memos and memorandums
growling fiercely at my recalcitrant
behaviour, until I quit and carried
my dreams into the wide open spaces
where predators were few and far between
with less incisors to cut you
into shreds of broken being.

I look back sadly
at those who did not take the escape routes
but stayed instead
locked in these cages of comfort
of malnourishment
living lives of quiet defeat.

The jungle is overgrown now.

Author Notes

Recalling some old memories.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago

Your heart is pure if you watch
a man collecting trash cans
four birds tweeting in a sycamore tree
people watching you-talking to yourself
and sleeping on a park bench
to empty your heart of its heaviness.

Your heart is pure if you allow anyone
to listen to your heartbeat
through the cellphone
and you are not sure if you want to laugh or cry

Your heart is heavy
if  you cant let go of  sadness
and the road you are walking on
turns sharply  strewn with  tacks
thorny torments and is uneven.

Your heart is filled with happiness
when a familiar voice
whispers softly in your ear
and you want to walk the distance
to snuggle up next to him.

Your heart beats this way
because it shows your endless love!

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11615253-Park-Bench-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.tfMSNge7.dpuf­

The air was thick with brothers arms entwined
in a fence that stretched beyond the battery lines
of police men, in truncheons at the ready to crack
and bleed any radical  dream of freedom.

The lines advanced at each other, one
sheltered in sheet metal solid while
the other hidden behind worn woollen masks
with holes to see freedom beyond the barricades.

The firecrackers split the screams wailing
as rubber bullets tore out advancing flesh
and spilled red roses of blotches on the snow
of yesterdays mourning for the dead.

The lines at the face of the glare
and all hell stopped short of shouting
The silence crawled in between the ready
boots about to burst through the ranks.
But no one moved out of position.

You could their hearts pounding in fear
of death and freedom. The first shot
never fired was whisper over their heads
as the deep breathing misted their misery
One side commanded, the other demanded.

From high above the roof tops the cross hairs
closed on the opposite heads near the ears
which would spill  their protest forever.
But fear has a way of withdrawing into
pockets to crack open masked skulls  another day.

The voice on the walkie-talkie crackled
"Withdraw. Withdraw. Slowly. Slowly
the World is now watching". The lens have closed
and captured the commanders eyeballs
for the world press. "Withdraw slowly
we will return when we clean out the parapets
of all these ******* photographers
who don't know what real  "peace" means".

Let the tyres burn and squelch for today.
"Dinner is ready in the barracks
You are all brave men. You love your country.
Guard it with all your might. Withdraw today.
Return tomorrow. We have a job to do!"

Author Notes
The revolution continues.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The hawk nosed general in the grey suit sniffed
out his enemies, labrador like, nose to the noise,
chest beating, bleating, blaring in the thunderous
applause, that made his ego bloom amongst the corpses
of the shrunken heads and hands reaching out for bread,
in the shut down quarter of the empire
where the eagles flew in/ out dropping mustard,
caught between a  deadly sandwich of
closed escape routes.

"Burn them all" he said, and turning to his sidekick,
he smiled a thin smile, devoid of the god he worshiped
in the minarets on the mosques that stabbed the  blue sky
with their sharp bulbous  needles of  attention.

At twelve the muezzin called the faithful to prayer and
moaned for mercy on the unbelievers.The call echoed
and reverberated down the streets.
The mustard closed the eyes of  the city where the
gas cannisters jangled on thin nerves and let the
people  sleep forever.

The grey suit, now eau de cologne  scented handker-
chief  
hawk nose sniffed
wiped his forehead and walked
spritely to his armoured vehicle, to call his wife
and enquire if the kids were enjoying their summer swim.

"Yes, darling!" she tingled with excitement.
"How's that part of the city
where these rats live?"
"Good love! Just need to smoke 'em
out some more!
By tonight I'll be home for dinner. Bye for now!"

The line went dead
with twenty others, fried in the concrete
pan of a bunk buster bomb dropped from a drone
with butterfly wings and a sharp upside down minaret
nozzle of spray now stabbing the earth.
Earth to sky, sky to earth?

The barbed wired brains circled the city.
Children soon crunched cockroaches,
mice and rats and grass salads, autumn leaves on wild spinach
thousands  died eating succulent poisonous roots.

Even the carrion claws refused to descend into the darkness
of carcasses that lay down in the streets to pray forever.

The water turned green with envy as lichen,
clogged with blood and ***** and bones rotting
under bridges, ****** up the blue river
and sent the beavers into burrows of omerta
The world watched and waited.

?

Around the dinner table the grey suited general
tucked his napkin under his red,wellfed face and smiled
at his lovely wife in a designer outfit.
" Pass me the mustard please, darling!"

Author Notes
The revolution shifts elsewhere. Follow it.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The national pride is nullified by the constant buzz of shores
being broken down and beaten with patrol boats
scouring the waves for lame boats carrying
malnourished passengers to a land of plenty.

With searchlights and stern rugged faces
blue uniformed and well fed, border patrol
scout out the weary travellers braving the high seas
and sharks to find a safe heaven in some hidden cove.

Pest control is serious business. Unlucky to be caught
and housed in centres with rationed food and worn clothes
herded into bare camps, often deported back
to home turf, the pest control cycle continues.

Take heed. A nation is built on pests., working hard, saving
every cent, running against the clock, against government agencies, starved and poor, defeated in justice, welfare,
community, papers, education and livelihood, slinking through
alleyways of paper networks, low paid, often beaten and bruised
packed in housing crates, stacked storeys high, nation building
begins at the journeys first step away from regimes too busy amassing wealth and wonder for themselves.

Nation builders are the pests you want. The pests you spend your money  to keep away from your own backyard
for a vote for safety.
Pin up a country that did not grow without these
masses of refuge pests?

Not one.

Author Notes
Migrants are nation builders. Check it out.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I named her after nature
she came wobbling to me
from behind a flower vase
petals clinging to her soft fur.

No other name would have suited
this little bouncy pet
better than 'petals'

she just wanted that name
all for herself.
an extra biscuit for you today.

Author Notes

My Labrador  named herself.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 12 days ago

Light a fire, set the stage aflame
go through loops, rings of glass
dont worry if you scrape your ***
But please dont do this at home!

Swing on the trees,
Dance with the bees
Straddle an ape, with his face agape
But please don't this at home!

Throw me that dagger
Cut out the swagger
Walk on tight rope
Unbalance the Pope
But please dont do this at home!

Show off your ****
And those dangly bits
Cover up sin, tuck it all in
But please dont do this at home!

The Birds and the Bees
Have their own trees
With ritual dances and sing song romances
But please dont do this at home!

Im sorry to say
That this is the way
To stay out of stress
And any old mess
But please dont do this at home!

Author Notes
Ha ha!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The air breathes silk and soft
the table is crowded with crap things to do
my mind falters in the gutters running criss-cross
the pages of poets dreaming love
where is the *** and sin and late nights
in the bottles of doom
which race through my thoughts
down to the last drop

Where is this  woman I met last week
spilling her ***** out on the table
for us to gaze upon-untouchable
because her man flexes his muscles
while he appears brain dead.

Why do I write such stuff
Why do I see with blinding eyes
Where do the words come from to express
pain and loneliness and the poverty
of patience. Who really reads these snippets

I am rambling into the night
where the shadows make walls
of visions that dance silhouettes
of memories from times ago
and the hustle bustle of beauties
that I once knew are now fragile old women
tending to grandchildren
in the dusty courtyard of life.

Even as I write an endless stream
of rivers cascading into waterfalls
of words my mind bends beautifully
this Sunday mornings sermon of hope.

Just now I heard a youngster write
of what poets and poems do.
Nothing really. It metamorphoses
the body and soul into exquisite
melancholy or madness, pain or purity
but never ever makes sense
when you want it to.

Who ever said poems should be short
with miniskirts and make-up
parading the twilights of ******
and hopelessness
unable to find clients of hope
unprepared to shock  listeners
into jumping off the cliffs of nonsense?

Thats only a snapshot
of how I work
writing endless reams
of the bad and the beautiful.

My time in the shadows has darkened me to pale yellow
words that sing in the jazz moment of knowing
how the rhythm undresses the silky smooth curves
of the rhymes that bloom and blitz in the moment
of writing.

Bright light stuns my eyes as I try to squint
at the  luminescent blue visuals that step into place
as gingerly as the last woman I seduced
with an open hand upon my heart.

I am a lover of beauty and brains. It is
but natural to be magnetised by the mind
of the other person who sees 3 D drawings
in the fragment of a captured moment.
Why do women sensualise feeling that much more?

There are many on AP that tick the right boxes
with their artistry of the spoken and written words.
Naming them all would expose their flawless skins
of pristine poetry to public gaze.

I am also selfish wanting
to roll and tumble in their mastery of liquid  language,
just to caress their velvety words with my fascination!

Write on my beauties. Write on.
My heart flutters for you a thousand times
more as I bathe in the silky soap suds
of your sensuality.

Author Notes
Ode to Inspiration.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

There is a stillness
unexplainable stillness
precisely at the moment when reading through
all these poems. Flitting from one to another
bird-like, thought to thought, looking for cherry-like
ripe fruits of labour that lay dangling
in tasteful tricks that are ripe and ready
to be plucked and savoured
juices dribbling
down your chin.

Ah, poets write in visuals
and words placed carefully like a painting
with shades and colours and hues
that complement each other
in that crystal moment when the magic happens
and the finest of bright chandelier snippets
hang in the magic of metaphors
sparkling and splendid.

Its the tested and timid that write
in raw and ready lines
that sizzle along a page like  the complete abandon
of a nubile maiden, unable to hide her beauty
behind any couture of class or crass
ready to be taken, as is!

I love reading all sorts of poems
and especially the ones that sing
from deep inside the poet
with abandon. I love them all. Write on.
Author Notes

Saying it as I feel it and know it! Just today there are exceptional poets at work.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The wine waited and the flowers wilted
chocolates got soggy, limp and listless
the Eiffel dreams of standing tall and *****
slumped to side
and the Champs De Elysees gathered its circumference
and went around in circles.

You did not come as promised

Never mind,
Hope is  a cobweb through which we weave
spidery webs of deceit
sticking delicately to daydreams
fruit bowls of Eves apples
and candlelight caresses
that turned the pages of our ******
conversations into imaginary paragraphs
for  bestseller voyeurs.

We both made the same mistake
of getting the date wrong
and the timing out of daylight savings sync.

I will plan again for next summers
Postcard from Paris
to myself.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago

Tyres and trash climbing to four long stories high
burning the dynamo of governments made
from variegated beliefs in sharing seats
unspent people divided by calculated fear
and farm implements from backyard fences
to break the back of steel helmets and
rubber truncheon policies.

Piled high on the side-walks of history
they gather in tight knots yet untangled
before water canons and formations
of advancing barricades of brutal regimes
seated around, round glossy tables
of disagreement.

Nothing works right if a lone spanner
finds its way into the giant machinery
that rolls over people down a roadway
of dissent. Freedom is not plugged
into any powered source if unaccepted
in the lone man's spark of will.

Soon the doorways of flight
will open and haste will chase
the suited gentry of harsh cross-hair policies
into pockets of safety within
other brutal regimes.

Fly now while you can
the plugs will be pulled shortly
and the day will descend into darkness
Hellfire will close in around you
if you wait to cling to power
that is not yours. Run now. Run.
Fly. Disappear. Kaput. Finito.

Author Notes
We go West now. Just coming from deep South.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Backed by a belief that  butchery
is part of a survival strategy to cling
to the edifices of power blackened by the bomb
and bunker smoke of fighting in the trenches of hate

Hidden in hell holes beneath the barren  browning landscape
scattered across the fragile face of the desert
soldier rats rush into pock-marked craters
as the planes overhead search them out with infrared
points to demolish and bury them
in the graves the enemy nation
carved for cemeteries
unmarked
in the battlefields of bourgeoisie.

War brings  the drones of mercy
raining  from the skies of hate
piercing through the armament of commands
from Generals decorated in medals of honour
from the Boys Club and  green mossed jackets.
Sit, daddy,  in rifle ready barricades
awaiting the crackle  command
from higher up the food chain.

Those who make those decisions are unaware
a child sits at home playing with a little toy soldier
"Made in China" from printed plastic moulds
of mass production and extermination.

"Daddy is my hero.
He will come home for Christmas."

He wont. This time round, son.

Author Notes
The Toy soldier.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

A 3 point turn heading opposite ruins
the direction first taken. Manipulative maniac!

Remove the spark and power from your connections
and you slip into thick darkness
without props, from where you first came to the light
collecting heads dangling on a political belt
blood gushing to your temples with the excitement
of ladders built with opponents ribs
and maidens in your harem dancing to a dirge
of stolen energy from ball-less *******
who catered to your swords sharp language.
palpitating fear of adding their own heads,
to your prized totem collection
on rancid streets. Amen Amin.

The power cut plunged the dark continent
into an abyss of bottomless economy
where the price of bread surpassed
the goldmines and oil dynasties
into deltas of doom.

Even now the sword and sceptre
intertwine to carve society into slabs
of lean meat in the markets of the madness.
Rise people rise! You do not carry
shepherds hooks blessed with a question mark? do you?
Quietly sharpen those question marks into spears
of liberty. Start now.

Author Notes
The Revolution continues. Where are we?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Lining up batteries of anti-aircraft anti-everything
all anti- something this and that
distribution centre for psychological pressure
backed by radio, TV presidents staring straight
newspapers, journals and dialogues around
flash round tables on the whys how’s and who’s
sneaky microphone hidden in flower pots,
long distance listening devices. Telephones tapped
wives tapped, senior diplomats and doormats tapped
wives tapped on shoulders
whispered to: watch out for Joe blogs he has a roving eye.
see me tonight, after dinner.

The russians have warship A into Zone B
the chinese have shifted anti-missile up
the mountains near tibet, near nepal
near taiwan, near  the hormuz straits
into africa, zimbabwe, fiji, and northern china
who cares. Tomorrow they will shift out again.
the pressure is building in the ukraine, turkey is on fire
The north koreans have no power
as seen from satelllites
The president has run of tomato sauce so he has asked
for a shipload from us of a
ship it with some spies dressed as tomatoes

god its killing me
these acupuncture points
three more needles please!

Author Notes
Relentless. ( an wacky I s'pose). Think about it all.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The silence was sinister, as if, sound had lost its vocal chords,
the days arrived and sunsets painted the sky in crimson
and gold leaf ensembles of artists dreams.

While they sat around a table, document drivers ran around
pushing agendas, translating armageddon scenarios
if the other side raised a finger or pulled a trigger.
So the sulky diplomats sat like doormats where
the national feet were wiped upon and trust was invested
in their stupidity. Harvard education, pin-striped suits
with loud aggressive neckties announced their status
to TV crews and intrepid journalists, hanging on every word
like guillotines, to ravage the leading newspaper stories.
Headlines were deadlines. Diplomats drummed
up side angles for photographic faces  to appear firm
and responsible to the taxman's money.

Here they gathered
with their policy whisperers awaiting for a signal
to open their loaded dialogues of positions and
policy shifts. Yet no one said a word.

The silence, for once, kept all the mouths shut
( one wished permanently!)
no one said a word for 3 long hours,
but they sipped chilled water, took notes of nothing
glared at each others sides and took notes
again of what was not said.

At the stoke of two, when the clock belted
a twang and the echo bounced through
many empty heads, the diplomats rose
to call it another day of negotiations.

The cold war had just had its 9th meeting.

Author Notes
The Revolution says little, but the war take sides. Diplomats are busy 'discussing' how to end the war, and find a solution. Their policy positions are so entrenched, that little happens. The silence is as loud as could be. Meanwhile, the guns boomed and little childrens playgrounds were pock-marked with cluster bombs. Lines of refugees, walked up the mountains seeking shelter in neighbouring towns. The cold war complemented the heat war that was raging on the battlefields of doom. Please stay indoors.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

No need to flick the **** out of this monster
standing on a podium above our heads
looking down in distaste at what we, the poor, can do
or not do! Fodder, we are, trampled into stacks, rolled
into wretched bales and stacked skyhigh
on machines that run through  precision.

Once done, they stand above and lord
over their handiwork as we
the minions, muscled in on our lives
struggle to keep the factories going
feeding the fat bellies and guns
that will silence others across the thin divide
of territorial useless wars

Once in a while the fucktories will open
and spew many newborn into the guts
and glory for the motherland where birth
and bread are numbered and named with
berets and bonhomie, pretend play
at camaraderie. We perish unwept
at the crack of dawn and gunfire in long lines
on a battlefield where ideals are shouted
and gas chambers await dissent.

Driven like oxen to the national abbatoir
hair, teeth and nails collected, bones crushed
for gelatine soup and flesh shredded
for fertilisers to grow more cattle
to be fed more hay
to man the factories and fucktories
to make more children
to polish the forces
to line up and lament our lot

Switch off the power.
Switch off the power
Switch off the power
Switch off the power..........

Author Notes
The revolution takes a step back to WW11.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Every fence a weapon to hold within, those
you wish to keep indoors, but pickets
in the upcoming riot
are stored in geometric lines like
the policies that crafty politicians use
to cling to padded thrones behind glass walled mausoleums.

Pull  a picket
race to the centre of town
join the jostling multitudes in jubilant echoes,
scream an avalanche of miseries
imposed on you by the Power.

Burn down the crystalline bridges
where the nameplates are polished everyday
and set the city on fire. Break the bones
of the oppressors and walk free
from the cages of calamity
into the free night-where waits for you
another cycle of power hungry predators
waiting to capture the conquests
you have so carefully crafted
in your backyard fence.

Fence  them in
or fence them out.

All you have, my brother
are the pickets that line
the boundary of your revolution.

Stay focused. Sharp Pointed.
Author Notes

The revolution continues starting from the backyard fence. There is no revolution complete with the oppressed running into a riot without a picket and pitch fork from his own home. These are the most potent symbols of change.

I will tackle burning tyres in my next poem!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I came from nowhere into the sunlight bright
staring harsh at the way it looked when released
from the thick of dark  dank  open spaces
of the mind like skyscrapers
looming in awe at unopened alleyways.

Writers and Poets with dark and dense language
lurked on every page offering
wisdom and wonder at all that existed
and I was taken aback by the grit and gristle
of their tongues in torture and bonehard
determination to say things real and true.
My first lesson was obedience
at the citadels of learning.

Soon the words began to form and fix
in the minds eye, each picture drafted
in the souls eternal fire of seeking solace
from within a lone slim space of knowledge.
We were wild then, travelling in jungles
where beasts roamed with hookahs and chains
and belted the night with rabid beats
of rhymes and rhythm bongo drums
that cascaded through waterfalls of lust
and loneliness.

woodstock soon came around with a growl
from Hendrix and a soulful guitar solo
that lifted our energies beyond mud
and music into higher ground where
love and peace co-existed with boundaries
and lines of policemen with batons.

Soon we loved each other on the streets
of shame uncaring for the masses that lay
strangled by traditions of the old
and battered regimes. Our music carried
us into a universal song which started
then and never stopped four decades gone.

what we started in those freedom years
still parades the streets of our individualism
today with a different costume.
The shackles that we unchained
were replaced by those who felt burdened
by the guilt of freedom and excess.

Even today the Capitols burn with angry mobs
tearing political fences and building barricades
of stone hard determination and raised fists
in defiance of subjugation and slaughter
as they race towards a wide open gate
where walls and ****** windows do not
get them down fast enough.

The cities will continue to burn
to mark the decades  we bled loose
the power from dictators armoured carriers
and concubines of greed and injustice
as we ourselves built shells of steel
around our embattled homes and liberties.
Freedom is a right. It will be fought.

In every continent there burns a bonfire
lit by few that smoulders and shudders
in the rubble of military might
but that will not deter the protection
and peace. The bonfires are fed by the few
who boiled their blood in their thinking
for all the others.

Over the radio and tv promises will
echo hollow and insipid as the faces
of the masters who seem impervious to pain
and unwilling to smear the ashes of their own born
against their foreheads of power.

A time will come when peace will settle again
and the rousing reception of rain bearing
clouds will cool the tempers of the trusted
and the untrusted.

We will soon be gone but we leave a legacy
of will that will course through the veins
of our children and grandchildren
and for years to come the poems
we write will stand testimony to the demons
we locked back into the cages of the past.

The power to pen will return to the people.

I came from nowhere into the sunlight bright
staring harsh at the way it looked when released
from the thick of dark  dank  open spaces
of the mind like skyscrapers
looming in awe at unopened alleyways.

Writers and Poets with dark and dense language
lurked on every page offering
wisdom and wonder at all that existed
and I was taken aback by the grit and gristle
of their tongues in torture and bonehard
determination to say things real and true.
My first lesson was obedience
at the citadels of learning.

Soon the words began to form and fix
in the minds eye, each picture drafted
in the souls eternal fire of seeking solace
from within a lone slim space of knowledge.
We were wild then, travelling in jungles
where beasts roamed with hookahs and chains
and belted the night with rabid beats
of rhymes and rhythm bongo drums
that cascaded through waterfalls of lust
and loneliness.

woodstock soon came around with a growl
from Hendrix and a soulful guitar solo
that lifted our energies beyond mud
and music into higher ground where
love and peace co-existed with boundaries
and lines of policemen with batons.

Soon we loved each other on the streets
of shame uncaring for the masses that lay
strangled by traditions of the old
and battered regimes. Our music carried
us into a universal song which started
then and never stopped four decades gone.

what we started in those freedom years
still parades the streets of our individualism
today with a different costume.
The shackles that we unchained
were replaced by those who felt burdened
by the guilt of freedom and excess.

Even today the Capitols burn with angry mobs
tearing political fences and building barricades
of stone hard determination and raised fists
in defiance of subjugation and slaughter
as they race towards a wide open gate
where walls and ****** windows do not
get them down fast enough.

The cities will continue to burn
to mark the decades  we bled loose
the power from dictators armoured carriers
and concubines of greed and injustice
as we ourselves built shells of steel
around our embattled homes and liberties.
Freedom is a right. It will be fought.

In every continent there burns a bonfire
lit by few that smoulders and shudders
in the rubble of military might
but that will not deter the protection
and peace. The bonfires are fed by the few
who boiled their blood in their thinking
for all the others.

Over the radio and tv promises will
echo hollow and insipid as the faces
of the masters who seem impervious to pain
and unwilling to smear the ashes of their own born
against their foreheads of power.

A time will come when peace will settle again
and the rousing reception of rain bearing
clouds will cool the tempers of the trusted
and the untrusted.

We will soon be gone but we leave a legacy
of will that will course through the veins
of our children and grandchildren
and for years to come the poems
we write will stand testimony to the demons
we locked back into the cages of the past.

The power to pen will return to the people.

Author Notes
I come from a generation that tasted freedom from traditions in the best way possible. Four decades on that unshackling still unfolds.This poem talks of that transition. It is long and will continue on and on until that bonfire subsides!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The hawk nosed general in the grey suit sniffed
out his enemies, labrador like, nose to the noise,
chest beating, bleating, blaring in the thunderous
applause, that made his ego bloom amongst the corpses
of the shrunken heads and hands reaching out for bread,
in the shut down quarter of the empire
where the eagles flew in/ out dropping mustard,
caught between a  deadly sandwich of
closed escape routes.

"Burn them all" he said, and turning to his sidekick,
he smiled a thin smile, devoid of the god he worshiped
in the minarets on the mosques that stabbed the  blue sky
with their sharp bulbous  needles of  attention.

At twelve the muezzin called the faithful to prayer and
moaned for mercy on the unbelievers.The call echoed
and reverberated down the streets.
The mustard closed the eyes of  the city where the
gas cannisters jangled on thin nerves and let the
people  sleep forever.

The grey suit, now eau de cologne  scented handker-
chief  
hawk nose sniffed
wiped his forehead and walked
spritely to his armoured vehicle, to call his wife
and enquire if the kids were enjoying their summer swim.

"Yes, darling!" she tingled with excitement.
"How's that part of the city
where these rats live?"
"Good love! Just need to smoke 'em
out some more!
By tonight I'll be home for dinner. Bye for now!"

The line went dead
with twenty others, fried in the concrete
pan of a bunk buster bomb dropped from a drone
with butterfly wings and a sharp upside down minaret
nozzle of spray now stabbing the earth.
Earth to sky, sky to earth?

The barbed wired brains circled the city.
Children soon crunched cockroaches,
mice and rats and grass salads, autumn leaves on wild spinach
thousands  died eating succulent poisonous roots.

Even the carrion claws refused to descend into the darkness
of carcasses that lay down in the streets to pray forever.

The water turned green with envy as lichen,
clogged with blood and ***** and bones rotting
under bridges, ****** up the blue river
and sent the beavers into burrows of omerta
The world watched and waited.

?

Around the dinner table the grey suited general
tucked his napkin under his red,wellfed face and smiled
at his lovely wife in a designer outfit.
" Pass me the mustard please, darling!"

Starflung into strange abodes
galaxies collide like minds
central cores disintegrate to recover-
atoms form into gigantic stars of wisdom

Within each word lies
the essence of meaning,
unpeeled it bursts into awareness.
we are drawn to mysteries
that never make sense

what is it?
that drives destiny down unknown paths
filling each movement with a subtle piece
of the jigsaw, falling into place,
one by one in a fulfilling way?
What is it?

The body and soul sublime
will unite with its counterpart

All the prophecies of time immemorial
will come together in perfect sync.
We discovered each others magnitude
and magnificence in a split-second moment.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

13 billion years later we still discuss
Split second propositions of time
And temperament of infinite particles
That ceaslessley had a mind of their own.
God is still in capitals but cunning as she is
She first created herself as feminine.
Did it take us from the big bang to now just to know
That order began only after the chaos controlled
Pre-universe shadowed itself in a pin-point
Burst into beauty of perfection
Married waves, particles and precision
In anti-matter exactness of itself
To complement the new multiverses
That remained suspended in a gravitational enigma
Split second before collapsing back into a point
And bursting open in inflationary force
Arms wide
Welcoming you and me
From back in the days of confusion
To todays perfection.
That conjecture indicates that
The Master Creator was himself confused before the Big Bang
And so he created beauty and women to counterbalance
The new precision.
I know. Women are not chaotic. Only men are.
( Pssst!) my wife will read this poem.
Author Notes

SNAG: Sensitive New Age Guy! A fresh take on the Universe and Creation of common Sense! ( a Back-up Poem)

Entered for the Contest on Chaos.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

In the subterranean channels
of the giant coliseum lurks a breed
of predators that only need a finger
to cast a vote for power.
Push a button, stab a voting paper
signature on a rung of ladder
that climbs to the top
where roosts other successful animals
that have crawled up from the dungeon
of deceit. Vote now or lose your head
in the lolly scramble for power .

Your reward is a brass plated door
with many secretaries and heads permanently bent
in obeisance at the masters command.

I will be the chief of all
of the land and economy
so come to me with heads down
arms for alms
and go silently without turning left
or right.  Your silence is
my authority. Take heed. Don't cross
the line in the courtyard
from whence I came here.

Author Notes
Politicians in Power?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The Creator looked at the elephant and said:
I made you big so you could be gentle
To the mouse he said: I made you small
so you could walk tall
But over millions of years you two could exchange
places and one become the other.

I know I shoved the lot of you in an Ark
Because Noah was being a pesk asking for rain
when his washing machine ran dry
So I had to fill the oceans to stop that old man
from complaining all the time. Besides I needed the bark
from the trees of the Ark to make me  a small tug boat
to carry some DNA samples of my own, in case,
the lion ate the cow, the tiger chewed on the cat
and the fox tricked the rest with his cunning ways
You see, my friends, there was no grass, or snakes
or bird cages, or trees for the monkeys to swing on.

I thought of many things before I gave the building plans
to Noah and his sons. Only one was a builder the rest
were bums, who never held a hammer or learned how to
tie two bits of trees together, leave alone building
an ark to hold the worlds whole creation.Thankfully
there were no real estate agents pushing the price up
or bankers charging interest. The mafia thought of charging
an entrance fee for each pair, but before they could do that the rains came pelting down and the tickets got washed away in the storm.

So you see the Ark was a joint venture between
The Americans and Chinese and Indians
because they were willing to multiply quicker
than the rest once Mt Sinai rose up to meet the
oak leviathan from underneath.

And so my dear elephants and mouse
and fox and snake and bird and
lion and tiger. Noah and his wonderful Ark
was a script written well ahead so that Russell Crowe could get
a part playing Noah in a computer generated extravaganza
where only the actors and actresses who could afford
to pay a price to be in it - were involved.

The rest of mankind be ******.

Author Notes

Quirky.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Today it was cold and blustery and the wind chime
was busy with the same crisp notes tinkling away
unsure of which tube to twang first, but it did sound good.

My dog Petals curved up like a huge comma
rolled his soft eyes in his head. She watched me
walk around, just shifting his eyes following my movements.

She knew I was thinking serious, but not about dogs
but something more like cosmic nothingness and
our own existence in this genetic soup.

Dogs know when we get loopy. They whine and whine
telling us to STOP IT and go vacuum the floors instead.
We usually don't understand pet philosophy. Some do though.

After writing a whole new chapter of my new book
It was time to let the grey matter rewind back into reality
and just doodle around thinking silly thoughts.

Several poems in todays reading were truly uplifting:
Imprint ( by Catniss), for one, was superbly crafted
in symbolic language that soared way above the ordinary.

I wrote drafts for several poems but crunched up the paperwork
and aimed for the paper bin- four misses, one in!
Next I read some poems by Mary Szybist:Incarnadine
and loved the exactness of the wording.

Finally, I sat down to write this poem and discovered
it wasn't turning out the way I wanted it to read
and said: Heck! thats the best I can do today!

I looked at Petals, she wagged her tail just this much
and so after that approval I decided to publish it.
Dogs understand us better than wind chimes?

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Reading and Thinking today!
Today it was cold and blustery and the wind chime
was busy with the same crisp notes tinkling away
unsure of which tube to twang first, but it did sound good.

My dog Petals curved up like a huge comma
rolled his soft eyes in his head. She watched me
walk around, just shifting his eyes following my movements.

She knew I was thinking serious, but not about dogs
but something more like cosmic nothingness and
our own existence in this genetic soup.

Dogs know when we get loopy. They whine and whine
telling us to STOP IT and go vacuum the floors instead.
We usually don't understand pet philosophy. Some do though.

After writing a whole new chapter of my new book
It was time to let the grey matter rewind back into reality
and just doodle around thinking silly thoughts.

Several poems in todays reading were truly uplifting:
Imprint ( by Catniss), for one, was superbly crafted
in symbolic language that soared way above the ordinary.

I wrote drafts for several poems but crunched up the paperwork
and aimed for the paper bin- four misses, one in!
Next I read some poems by Mary Szybist:Incarnadine
and loved the exactness of the wording.

Finally, I sat down to write this poem and discovered
it wasn't turning out the way I wanted it to read
and said: Heck! thats the best I can do today!

I looked at Petals, she wagged her tail just this much
and so after that approval I decided to publish it.
Dogs understand us better than wind chimes?

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Author Notes

An older poem..........
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11601537-Reading-Writing-and-Thinking-today.....-by-Marshall-Gass­-noguest#sthash.sFL0Xaqj.dpuf

The first  time we met we recollected
many other recollections
of how things would work out
touch and taste, tremble at the thought of knowing
that physical conquests were now possible
and emotional rollercoaster rides real.

But we stayed within the boundaries
waiting breathlessly to clamber
over social boundaries and bask in the sunshine
of our togetherness. It was that calm.

When you left you took a chunk
out of my memory bank
and left back some chewed up bones of discontent
and sheaves of paperless poems
that suddenly looked as hollow
and soulless. Empty caskets.

Now I wonder why you walked away
from three other lovers
in the same way, leaving behind burnt fragments
at each destination.

Author Notes
Everybody moves forward. Some leave a lot of baggage back.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.