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Marshall Gass Jun 2014
Mask and metal mould as one
We lock into permanence
Take from me the blood and ******* you  deserve
And I will cherish rust and polish
we both can shine!

Author Notes
An exchange of body and soul to the bitter end.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 months ago
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
There was a time when the world seemed
an easy spoil of conquests
within reach-and we were young and blinded,
sure of our steps in every wrong direction.
We were free and unspoilt, unchristened
in the many facts and figures that took us
down a long road to destiny.

Who cared about the roofless sky
the waters rage, the waterfalls incessant spill
and magnificent spray that baptised us
in wonder. Who cared about the drumbeats
at the dead of night
and nightmares that gripped the soul
in its tangled knots. We were Woodstock
and Glastonbury, full of Vietnam wars
and journeys to the Moon and Nixon and
FlowerPower. We were filled with everybody
else but ourselves. We were free
from the chains of society.

And then the cells closed in, the ranks faltered
Moguls took over the stockmarkets
and the jobs were dismantled and monopolised
the riches were ransacked and the free love potions
that came with cannabis and upside down waterfalls
bleeding chairs and rock music
beads and baubles and denim fantasies
became tagged with slave labour and oil spills
and mountains of rubble stored in giant cities
of concrete boxes. All the worlds cities were locked
in invisible borders that shot people down with laser beams
and synthetic drugs and coloured t shirts.
We were locked back into our freedom cubbyholes
that were now governed by empty heads with dark glasses
and steel rimmed belts that zapped you into line.

Four decades of smouldering in the rubble left us
limbless and mindless
technology does our work now
and our brains are frozen and hacked with strange numbers
of which we know little. We cannot love again freely.

The remnants of those decades still linger
on the borders of the soul where butterflies
once flew and songs were belted out one after the other
into giant stadiums where  people danced with bare skins
coated with mud and magic. The pink stripes never really
vanished, but our bodies still alert to joyous music
that the whole world clapped and rattled to. Gone.

Our world was taken from us
and the poor ******* that now stretch down the clogged
highways of the mind and roadways of
consumption without work will never understand
how we lived and learned and laughed
in that free open world.

Author Notes

Nostalgia. Thousands will agree to what I write of a time gone by. We  are now trapped in a sterile world where automation and technology have overtaken our will to be ourselves once again. Soon we will be gone into that other world where freedom exists again.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
downwards
brave seed
soaked summer sun
clutched winters wool
stay calm
sperms approach
turbo engine
grasp hands
slid tentacles
through autumns
open arms
burst open
brazen
bloom
die
again
and again

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 26 days ago
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
This must be the banana
republic
slipping around by the skin
of their teeth

Each inhabitant
as nutty as a fruitcake
policies and pancakes
slippery slopes
for politicians
and perverts!

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
Alpha Omega
I am
in the nothingness seething
invisible matter yet to decode

Take each symbol
decode understand
what meaning there may be
in eternity

'the space between the stars
breathing like a pounding heart'
The seven symbols
sparked across continents of fire

I am
Here.

Author Notes
'the space between the stars
breathing like a pounding heart'-taken from Maya Islas-Cuban Poet. Profoundly beautiful poems on the Book Of Revelations.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Banked up against a terraced mountainside
photogenic pristine rows
of blasting green
rows of manicured waterways
with two buffaloes treading ballet-like
between squelching mud and green shoots
the paddy fields stayed buoyant
all season through.

Come harvesting time
and thrashing the sunburied ripe
tendrils of husk and seed
along threshing traffic wheels
the husk sought divorce from
the long tongued long grained
wives -and parted ways.

Soon the pudding spent its silky smooth sexiness
on a plate of punchy aromatic costumes
that invaded the senses and palate
in sensual smoothness. Oh my!

Ricebowl pudding
of the worlds staple.

Author Notes
Gluttony beckons just now!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
Dark seed
embedded in winters clutch
rinsed clear in
the dark ritual of rain
will burst out and bloom
kissed by sun and satin warmth.
Spring will grasp the meaning of wonder
and flourish for just enough time
before summer pushes for place again.

Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Two people lurk in everyone
the star and the scar
born from building high citadels of power
and cascading into smithereens
when the switch is tripped.
Maybe the voltage ran low
or the circuit breaker was poorly constructed?
I dont know.

I operate on a three phase armour
of emotional stabilisers
that spark and twitch when overheated
with too much energy. But I return
with black faced integrity
collars up and smoking
to fight on another electrifying moment.

'Thats life' I hear
the rollercoaster ride
built into the system
going around in circles
always facing the sunrise
and sunset. We scream and tumble
into the guts of the incline
the switch and roll of events
swerving around corners
holding on ******* knuckled
until it finishes its rumble
and we walk out wobbly and vomity
until the better side takes over.
The darker side recedes
into an unknown pocket.

Author Notes

Thanks to Cinderley13 who wrote about Catfish and Lydia and Lyda and made me wonder what the hell was being alluded to? It now makes a bit more sense.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
As strong as rubber bands
stretched taut
we too had a thing going on between us.
What was it
that cannot be defined in poems
as easily as defining so many other things

Too tight, it would snap and sting
you said I listened
Boundaries are like this I said
not elastic, yet tightly closing us in,
into definite spaces
often unable to test the limit. We did though

But we did clamber through every loophole,
met at the mountain top of emotions
sailed the tumultuous sea
and finally settled
in each others arms.

Looking back at the journeys log
There are endless pages of warmth
held together with rubber bands of love!

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Aug 2014
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
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
The green willow grasses
splendid symmetries
lurks the unknown number
spatial dimensions of intelligence
bonds of chemical attraction
where we met at the cross-roads of age.

Welcome to my world
where your eyes can feast or falter
at the impenetrable gaze of knowing
when we collide in coalition
of  strange dialogues.

I ask you a simple question
How come you see far beyond
the intricacies of words
and into the reaches of my thoughts
as I circle around your sun of loveliness
like a planet in motion in this pristine universe
where you rest-calm and controlled.

Dispel all fear of who we are
and step forward into that velvet night
bring your starlight with you.
We will share the dream forever
in the visuals in what we can write.

Author Notes
Notes to a special friend.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Between the haze of being in a particular place
knowing that distances could be distorted
we still rush to dead-end destinies
unable to change gear or get off the accelerator
of unknowns. Our journeys have been mapped
long before we even knew how to wander between
our emotional mish-mash of dreams.

Once in a while a comet rushes across
our sensational universe of unions
and we scuttle and scare at the cross-roads
if a slight aberration disturbs the tranquility
of our plans.

When we finally part, taking with us
all those things that collected memories
we soon discover that real and unreal moments
turn to distasteful mangled dislikes
of each others onetime blistering
companionship.

Such is the shadow of love
known and unknown. That which once gleamed
and glistened in our first meeting
now lurks in old dusty corners
waiting for new resurrections. Nothing
will bring back the life it once held.

Heartbreaks can be healed
moulded and mended
in different furnaces.
Set fire afresh each time this happens.
Author Notes

The changing attributes of relationships.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Feb 2014
Cruising between the haze of knowing and unknowing
sits a large vacuum of infinite questions
why am I here? what am I doing?
Where is the next stop to get off this journey?

And so on,
until the answers return in resplendent shape
colour and size, confronting you
with its incessant reminder
that Q's and A's don't always
have connections.

I am but a seed in one great pod
waiting to be thrown into the winds reach
to sail on a summers day
into infinite earth, buried deep until
I rise again in the arms of spring
To bud and blossom in the knowing
of life.

Take heed
at who I am
around me.
A look at a seed about to spring to life.
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
Doctored in genetic cauldrons
for wine seeking solace in perfection
engineered tactfully within testtubes
of formulae
extracted and compressed
its testicles removed
the grape rendered impotent.

how strange
that we surgically implant
and speak to inner workings
to consumerise
everything we need.

chickens battery farmed
cows turf grassed
pigs in poultry cages
men in monkey suits
playing god in the paddocks of doom.

maybe we should
just leave things alone
and nature will be fine.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Jul 2014
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
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
The sound was switched off
to my  imagination
but you sauntered in that cascade silk of light
with sure steps,touching this,
tousling your hair, touching that
resplendent. Seductive in the setting.

You knew I was watching the sun dance
through the shadows
causing your smile
and mischief to glow brighter.

It was when you leaned over the balcony
my pulse raced with fear
and my heart stopped racing anymore.

Its only when you switched the sound back on
did I realise
your heart was also beating
between 'the agony and the ecstasy'
of the distance between us.

I take a  step forward.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 days ago
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
It was, after all, an internet rose,
selected from google images,
carefully placed in a pool of succulent words
vanilla bean and gooey smoothness
bordered with delicate lace on the pages
a small bleeding heart stapled
to the top of the page

But oh! how she loved its beauty.
She smelt the heady aroma, licked the chocolate
and converted to vanilla slurp
and juicy apple kisses.

We slept well that night
ten thousand miles apart.
Romantically ready
for the journey across oceans
with towering waves
and saw toothed sharks
piranhas and nirvanas
all jumbled up and waiting
for this togetherness.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
Does stillness echo in the heart of quietness?
Beating rhythmically churning old memories
Into new shapes of pain, soundlessly stealing time
Writing its wrinkles under big broad smiles.

I miss you more
after  you left.
Your shadow still lingers in the light of my day

Your words bounce off the walls
Of my emotions, and I reach for your touch
My skin crackles with the urge of wanting

How do I know you feel the same way?
Although, I know, you do.
The same signals that separate us
Also bind us. Why is that so?

Why does a stranger have to write my longing
In his words?

How does she see underneath the pulse
Of my sentences?

What makes her
Understand me
Completely?

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
Defying the anger of the stormy winds
swearing at her erectness
she stood her ground on the rockface
stony woman, unafraid of raging seas, frosts
ships crashing at her feet.

With one eye winking/flashing,circling
she warned them of men with mustaches and machetes
marauding naked shores far below the banks
where caves in seawalls collided with the rumble
and dash of waves of protest. Nothing moved her.

She stood , solid as the ten commandments
unminding of the raging storms
doing her duty, flaunting her skirts
and dank steps up her heart which
stayed unflinching.

She was all my  new woman wanted to be.
st, peters basilica on this rock
holding the keys to my souls entry
into her private heavens
a house with many mansions.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Jul 2014
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
Marshall Gass Jul 2014
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
Marshall Gass Jul 2014
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
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
In the bowl where beauty lies
enriching its in its glow
remains an enigma that drives
deep shadows to the surface

we don't see everything we want
to see or show , analyse, own or disown
we may fail to seek all the answers
a torrid past, a broken heart
a blistered and bruised ego
something fragile, festering fuming underneath
the facade , creating a silhouette skin,
cosmetic exterior, mannequin interior
a patchwork quilt of emotions
restless, unready, growing.

we take what we see
in complete trust, faith beatified
drawn into the magnetic depths
seeking the pole star
sailing unkempt oceans
raging against the silhouette
that clearly conquered
the magnificence of the moment.

Love has no shadows
just a glowing light.

Author Notes

The journey to love.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
It was all silk and sawdust
Mamas skirts rustled a sunday mass
and dad wore his bowler hat tilted at an angle
(dirk bogarde -like look)

But he was a farmer.
soon after the service was over
he'd hang his hat by the cowsheds
and wallow in green slushy poo
irrespective of how much it stank
and how natural  he looked
throwing sawdust over the caked green pancakes
and shovelling all that crap into a corner,
with sundays best clothes on!

Mama insisted he change first
but no. "The cows need attention
as much as god does, Mama"

We did not argue with his farmyard philosophy
but that's where we cut our teeth
and tasted a mans love for his animals
both human and beast and that's where
we understood that sunhats, bowlers
and polished walking sticks
were just statements that didn't come
from a book- but society. Somehow
he mixed the two learnings
to get along with everything.

I missed him when he milked his last cow
and lay down forever in that quiet evening
as the sun set in an orange sky. The brightest star
that night climbed over the eastern ridges
to grace the night. Dad?



© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Aug 2014
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
Marshall Gass Nov 2014
my soul was black hanging on a graffitti fence
down by the corner street
where crack and needles punctuated the alleyway
with no hope.

brother hid from brother
and sisters wore mini mini mini skirts
to draw the danger from the honking cars
into the pool of light cast by the one surviving
bulb
on a lamp post of desolation

he had slick hair and sharp notches
on his belt, danging chains
that reminded him of time inside
the dungeons where he gained
his qualifications in years behind
the bars of justice.

Out on the street, it was mayhem
a blue car siren-ed off into the distance
careened across the road
and vanished into upper class society
where they ate pink cakes and sipped herbal teas

as morning cleaned the streets of darkness
the sunshine grew the window sill
stacked with marijuana.

It was just another day to be alive.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago
Six
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
Six
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
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
Last summer, the first of sunshine days
I walked the dusky dawn, down memory lane
searching for those strawberry nights of lust
and longing that lay captured in a jar

of firefly nights, chill wine and meaningless dreams
that wrote itself in our own language of caresses
and touching the stars, we stumbled into night
unaware that this-was, after all, an affair.Tomorrow

we must return to sanity, and take with us
our suitcase kisses, pretend nothing happened.
How quaint to feign when saturated in ecstasy
keeping it under wraps, quiet and carefully.

Yes, of course, I was tempted to teach the cellphone
new tricks of deceit in numbers, names and meanings
my tickets torn between a memory of wild nights
and wanton words, silk and satin sensations

Oh yeah, I reached home and its familiar welcomes
'The deals done,' I said to the unsuspecting wife
and kept a straight face, like any office memo,
and put my shirts and new ties into place

along with that knowing smile that lurks
in all marital mayhem. It was only when
the phone bleeped, my pulse raced, number familiar
'He knows', it read, and Judas welled up in my chest.

Summer came to a close, the sunshine left early
and winter set in quickly, as the leaves turned
dark rust with tinges of fading gold and blood.
Every snake must shed its skin now.

Author Notes

This is fiction. I'm just trying a new technique I learned this morning.
I've shed my skin too.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago
Marshall Gass Nov 2014
particle flight within sight
movement in motion delight
the faster you go the greater the traction
the broader the front
instant reaction.
      
no world is safe in heavens gate
nothing is conquered so late
try as you might  its always alright
pace out a lifetime-take flight

where are we now in the rush hour of life
what did we gain, in the struggle and strife
why not accept the fate that is ours
settle in grandly, ignore the powers

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
On the highways of utopia
stretching pleasure to people
insane with passions pages
I rolled along on tyres
trundling down mountains and valleys
salt swamps, honey mustard nights
pumping iron clad nozzles
energetic bursts of *******
countless stopovers
unburst wheels
mechanical breakdowns of the minds
metaphors of meaning

I settled then on a roadway
in Alaska
destroyed broken beaten
used and dirtied
by grease monkeys and maniacs
unkempt gearshifts of dollars and dimes

life was touch and go
when I parked in a nirvana slot
for good.
Out on the dusty ****
emblazoned with fingerprints
a wisecrack wrote:
I wish my wife was this *****!

Author Notes

A ***** Truck.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
the links go viral in the wondrous wasteland
people notice blue lettering
take journeys in rivulets of meaning
down pages pumping information

its crazy this desire for numbers
on twitter, FB. linkedin loops
click click click we go on a virtual
merry go round
dog chasing tail?
the circle widens, ripples

be wise they say
keep it clean, smart
as we manage this momentum

will the bubble burst
in a connected world
where we remain faceless, voiceless
life on a keyboard
ruled by a mouse

scampering through ghost people

its time to go back to living
and handshakes and kisses
phone numbers in wallets
smell skin and taste and touch

its time to sleep now
forever unconnected.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 14 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11677675-Social-media-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.B2PpCyij.dp­uf
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
heartbeat drumbeat rhythms
split second splinters
within empty spaces weeds germinate
seeds of contemplation
fill the world into yourself
walk tall, take time out
'reach the unreachable stars'
every journey an epitaph to solace
soar within where  layers
need peeling. empty your pain.
leave aside all attachments.

find the one pathway
that will consume you

take up your pilgrims pole
wear sackcloth
create intense focus on the goal

just go.
go -go- go!
never stop until you've reached
twilight where homecoming
waits with trumpets in tune.

don't ever stop.
just go and keep going.

Author Notes

It is like this.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11616417-Solitude-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.XMYG8FHV.dpuf
Marshall Gass Feb 2014
The fear of being alone causes the explosion of strange
sensations to surface from the deep
denizens of an inner cauldron where
settles a sense of imperfect calm.

Deceptive volcanoes of anger
lie dormant for centuries
waiting to blow star flung.

Just when the conquests of years of thinking
through the destruction
you arrive at a tsunami song
that needs tuning.

Some  more bruised bodies
scattered minds
with pieces lined up in perfection.

Walk on into the blistering night
unafraid of solitude.
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Lost in the lofty mountains of the mind
Memories reverberate and resurrect in splendour.
Nothing happens outside the circle of light
blazing inside. God, you wouldn't even understand
how luscious silence is until you have soaked
in it syrupy fortress of  day dreams.

Wandering in valleys where lushness
allows grass and flowers to bloom at will
braving minus forty temperatures outside
ice floes and white ribboned roadways
stretching into the blindness of snowflakes
the gardens still bloom inside the vivid imagination
of the minds solitude.

No matter where you are and what you do
you can be alone, even in a crowded room
just watching the world go by at leisure
allowing the clock to beat at unhurried pace
as the measure of your words not spoken
scatter people away from the racing imagery
of your silent and soulful solitude.

Poems are born in this complete non-interference
where reason rhyme and rhythm coagulate
and burst into bloom on pages awaiting
to take into its arms the creative perfection of meaning
only the poet could understand and share
with those he feels worthy of his magnificent
escapades into solitude and writing.

Author Notes

This is the birthplace for poems that spring into creation when alone and silent. The greatest works of literature, painting, poetry, music and all of the arts have happened best in the solitude of the mind.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Bullion stacked against a window sill
piled high enough to watch the street parade
from behind bullet  proof glass panels
wives and children safely ensconced
in upper rooms closer
to the helipad on standby.

He watched the streets burn
Moloch madness known
ego blown and ballooned
on taming the nightskys own fireworks
with the stars in attendance.
with God as his butler.

The man on the street did not think so.
The bills mounted high
and his power was cut for the presidents party.

with a loaf of bread to feed six children
he lost his soul to the furnace in his brain
molotov cocktail in hand
he marched down the alleyway
to the highway of the presidential palace
to set fire to his anger
on the parapets of broken promises
to lay waste to the promised kingdom
to break bread with his brethren
until his message was written
on the politicians plate of plenty.

The helicopter rose
straight into the molotov smash
and the fireball consumed the palace.
The rising ashes replaced the starlights
in the sky and the gold bullion melted back into the earth.

Author Notes
The Revolution has just finished in one place. It will start again in some other.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
We don’t know whether we are connected
to heaven or hell
yet we can move effortlessly
between these two domains
taking with us those bits and pieces
that can re-create passions in the vault
of our memories. All we need to do is put
the jagged pieces alongside the disputed ones
and ***** over the past mistakes
with fresh earth, the green grass of forgiveness.

And even before we know it
we will have climbed the stairway
to heaven where waits long passionate memories
tactfully chained to the other end
spiralling to hell.

Its really upto us
to race upwards
or slide down the stairwell
in this wonderful balancing act.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
split second eternity
muti-verses of magic
simple complex explanation
    devoid of reason
    burst starflung
    limitless beyond
    here sits the engine
    that created this universe
    and itself
    god?
  
Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
As subtle as it may seem I frighten at the pause inflicted
when standing before a knowing crowd
to speak up and be heard.

My brain rummages in a waste paper basket of words
for meaning but finds nothing that will escape my throat
out into the open where eager eyes wait and watch
for the imminent collapse of discomfort
around me like a skirt dropping without an elastic band.

Yet my head bubbles with exotic words all inside the cranium
but no words escape from even leaking outlets.
I slink in fright at what I may say, some unkempt sentence
something funny or fumbling, never intended.

Yet I write such massive volumes of words unspoken
but tempered in some inner furnace and beaten into poetic shape
asking no one for any help, but writing unaided and unfettered.

I write because all the things I want to say have gone past spoken
experience and now desire to be recognised as written words.
When spoken before a mirror  they come alive with different meanings
and wander into understanding without jabs and jarrs or prodding.

Many like me have said the same thing when discussed
and I wonder why that happens so uncomfortably.
Best to leave us alone and not bother to seek our words of wisdom
but our written words as reflections of an inner mirror!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Nov 2014
Foundations managed by slow ascent
to reasons seeking
solace in the upper spaces of the minds
reckoning.

I surrender to the pull
drawing me into territories
gateways to untold stories
palaces built on crystal dreams

we search for meanings not deciphered
yet remain locked in a haze
of old rituals, escape impossible

until at last the bud blooms
buildings complete
and mansions perched
on bright stars
light up the way forward.

The journey remains uncharted.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Within walls the humdrum echoes
footsteps magnify into monsters
so do journeys untaken, unplanned.
Step by step conquest is mastered
in real motion forward
mountains climbed
distances measured with hard muscle
counted in steps -one by one.

Nothing impossible
to the journeyman

No yardsticks to measure success
even God is a step closer.
Meditate dreams in sequence
until nirvana nears
at the journeys end
and reincarnations materialise
step by step.

Walking on the wild side
lengthens the shadows of darkness
until we fail to see the light
that will lead us back to the beginning
to the first step from where we started.

Step by step
in rhythm with the heartbeat
we all work through life
and onwards into eternity.

Author Notes

Step by Step. ' He who wants to walk the whole world must take his first step'
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
Sob wrecked agony as the knots folded into themselves
and caught in between a burst of emotion
spilling out onto the sheets of pain
as life ebbed out and the heartbeat stilled.

For one
last grasp at life she burst to beauty
eyes closed to a heaven only she could see
and left  a legacy of what could be
a ray of light, in a blinding moment of hope
when all we wanted was a little finger to grasp
in glory, but never. She just came to wish us a goodbye
and she was gone, her mark on our memory forever.

Even today her spirit grew its wonder
in our own fertile minds as we questioned why
she lived for such a whisper of hope
in our hearts.

But we gave her the love she came to collect
and left us her love to carry
all our lives.

I named her Maria.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
No matter the colour of the skin
the shade of eye and the silver Mercedes
parked in angular arrogance
or the pin-striped suit and embossed briefcase.
This is all external. Internally lies a rot
that seeps through your emotions and spills
out your conversation of stocks and shares
and deals awaiting in the forest
of your investment. Money kills.
The lines jangle and rise with regular
asterisk displays of sharebrokers
meetings with profound number crunchers
all racing to the billionaire list on Forbes
unaware that at home the little
boy is playing with matches
and momma is looking out the window
watching a man across the street
meddling with his mistress'
bra straps. You would never ever know
how she feels in her own narcotic ecstasy.

Each day you are missing
she is rowing a boat to a
nowhere shore
where weasels wait to devour
her destiny !

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Apr 2014
The speed with which it funnels into the sky
******* down to earth the torrents
that reached heaven
through oceans, mountains of majesty
and mists of mystery
now tearing down like a scythe
cutting pathways through manicured towns
and always aiming for stadiums of gathered people
the storm presses its anger
into the psyche of the sacred scared.

Here for a moment
grey willed and dense swirling
in a hula- hoop of swinging hips
dervish twisting
settling, unsettling
Gone suddenly.

Pick up the pieces
and wait for next seasons moods.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
Crows fly straight
home, as they say
One wobbles why.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago
Marshall Gass Feb 2014
The fear of being alone causes the explosion of strange
sensations to surface from the deep
denizens of an inner cauldron where
settles a sense of imperfect calm.

Deceptive volcanoes of anger
also lie dormant for centuries
waiting to blow star flung.

Just when the conquests of years of thinking
through the destruction
you arrive at a tsunami song
that needs tuning.

Some  more bruised bodies
scattered minds
with pieces lined up in perfection.

Walk on into the blistering night
unafraid of solitude.
Marshall Gass Nov 2014
splendid voices
choices
what we do delves deep
into our mystical selves
regurgitate
hope

whats in a poem
if not experience
fragments of a poets mind
in some structure.

we write because the barrage
of words embracing visuals
is ceaseless.

experiment
with power.
posture in metaphors
and allsorts
of devices
until satiated.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Nov 2014
compressed into tight tingles
escape impossible
boundaries high
sold into solitude
stay anchored to hope
change no direction

tigress locked in a cage
still a tigress
unchangeable attributes
life ****** away
in solace

break free from *******
fight snarl escape
don't turn back
look beyond the mirror
take no reflections
flee. now.
find yourself again.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Marshall Gass Feb 2014
She was all that, tall and filled
with mathematical curves and points
in languid poses aware
that male eyes grew bigger at her *****
welcome.

*** her legs never stopped growing
and barely touched the ground
poised and ready to pounce
panther like grace and beauty
to wrap around adventure
beckoning.

She wrote poems too
insipid though
moonbeams and roses
love and languish
imaginary lovers, unfulfilled dreams.
That sort of stuff!

I had her figured one whole summer
and my numbers and curves vastly improved
to the touch and taste
and her eyes swelled dolefully
at my cryptic poems

When she went back to hubby
She offered just one comment
on those vast tracts of writing:
Sounds good, but what do they mean?

Honesty makes your heart flutter.
I know that for sure. Winter arrived.
A warm fireplace. What else
Marshall Gass Mar 2014
Its a Sunday morning when the world works to a different pattern
housework claws in and takes control
of the daily tasks
last weeks work looks at me with doleful eyes
and a feather duster tickles my fancy.

Soon the clutter will unclutter itself
the vacuum cleaner will **** out the symphony
of dust and dirt and unhidden memories
and my desk will be tidied up and paper
towels will do their job.I spend time
re-arranging ******* in a more distinct pattern
" Ah, so there's that telephone number I scribbled last week!"

I return after an hours homework
and settle at my desk.
" Now where did I leave that phone number again?"

I survey the scene on AP
and skim through the comments
"God, he did not like my last poem,
She said :Keep it real
He said: What does this mean?"

and and and
The Green Eyes are forever smiling

Its a worthwhile Sunday

I better take up Chapter 36 of my book
but open Mathematical Universe instead.

Those eyes are haunting!
Its a beautiful Sunday.
Marshall Gass Feb 2014
we sat on the sunset boulevard
watching the waves hit the waters edge
into submission/peanut packets in hand
and bananas in brown paper bags
awaiting to share its tasteful death with our lives
we sauntered into conversations of the past
and present to a point where we arrived
bathed in the glory of companionship.

After years of knowing each others weaknesses
and strengths in all matters of the heart
mind and body-(bed included)
we at last were able to make peace
with our sweltering egos and the evening
heat to understand how we journeyed
through life with fewer wounds than
our fellow men all scarred and bruised
and beaten down by adversity.

The only reason, it seemed to us
and our journey was its casual composure
and careful regard for each others
individuality. But, we even, floundered
at the many instances when hurt and anger
took over the calm temperaments
and we moved on to the next alleyway
without carrying all that useless baggage
to break our backs into boredom.

The recipe was now ripe for the peanut ponder
and the banana benefit of the beautiful
night and its nakedness.
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