numbers and cost crunching figures
she stood quietly calculating shelf spaces
calorie content
fat overdrive, taste sensation
and slowly but surely automatic fingers
ticked off the cents and savings
and chocolate biscuit treats.

pushing her trolley to checkout
she knew well
where indulgence took over sacrifice
where synthetic fizz was tastier
than real fruit syrup
and how supermarket shelves
connived with the devil.

home again
she balanced the books well
served plentiful dinners
kept the *** boiling
kicked *** out of roast lamb leftovers
yet chalked up a secret piggy bank
empire in a biscuit tin under the couch.

Author Notes

ordinary people? think again.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Swamp Tigers

No matter the monsoon rains that swished the tall grass
In the rivers journey downstream through
tea bushes on a symmetrical hill where
baskets dangled on nun  dressed heads
collecting  two buds and a burst of beauty
for tea bags.

Hidden in the dense foliage
Semtec strapped to her belly
She walked from bush to bush unafraid.
She had died many times before.

When gathered around counting tables
Her mind tripped as a childs cry found her heart
and she pulled the umbilical cord  to a bomb trigger.
and the muffled sound escaped
as the fifty mothers melted in the searing heat
and the factory flattened against the hillside
burning roasting tea and flesh together.

Deep in the jungle the Tiger growled
a low menace (of rejoicing?)

Other tamil tigers stalked the night in camouflage
jackets, strapping  other  mothers
to the savage sword of an enemy side.
Lost forever in the mayhem.

Author Notes
Its all over now. It happened once before the revolution faded against brutality.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

the enemy sings with soft words
weaving
spidery webs of deceit
watching, hunched, waiting
to spring when ready

watch as the sun sets how
his crouch melts within shadow
idealism
and he moves dark talons
from metallic sheaths

strike he will
book in hand scarfed and ready
his  black god lurks inside of him

we are not afraid
of his advance
armies wait for his heart
to spill on the battlefield
of silky dogmas.

Author Notes

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

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11612545-Sword-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.QpfXGqIP.dpuf

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

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

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

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

Author Notes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyone know this guy?

Check this Novel out!

The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition
Marshall E Gass
ISBN 9781493137848

Often I struggle to keep the ideas from bursting
out of the page and consuming me
like a jellybean, sweet and delicious with a nice tangy taste
and vanilla smell and sweetness
like a girlfriends kiss!

Ive read here that poets
0f the old tradition have rhyme and rhythm
and severe straitjackets that confine them
to prison walls of Victorian purpose.

I don’t belong to that staid
upper -lip class, casting a sly eye
on those of us who walk barefoot in the sand
swim naked in the rivers of emotion
or jump into pools of filth.

Free verse is better for me, because it is free.
Straitjackets with pins and needles and pin cushions
are only for those who wish to live in the past.
I m a sucker for sensible writing and for fun.

I am obsessed of a desire to write strange
synergetic words in a formation that sings
its own song in the auditoriums of my soul.

Author Notes
A brief reflection of why I write in addiction. Rehab awaits!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Around the pool of chandelier light the movers and shakers gathered
in tight knots, unwilling to untangle from the policy books
intent on pushing fences further out into the Caspian Sea
across the Black Sea and encircling the whole Artic Circle
from latitude whatever to wherever.

The chief fence maker arrived with a pair of pliers
and rolls of barbed wire twenty thousand posts
and a battalion of unnamed soldiers all hiding
behind masks of make-up

" Now listen, people, roll out that spikey wire starting from here
to eternity and keep going around the globe until you return
five hundred years to meet the beginning with the end!"

A few bald heads bowed but wary of  cross-hairs
hiding along the ceiling behind sharpshooting
shapeshifters.
They knew instinctively, that unbowed head may be bowled
over and transported to Siberia in a meat wagon
for permanent freezing with the mastodons.

"Go Now, do not turn back, ever, or you will become
a pillar of salt."
The band played The Last Post
as the last post rolled out.

Peace began as soon as the war ended
and the fences were built around the entire
Northern Hemisphere.

No aeroplanes should leave the capital,
incoming traffic should be diverted into hangars
loaded with soldiers of no recognisable denomination.

All passengers must surrender to security checks
at Gate 3, where security personnel will stamp
your passport for onward movement to selected
hotels on outskirts of city. Journalists are not allowed
to take pictures of cats and dogs without clearance from
Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Men in un-uniform should not disclose their barrack
locations. If any passenger sticks a flower in your rifle
pull the trigger!

Foreign guests posing as tourists may be allowed
into city centre where the riots rage. They make take
pictures of selected zones where tyres burn and
firewood has, at last, come out of homes into the street,
to protest against the snow and icy conditions.

No citizen should have duck roast for a week
the president has just gone duck shooting and assures
everyone there will be enough left for everybody
for the coming festive season.

Real peace will be over in a week
and everything will be normal again.
The firewood may go home and all the cats
dogs may return to the barracks. An announcement
will be made when journalists , may, at last
photograph people at war!
( pssst, with their neighbours)

There is no one to take your call at this time
Please leave a message
and I'll get back to you.

Oh yeah?

Your call is important to us
Please leave a blah blah blah

Oh yeah? you are not important
to me though.

The number you have called
is currently unavailable.
Please try later.

Can you give me back
my 20 cents please
you twit!

** ** ** and a Merry Christmas
to all our listeners!
Mine.

I never got a postcard again.

0000
debt collectors
are usually born in foxholes
from grubby mothers
and wayward fathers
Thats why they have four zeros.
They want to know you
but don't try hard enough
with those four zilches!

Please leave a message
in my comment box.
I'll call in later.

Buried in the birchwood camps where wood rot
and leaves trace many summers of being
Lies the old skeletal remains of a frisky deer
Silently sleeping eyes, glazed and stricken tongue
hanging out of of lucid mouth
pellet covered with heart muscle and frozen sinews

Hunter ravaging the forest for fresh meat
struck at the dawn of reason and aiming
pulled a perfect shot at grazing deer but struck
the one that wasn't looking directly. The others
sped into the thicket down the hill away.

Life and death intermingled in the gloom
of wanting and not wanting. The hunter walked away
rather than cross the valley for quarry
and burden his strained back for his prize.

Further down in the sparse sandy gorse and shrub
other smaller prizes waiting undisturbed by the
crack of death higher up. Life benign

Again he lowered rifle to his squinting eye
and squeezed the trigger. The sound echoed
across the valley, through the birchwood  trees
and quiet calmed the pulsing  racing hearts.

The hunter picked his carcass from the gorse and soil
and headed home. Guilty of of greed, two deaths for one small
meal of roasted meat to share his whisky thirst.
The night descended with its blanket of black
and other  predators shredded their prize uphill
thankful for lazy  hunters.

Life and death balanced itself in the wilderness
nature spoke with  an even tone.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 23 days ago

Suffused in silicone glass houses grows light
compressed into shades colours shapes
unmagnified the belief stays compressed
until freed from ******* and chains
in the prism

Rainbows burst forth in exuberance
flickering and wavy waltzing into imagination
captured glory in invisible naked sheets
spectrum energy of thin ribbons
strings of creativity locked
in a universe of time
with no beginning and no end
prism eternity

through the looking glass alice
may form a rainbow rabbit maybe a tunnel
through which she could splinter nano particles
into wavelengths of magnificent feeling
upside down meanings and magical memories
prismatic understanding

Baked in a wondrous mathematical formula
the numbers crunch into meaning
rotund and robust explanations
of cuboids and half triangles
unionised but separated entities
profoundly simple
in its complexity of metaphors
visual harmony
embossed in a prism

Why the light shrinks away from sight
into walls that bounce it back in rays
and colours capturing sky and raindrops
proclaiming weather and wonder
we will never know gods creation
and the magic he invests in simpler things
for us to unravel and behold.

Author Notes

We can see more than what the prism holds in its heart only if we care to look deeper.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The bishop knew his bounds and his curved sceptre
swept like a serpent up to his face
elongating his brows into wisdom beauty
but his eye wandered to the lady up front
with bubbly buttocks
and tight skirt.

Even his scriptures wobbled against
the power of adrenaline rushing
down his swollen
veins into his vesicles
where he still remained a bishop
with the diocese backing his holy grail
on the road to heaven.

With all those thoughts behind the mitre
and the dash of plumage purple
the bishop often wondered
what life would have been like
with the same spoils the church offered
and a warm woman in bed.

The black ribbon licks
through towering mountains
and deep succulent valleys
rushing past rows and rows
of cornfields and crevices
reaching into strange places
'honey salted'- ecstasies
to lips ripe and ready
at the top end of town
welcoming.

The same road  rips around
comes or goes
whichever takes your fancy.Anyone get it

NO STOPPING

for miles and miles
even to saunter off
and picnic with passersby

strangers stare
with secretive glances
as we pass each other on the four laned
handshake
to know that we
once took this road
to somewhere.

Author Notes
Anyone get it? Would be nice to know.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Its not easy to cross an invisible bridge
with a friend on the other side asking you
to step over an taste what lies beneath
the flowing water of rapid emotions.

Lost worlds collide and collapse
in the thinking and knowing
the excitement that wraps itself
around your own safety harnesses
as you step into the void of trust.
One step and the pyramid of pleasure
will come crashing down into fragments
of excruciating pain.

But try we must - to span
the wide divide to reach out and touch
the other hand when the bridge
suddenly becomes visible.

Sometimes the bridge may lead to a nowhere place
strewn with broken dreams and feeble attempts
at crossing the vast expanse between
knowing and unknowing.

I am a great cook, you said, casually
switching between the phone and knife
cutting conversations into small slivers
dicing lettuce, add patties, mustard
the phone smearing your make-up.
balancing between your neck and necklace
and long spiral ear-rings.

I am a great cook, you continued,
head tilted at a rakish angle
knife still dancing in mid-air.

( It’s a technique you mastered
over the years)
Cutting, calling and stalling.
I watched those big brown eyes
join the talkative salad and burger
now taking shape on the table

I shrivelled in fear
when you laughed and said:
I am a great cook and killer
of lettuce, stray ladies and flirty men-
Ha! Ha!
( oops!)

Do you want a beer to go with your burger?
did you joke?

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 22 days ago

As deep and rounded as the entrance
to a vast cave receding into emptiness
of the minds magic, the corridor stalked,
stalked the living and the lost with its presence

swerving into the undergrowth where
demons existed with magic potions
and mystical visions of an unknown hell
surrendered, we, to its vicissitudes
of wanton lust, nights of passion,ignoble strife
wandering in the mists of reason
searching for the souls location
in an unkempt place
where nothing reasonable existed
in this inferno of hate.

There was darkness, dense and deep
with screams reverberating
chilling spectacles of loss
as each one clambered over the others
mistakes
repeating the same, twice over.

There was a thin ray at the far end
and piecing the darkness like a
laser stab, this light found us huddled
in a network of nothingness
devoid of all senses, stripped of all sensation
afraid even to look at its glare
completely ignorant of who we were
or why we were located in this hell
of no mercy.

We searched for the  ray, blinding
in its beauty, and we held on to it
like a rope of discovery
struggling to find its source
in some far off kingdom
where the electric, supernatural power of mercy
emanated endlessly.

Leaving aside all that we carried
as heavy baggage
materialism and magic
raging hate and loneliness
pain and poverty, injustice,
everything that weighted us down
in an unwanted space

we struggled free from the chains
that bound us to our greed.

God stood at the entrance.
He had no face
no necklaces of gold or diamonds
or even a loose garb
He had no blonde hair
no angelic eyes
nothing in fact
adorned in the scriptures
nothing man like in making

The entity stood there
clean as the light
and we surrendered in haste
at this complete abandon.

The corridor closed behind us
as we walked into the light
of day. This was the moment
when levitation made sense
and we rose up on judgement day
to face the consequences
of our actions.

Author Notes

A metaphorical meeting of Heaven and Hell.

Contemplation 8
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Old T Rex stood on the mountain top
And watched the brontos stroll
Little did he know that further up
Moses was on a roll

The critter knew that one day soon
The tables would be turned
He hunched his back  and gnashed his teeth
The tablets wont be spurned.

Both together made mankind fierce
and splashed the fear of hell
One did better with no rehearse
Casting an eerie spell.

The tablets were used
To keep temperatures down
Ten doses a sop and a lollipop
T Rex the centre of town.

They said the world was paved with opportunities
oh yes it was. Businesses of all kinds
Both good and bad, sliding in and out of your conscience self
effortlessly. Writers of all kinds gathered in a pool
of subscribers, hoping for their craft to catch the eye
and gain the comments that so elevated them to pedestals
of happiness. Pain was ignored. Pain creates joy?

I was different. I came with words, worthless in themselves
staccato butterflies that grazed the slim lines of poetry
and migrated south of the border to lie in a wasteland
of dead pupae and broken wings. Yet I was not afraid
to say so. Words are worthless-no matter how you look at them.

But sing them out, dance them in a dream, play
the orchestra with its flawless symphonies
and magically those worthless words take flight
couched in the wings of music soaring above
the desperate denizens of waste paper baskets
into opportunities of hope and lust and longing.

I love words. I treat them carefully, dress them in silk
and satin, paint their fingernails, don eyelashes and
red berried lipstick and kiss them into rhyme and rhythm
walk them down the street, heads turning and
store them in books, songs and minds
in a library of conquests of body and soul and when the day
is done. I forget them. Not one of the thousand poems I wrote
can be recited. Butterflies migrating to the swamp of reincarnation
where lie millions of other poems that never saw the opportunity
of musical flight.

I  love words and I hate them. Its a relationship
like Jekyll and Hyde. Two shadows, two voices,
one sound with too many accents, yet they mean so much.
I could write the music for every poem but I'm tone deaf.
I need to see the eyes of reader sparkle in the frenzy
of reading and then I know my opportunity to write
was not wasted, loved not littered about
not defeated and languishing in another dry desert.

Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago

The endless sands bulging over and breaking
in undulating form
shifting in the winds language of low wolf whistles
and sensual whispers
stretches as far as the minds elasticity
into a sheltered cove where sits,
a desert prophet dreaming of strange rituals
in the mirage of waters and wastelands.

Come time and temperament he will rise
in the chill night to gaze upon the stars
moving within the spangled galaxies
between The Milky Way and Cassopeia,Andromeda,
with  Sirius suns rising in a another world
where secrets lay buried in the papyrus
of ancient astrologers who understood
how the earth was born and
other peoples left their mark
for a discovery  of millennium  future.

The prophet was here once.
Twelve feet tall and striding
between giant obelisks and pyramids
walking oceans, crossing land bridges
and land masses escorting
his forbears to seed the earth.

"I will return in time
ten thousand years after the Aztecs
Machu Pichu, Indus and Empires
built on carved  gods and seven headed hydra,
to rule again unquestioned, as before. Think.
Till then -leave what I have left behind
for you to caretake. Stay still.  Understand.

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

This early in the morning shrouded
by the negligee of night it feels
a bit silky silly to be working
partly dressed
awaiting for the dawn to push its way
into my strong coffee smell
tasks ahead. So many cups later
the light filters through the nets
and criss-crosses patterns of flowers
on a waking day.

Soon the rush and rustle
of things to be done will invade
every live moment
with acupuncture points of pressure
and to still the raging fires
of tasks undone I will
retreat into small pockets of sleep
to slow the blood rush and tumble
and cut the remaining hours
in frenzied action until
most of my diary completes its watch
over my progress
towards  a jaded evening where
a ***** and orange juice will answer
the leftover tasks asking
to be finished.

Another day. Another night. Gone.
So much yet to do.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

systems of all kinds collapse and crumble
under the stress of painjoy fumbling
at the seams of life.

take time to feel fear
in a world conquered by the mighty
for their power is extruded from within false walls
that are thick skinned and faulty
to the touch. One push
and the system they so delicately carved
around themselves in citadels of falsehood
will also collapse
if one small ***** lets the light into this
thick darkness.

Look around you
at the gravy trains that roared on one way
tracks to destruction in quarters
of the world
where blood built empires
let lose vampires  to ****
the energy of life
but succumbed themselves
to the same blood bank. The system
closed in and choked them off
even as they struggled to stay afloat
in the approaching maelstrom.

all will perish
in the system
where greed is gilded in gold
temples of power.The Middle East
will become fertile by the black gold on the outside
and the crushed bones of the inside

History has a long list of such
flimsy empires
with terracotta temperaments
and hieroglyphic heros

The walled -in city imposed upon the reason
to stand so tall within the minds slum
People gathered in networks discussing nothing.
Even as the sea split into pellets of rain
The waters squished together to form puddles of delight
where children played with bare toeholds in the dirt.

I saw Jericho fall as trumpets went out of tune
and tunics hitched up on Roman Generals
marched with full venison bellies
slaughtering people like pigs-making bacon!

As desolate as this **** dream  visions
of wasted emptiness, slowly filling at the edge
with landscaped gardens of garbage
the gates opened and Trojan Horses
unleashed terror on the people.

Prophets roamed the Western world
preaching doomsday and scimitars of radicalism
overtaking the civilised. Insanity finds
its origins in reading between the lines.

I tell you it will not happen. It never will.

Author Notes

Dare to decipher this?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

There is a silence in the air
the art of unknowing tactfully
nothing stirs outside of me
the mind rages in a fire inside
wanting to know how things are
and where you are and what you're doing

Its best to know these things
before the distance slowly pushes
you and me apart
as if it was hard to stay locked in one place

But you know me by now
I wont come around searching
I will stop looking for you.
First because I dont want to face
the unhappiness of knowing
the truth. Its best left alone to decompose in itself.

Time will heal even the distances
and long after you are gone
and I'm able to understand how easily it
all happened. We will become empty shells
without an emotional ocean around us
lying on the sands of time
waiting to be discovered
by new relationships.

That is a strange way to see this break-up
but show me a better way and I will stay.

Are you listening to the fires burning
the crackling and blazing
the hissing and whispering?

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

At first, pimply faced and shy to look and touch
you took the stars from the sky and implanted them
into my crisp clean English Essay as if the words
were silhouetted in the embroidery of the night.

I was struck by this teacher who lived in a space
that filled his skull cap with beauty in everything.

Soon the floodgates opened and my own words
mingled with ecstasies and rituals of writing,
danced across the page in rhyme and reason
and spilled over into vast tracts of books and
writings and thousands of printed pages
all with your signature hidden in the prose
and poetry of teaching me to search for meaning
in every single word. What a journey.

Today as I shift some words and visuals
into subtle pictures I remember the first ones you spoke
to a shy little boy, afraid of others seeing his writing:

" Go dance with the delicate, spin magic with
every sentence and dress those pictures in tailcoats
and ties, so others may know that your pen is
dipped in poetic polish of a special kind"

Thank you Bro D'Arcy.
Author Notes

A tribute to Bro D'Arcy, my English Teacher at St Josephs College, Coonoor, who first recognised that my writing was different. The good man never ever made  a negative comment and each time he looked at my schoolboy writing, he would delicately carve his calligraphic handwriting suggesting how better I could improve the language.

Sometimes, I would write and re-write a poem dozens of times until it merged into the best poem possible.

"Every word spoken or written with part of you in it makes you a better person"- Bro D'Arcy

I owe Bro D'arcy, a lifetime of learning to write better.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Equinox  pulling nights shadows
back over bright days. Swallows head home
where the sun grows stronger. The garden, slows down
packs up it belongings and bundled into seeds
awaits the pickers and packers.
Autumn takes on its rouge
cosmetic sedentary demeanour,
as leaves drop off into shades
of brown and bark, burnt from beauty
in the summer caress, now yielding
to the cusp of cold winds taming the
North and East, slowly changing the landscape
into a damp squid waiting for harvests of
last fruits and flowers, before winter comes
softly in with icy winds and blanket mist coloured
morning and evenings,
fireplaces roar  life and laughter.

Winter settles like a city smog
shading the last gasp of warm sun
under a duvet of dainty dreams.

We look out for the coming Christmas
of family, friends, and greetings cards
that will burst upon our sense of beauty
with a carol honed in honeytones of harmony
practised over weeks of preparation.

Another year will drop on the calendar
of events that we carry forward
to every season.

The embers blushed before the caressing eyes
of my new lover reaching out to snuggle against
the flickering light of welcoming warmth
naked and close
the room smelt of subtle wood chips and ash
roasted coffee beans and aftershave lotion
sexuality.

She was radiant in her skin tone
so exposed to accentuated curves
carving the fireside flame
into a furnace of wantonness. Uninhibited.

The snow outside cocooned the cabin
into a nest of togetherness.

I found here basking on a bar stool
eyes cast deep in thought on a gin and tonic
contemplation of dejection.

" He found another woman"
" Oh yeah, I just found my own woman!"
We giggled into the glass.
"Take me home to the mountains
of your mind and share with me your
meteoric rise to a metaphoric magical kingdom
where poets live and dream!'
" I have a furnace waiting for you"
" Lets go !"
Very short introduction to ecstasy.

Two days later
I dropped her off mid-city
near a replica of the Statue of Liberty
in a shopping window full of
picture postcards.

I had enough stored in the memory bank
to write a whole new dash of fireplace poems.

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

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

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

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

primitive.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago

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

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

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

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

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago

Hidden within the dense leaves and knotted lovers of trees
And roots and sly creatures lurking in the shadows of
an untidy mind-there reigns reason to seek,
satisfy all cravings for a life unblemished
in the rush and tumble of a fate pre-determined.

Where you were born and how you lived to become
part of this social structure built on the nuances
of rituals, so bred to burst you into bloom
as you tumble and twist in the days unfolding
in biblical proportions of trust in traditions.

The roots drive into the skin of the earth
and rest sublime to weathered ecstasies.
You are born again  in the forest of dreams
where your cards were stacked against a chain of events
that grew you into wondrous life.

At home in the sublime situation where the city rises
from the cemetery of the living
zombies go to work on busy black snakes, their tongues
twisting in and out of buildings and by- lanes
with bodies racing non-stop to  small cubicles
Gaining income for living, selling subservience
in the slave market of minimum wages.

The forest grows in a fertile plain embedded
in the minds of all people escaping from living
in the detritus of social norms. We are the roots.
Author Notes

We all belong to a social forest which has its own rules on who we are and how we survive in its ever expanding growth. There is little we can do to change those circumstances.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The sun played its usual tricks on the leaves
putting colour and composition into autumns grandeur
but winter lurked just underneath this cosmetic skin
waiting to burst starflung into every crevice
where the ice remains as cold as a frozen temperament.

Deep within the earth the heart
of the seed will rest embraced by the long wait
to be ****** out of the earths womb into spring
where the soft sun and wind and rain
will reach out and grab the arms of the emerging shoot
claw it above ground and set it free into
the wide world of evolution.

Welcome the rain, remnants of noahs ark
that bloats the soil and sand and pulls the roots back
into the ground while coursing through the veins
of the resplendent tree reaching for the sky
and wind and wonder of life
and dressed in foliage and flowers
the kingdom of believers will arrive
to set foot under shade and succulent tube
to nourish themselves in bounty and beauty

Autumn will return from its journey
to touch a clock and take the baton
of beauty back again. A year gone.
Older. Wiser. Smarter.
Author Notes

A journey through the four seasons. It summer in New Zealand and sizzling. Its not the best summer to write about. Soon it will fall into the next cycle and all that I write about will repeat.

I took my dog, Petals for a walk yesterday. She always stops at one particular flowering bed and ferrets out-whatever. That's when the poem came to me.
Hope you enjoy the poem. To those caught in blizzards and ice and snow wherever, remember, there is beauty in that too! Just gotta love it-which ever way. Its nice to be alive.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Swinging slowly in the aftermath of sin
the gates swung on well oiled hinges
those who rushed in had baggage to hide
those who didn't stood in the q
waiting turns at redemption.

The devil popped his  horns around the corner
shouting names from a list- nobody answered.
But peter, that guy, without capital spellings
had this great book of columns
yet a few stepped out of line, hands
in the air of ownership.

Purgatory had hand-painted signage
further down
and those who claimed no heaven
or hell quietly formed a third Q
waiting to let themselves in here
for all eternity.

'at least in this place'said one young fella
'you can slow cook, like a tender bbq
and watch the dancing girls
swirl around on the tables
balancing between sin
and eternal innocent happiness'

I immediately joined this
long healthy line of thinkers
philosophers and charlatans!

Author Notes

Its true. Believe me!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11620859-The-Gates-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.QrPcpcX9.dpuf

I understood her symbolisms and archway
of words and visuals that lit a dull day
with fiery sparks of language
written in fluid motions of poetic emotion.

Whichever way I turned she appeared
to stand right there in reason,
her spirit reaching out for my friendship
snuggling closer to the comfort of knowing
where freedom and safety abound.

It will be some time before she returns
to her mechanical life
dreaming of the 6th commandment
and its shattered images
spilling from the fragmented and broken
promises that we made to different partners
in a different time.

We met on an internet highway
straddling two continents
but drawn to each other
by the sheer magnetism of poetry and passion
expressed on the pages of  love
with new meanings.

When we part, we will take with us
a fresh new memory bank
of rhymes, rhythms, reasons and romance
to lock away in a vault that has no key.
No one will know what  this love meant
to us who crossed the great divide
for that one meeting in secrecy.

Author Notes
A recollection of  secret love.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Its not easy to cross an invisible bridge
with a friend on the other side asking you
to step over an taste what lies beneath
the flowing water of rapid emotions.

Lost worlds collide and collapse
in the thinking and knowing
the excitement that wraps itself
around your own safety harnesses
as you step into the void of trust.
One step and the pyramid of pleasure
will come crashing down into fragments
of excruciating pain.

But try we must - to span
the wide divide to reach out and touch
the other hand when the bridge
suddenly becomes visible.

Sometimes the bridge may lead to a nowhere place
strewn with broken dreams and feeble attempts
at crossing the vast expanse between
knowing and unknowing.

Author Notes
Real time experience. Happens once in a while. There are no reasons why it happens this way. The best ever poems are written just trying to figure this one out.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Resplendent in his sweep he stalls in mid air still
as if the sun held his talons to sharpen the  winds verb
against the shrill bursting from this tensed lungs
splitting the arc of swoop into perfect symmetry

He sweeps in one long delicate swirl
and spot on the talons clutch at rushing fur and bone
crushing as it lifts the hare, head darting
this way and that. Up, up and away

into the sky's arms. He opens the chef blades
of his beak and delicately strips flesh even
as the dying hare struggles to crawl back
into life. But its windpipe shatters with a squeeze.

The hawk circles high, testing thermals
watching as the cotton clouds gather around
him and blanket his feast with a light shawl of wool.
He knows his domain well. From here he sees

the hurrying feet amidst bracken and bush
and with mathematical precision he plans
his next course from the skies. Even as grizzle
and unchewable hare bones and soft fur tumble
to earth for other predators to salvage.
Majestic Hawk. Master and mystery.

Author Notes

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

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11609440-The-Hawk-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.GaMYpzzs.dpuf

As dense as the night encloses you
in its firm grasp
life evolves with sunrise
and a new day.

Light enters  the darkest moment
fulfilling the need for resurrection
setting free the entombed cavity
where resides
pain and nonacceptance

Fly you must from this sticky ruin
where you are unable to struggle free
trapped in a void of loneliness
the answers completely devoid of reason

The Heart of Darkness
beats in a strange flutter
until you seek the Calming Light
succumb to the mystical forces
at your command.

Author Notes

From self-knowledge comes acceptance of how vulnerable every person is. This is the Darkness. This can be dispelled with knowing yourself and setting yourself free by using the Mystical forces that you were born with. Its just a matter of recognizing what forces you have at your command. These could be an understanding of supernatural things, like numbers, colours, insight,
prophecies and clairvoyance, instinct, sympathy, compassion and silence or solitude. In using these forces, either singularly or in in conjunction with each other you can build a gigantic wall that will prevent darkness from settling into yourself permanently.

This is mysticism at its best.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11617536-The-Heart-of-Darkness-3-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.­BSXEJ1X9.dpuf

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

Author Notes

Oh sorry.

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

Behind the gate that pretended to be locked
lurked in the half shut window
a sage
solitude soaked and driven by impulse
to look away when questioned.
He was a lone man with lifetime wisdom.

Patch on  lakeside worshipped the ****
grew in grace and abundance
tendered tenderly, as if, the soul
invested in the soil  spirit would
rise through  pipes  produced to ****
lungfuls and sit back and watch
the sky bend in ecstasy.
The surge climbed  nerves
settled  pumping heart.

He said he saw the Christ
cry on  the cross stifled by the nails
and thorny weeds akin
to smoke and sustenance he now bequeathed
to silence.

The greater sorrow
nursed being unable to float
free from the injustice that lay  thick bark
on  magnificent tree. He ran as fast as his conscience could take
him to the outer reaches of society
where nirvanas  quiet life of contemplation opened.

an evening listening to him profound
the lectures the worlds knowing
learned his talk of the next kingdom.

Quiet in the night of haze
and damp sweet smells
he dreamed a patch in afterlife too.

Author Notes
We all know this man.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

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

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

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

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

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 17 days ago

The colours swing in a pendulum attached to the mind
as if
each shade knows its final resting place
in a landscape packed with the purity of clarity.

All of the brushes have been tenderly placed
in a potholder soaking
up the sensations of previous lifetimes
now slowly turning to ageing grey shades
of temperament

To touch the sunflower grey would be a sin
against the sun it glints off the minds magical array
but green beckons in an eversoft seduction
with silver on the undersides to offshoot
the tantrums of the painters reflection.

The scene emerges from a warm blanket of texture
into a tone so gentle that it seems to whisper its presence
in a vase of rounded personality.

I watch
as she loses herself in every stroke of deftness
stepping out into the limelight
taking a bow before an audience of murmurs
soon retreating into that world
that has captured her for today.

She will return when she is ready.
to live amongst us again.

Break bread
as wood
set the table in symmetry
serve wine in decanters
sit, pray
eat to remember

the ark of the covenant
kingdoms in biblical times
unscathed testimonies
time tested rituals
follow through

to eternity
forty days of flooded alcoholic nights
blind stupor
fall in love
die slowly.

is there a kingdom
waiting?

Not sure yet.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 days ago

She was  smart and as clever as the piles of documents
she worked behind
cutting through the paperwork like a tornado
insistent, hissing and answering the phone
even before the second ring
how she did that was beyond me.

A million facts later
court cases. dates of judgement
clent's names, dates of birth
the moles each one had
tax history
mistress mystery
golf mastery
domestic violence history
everything. everything

skirts tight, a round behind
wiggling to wobbly eyes
she controlled the office
better than a judge with a gavel.

I was terrified of every move.
splendid woman.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

The mystery deepens with slow steps
down the drive to that green mystery box
that holds the secrets of the universe within its grasp.
Besides the bills that need attention
invitations to church services
'fresh cuts'  from  butcher going down
products  the clothing store  discounts
power bills powering me up
water bills wetting me down
local rags headlining unknown street corners
filled with rage and graffiti
police searching for crims
(not on my street-No)
preachers discounting heaven for a tithe
car license rebirth
warrant remake
local  school financial support
what else is new?

I've recently installed another box next
standing beside green box
flip all of the above next box
for recycling.

I only keep the one
which says in small print
No ******* collections on Labour Day.

Author Notes
Do you have the same problem and solution
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 months ago

The ground appeared level, but no
minor bumps eroded the sanctity of evenness
at odd pockets where the soil sustained repeated injury
there lurked creatures of all sorts.
Few were long nosed, impervious blood suckers,
others like two horned underground creepers that snitched
and larked on fellow mates found solace in company.
Further down racists blended with the beautiful
and both white and dark temperaments moulded
together, as if, sustained by a creed and greed.

Further afield there were hangers-on who ruefully
were iron-****** and aplenty, lurking amongst the poor
and wretched, ******* solar power from the weak,
fiddling with the filth and holding back on sustenance.
These were the parasites of the field.

Turning to the left of centre, the holy melted in the crowd
of doomsayers, prophets and penitents, preaching
a word distorted to draw attention to themselves
under the guise of royal purple robes and stolen sceptres
pompous idiots who claimed to own the field, but
wore egoistic hot air and lead balloons of pride
and prejudice.

On just the one small section of the field you could play
delightful soccer, kick the ball or backsides and feel proud
you played a fair game, in spite of the pale bellied creatures
that roamed the tunnels and turrets of the level playing field
ready to draw you in for dissection. Of course, they smiled
benignly, when you passed by them, watching you slyly,
but all the time with hands at the back of them
clutching razor sharp daggers to shed your dignity
and lay waste to your humanity.

All of us are listed on this game. Some play, some referee, some refuse,
mostly spectators, watching and cheering, unaware
of how the level playing is set out in layers of deception.

Have you purchased your tickets for the next game?
Author Notes

A huge metaphor for injustice and greed. Play the game as you are expected to unless you want to be part of the underground network of deceivers. Pick a part in this game, which involves everybody. The colour of your skin dictates the price of the ticket to the game. Please take part. If you are a spectator
in this stadium with bright lights and pom-pom dancing girls, you will know what I'm talking about.

The game begins everyday at sunrise!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Charms  present itself as attributes
in cloak and dagger, blood still dripping
with the last **** envious hate, insidious
beasts, burdened by the bronze culture
impervious to the shallow golden calf
shrouded in the sinister guise
of compassion.

Why do the radicals look
up to the sky  praise god for approval
on own inequities
bolstered by the book of prophets
who did not see these acts
as sanctity or sacred.

The contradictions balance
between heaven and hell
even as the world turns to watch
the anguish of beliefs in agony.

Go now seek the desert of doom.
to announce meaningless mantras
for the wisdom of attention.
Burn in the terrible dawn of discovery.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author Notes

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

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

The invisible hand that stretches across
Oceans and  barbed wire boundaries
Has more fingers than the streams of light that cascade
from the heavens into the dark recesses
of your magnificence.

There are moments when all seems lost
But the shadow of darkness is dispelled
And replaced by this glimmer of hope
That softly and subtly invades
Your magnificence

Even as we explore the faint avenues
That wound their way into our consciousness
We clearly seem to understand how our journeys
Criss-crossed over exotic landscapes
And stark desolate realties
To merge into a moment of  mystery.

We have finally met.
Now more human than before
The pages  of our past turn slowly
The notes we compare are cryptic and careless
But what we share seems to have been sculpted
By the same pen filled with the same ink of wisdom.

The invisible hand that stretches across
Oceans and  barbed wire boundaries
has more fingers than the streams of light that cascade
from the heavens into the darker recesses
of your magnificence.

There are moments when all seems lost
but the shadow of darkness is dispelled
and replaced by this glimmer of hope
that softly and subtly invades
your magnificence

Even as we explore the faint avenues
that wound their way into our consciousness
we clearly seem to understand how our journeys
criss-crossed over exotic landscapes
and stark desolate realties
to merge into a moment of  mystery.

We have finally met.

Now more human than before
the pages  of our past turn slowly
the notes we compare are cryptic and careless
but what we share seems to have been sculpted
by the same pen filled with the same ink of wisdom.

Author Notes
for MJH. Thank you.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Spell binding tick tock
words in animation slowed down to drip
drop- candy coloured emotion
hello is it you?
yes it is
your accent is strange! ha ha!

Please put the phone against
your heart
I want to hear the universe of your love
engulf me in its embrace

ok ok. im driving
let me pull up
here you go
kaboom kaboom kaboom........
(petals falling into place
the mind dances a dream)

can you hear it?
can you hear it?

yes I can
it beats the same as mine

Are you crazy
man of magic?
Wow!

love you to bits and bits and bits.....

Author Notes

This little anecdote cannot be explained any other way. Magical moments like this happen ever so often. We just have to be there to know it and relish it. I could write an entire novel based on this one split second moment. Its hard to describe, yet it happened this way!

I guess, poets are constantly sifting chaff from the grain.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 days ago

nuns floated on serene slabs of silence
like penguins of patience
waiting for the summer of noise and nuisance
to batter the  baptismal vow
of tranquility.

i was alone here
my sins magnified and enormous against
the leadlight windows and bare walls
light streaming rainbows of meaning
through the high altar windows
onto sheets of spotless white souls
singing in harmony-not a stitch out of tune
angels of mercy.

Slinking by the giant font
huddled and hugged by incense absorbed
embroidered seat covers of pews
i was afraid my sinful stains
would corrupt this magnificence.

there is a god i could not see
a spirit resting in the moment
angels flitting about keeping calm
ushering in the penitents
and patting the innocents.

slowly but surely the walls
began to tremble with acceptance
and my voice found a note in the hymnal
and i surrendered to the honeysuckle tone
of the sisters in praise and song.

Author Notes

True.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author Notes

Check out my first Novel: The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition

on www.Amazon.com/author/marshallgass

ISBN 9781493137848

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago