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

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

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

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

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

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

We did not ask for agreements or signatures
even a due diligence, check out each others
entrails, internet outcomes, criminal records
social security numbers
marriage licenses, children's ages, moles
on our mountains of doubt
even a fingerprint on a bare breast
phone numbers, mates and mistresses
drinking and smoking habits
salad preferences, vegan, bogan or  whatever.

We did, however, listen to that heartbeat
the words we spoke, the pictures we drew
finished, the colours that we painted
between rainbows
and the children we dreamed
who would look like you and me
if ever born
and how smart they would be
and as naughty as those little titters
of laughter, that cleared every checkbox.
on this shopping list for a mate!

We knew that this partnership existed
there was nothing we could do
to unbreak this bond that grew
from a tiny little seed
into this one big giant momentum
of togetherness.

That's a worthwhile partnership
several levels above commercial simplicity.

Author Notes

The romance continues.......
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Straddled by a luscious peach
encased in a robust pelvic girdle embrace
the eye dances a slow sensual waltz
step by step reasoning the gossamer finery of petals
balancing in the beauty unsure
of what it really means.

Therein lies the misstery
and kisstory
of sensual persuasions drawn delicately
from an angular birds eye view
of the black iris beauty
incandescently glowing welcome.

How did the artist get her work
drawn so accurately
but from a mirror reflection
posing herself, lights shining
and aroused at the pearl like petals
opening and closing
at every stroke
of a hard brush and bristle.

Well done my beauty.
You have defied my aesthetic thinking
into visual poetic explaining.

Well done

Author Notes

"Black Iris" - by Georgina O Keefe.


The way this delicate Iris is drawn it immediately takes me into wondering how it got its lights and shadows and rich purple-black heads with such clarity. Were there lights reflecting off walls, candlelight dinners and sparkling wines beside the painting?  As art it is outstanding, but as a perception it draws me into the lighter  side of understanding it.

Most enjoyable trying to gauge its deeper meanings.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

Author Notes

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

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

In the stillborn night the feathers of a frantic day
tickle the fancy and spill out
into sheets of dreams dreary

for tomorrows spellbinding faucet
of words to capture
explicit images of feelings
rushed to the tone of lone dreaming.

Hark the wind whispers secrets
to the trees waiting with leaves
to dance in the accepting arms of whispers
as it washes through the waterfalls of sound

Once in a while the heart stops short of racing
at the sight of an old lover
complicated by time and temperament
the poems roll off a press
invented somewhere in the chasms of the mind

I write because I am compelled to capture
words that pass by within reach
to entertain the wondrous pictures in my brain
that seek to form into slim fabrics of ecstasy.

Often I dance, dance in rhythm beating
a wicked bending salsa  that brings my lover
to me on bended knee. Love and poetry
dance together.

Any day give me a woman that bathes
in the soap suds of poetry and I will have
found me the rhythm of a fulfilled life.

Glass walled reflections of citadels of fantasy
merge in the moment of reality
Who are you locked in the ecstasy of vampires
and werewolves, scouring the night for its mystery
blasting ******* of thoughts
yet trancelike delving into the souls journey
from thought to thought.

Behind the facade
who are you? I see
prose and poems that speak a language
seeking freedom. Maybe not.

Yet I read those writings and decipher
what it is that melts the dark and light
in a crucible of molten red hot verse,
that sears to the touch and taste
and scars come unscabbed, line
by line as each fragment falls
away to reveal a whole person.

The raven and the rogue
mix delectably in this dish.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11588305-The-Raven-and-the-Rogue-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.wmrGkKhU­.dpuf

Forever. Come with an insight
burrowing deep beneath the psyche
stable and strong with rich meaning
its purpose tenfold.

Those which decay do not
hold court in my thinking.
Vanquished, they disappear. Permanently.

I keep the ones that stand out
like delicate pieces of art,
petals and lips and symbols
imbued with poetic life
strong.

I see them all the time
the ones that do not understand
what life sparks mean
to an eagle encircling
a rugged terrain
with crisp prey time  movement.

Within all the *** pourri
of mush and moonbeams
rises one that spreads wings
and flies with eagles
leaving kitchen hands
to clean tables.

I could name a hundred sacred poets
who have shared me with  imagination
and a thousand more
who have refused to ride the thermals
safely tucked in comfort zones
of silly comments.

Blaze the world.
Break you bonds
in the blood of knowing more!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The murmur began at the slow invasion of night
into a restless household, waiting for the sun to pull
the cloak of darkness over their depressions. The sky
pulled in tight and covered the suburbs with yellowing
memories of bygone days when streetlights lived
in small pale pools of circles under a twilight
of energy. Bellies full and bursting with new harvest wine
cuts of roasted pork and dark baked potatoes
there was no need to switch on the misery of political
misbehaviour. Contentment was written on cherub faces
and swollen bellies even as the noises from the street
amplified and grew bigger with every extra child added.

Then it happened. This disgraceful division between beliefs
that tore the street into pock marked holes of pain
Brother fought  brother and all of the Holy Books
were burned and everyone got out their pointing fingers
and looked across the street to lay waste to blame.

The first sms reached out beyond the barricades
and poles and farm implements were sharpened
for the hunting season. Anger drove people into strange
exorcisms and each side ran to the other to ferret out those
little children, huddling in frightened corners and mothers
breaking blood to lose the unborn brutality that followed.

Scattered amongst the ruins lay the dreams of happiness
and plentiful. The walls of economy imploded and the suited
smiling faces of politicians smeared across the highways were torn
down and used as fuel for bonfires. Everyone who dared died
within a week as the rubber bullets, water canons and plastic
armour plates ran out of production. Funeral pyres lit up the nightsky
and the wailing and weeping mingled with the river of rushing
humanity. The mountain paths were strewn with bones
and even the animals hesitated to eat the hungry.

The division of beliefs tore everyone into shreds of arguments.
Those in the front seat blamed the back benchers but those
in the left over seats were out on the street fomenting hate.
The world watched as the numbers climbed and all of the giant
pyramids and majestic pharaohs and ornaments could not stop
the need for power.

The lone child picking paper on an impoverished street
cried quietly and turned every stone looking for
mama.
Author Notes

A few years ago this happened, exactly as depicted. The land had plenty. Power was cornered at the top. Money and mystery flowed. Then one brave man sent a text message asking for change. The population exploded into belief/disbelief and chaos.

Even today the street battles rage and the pyres burn. The end is not in sight.
The Revolution will continue on.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Like love
the river bends with a mind of its own
brutally, beautifully
slowly disdainfully, in no hurry to go places,
everything must succumb, no compromises,
no ifs and buts
and all else must stand aside
as the Grand Canyon mind
cuts its swathe through the hardest of emotions
and divides the great expanse
into rivulets of meaning

So it is with those  we love
we move grains of sand
out of reach and slice through the toughest
facades to express this desire
to belong to  the ocean
breaking into waves at the end
of its wandering

And yet in
these are rivers of love
people reside on the outside
looking in
at this constant connection.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 4 days ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago

The scorching season pulls its shades down
in blinding light, raising temperatures
like tantrums. Uncontrolled desire for iced
drinks and sunhats, brown skinned beauty
unfolds in flowered dresses seeking attention
in round bottomed, figure hugging comfort.

Soon the sun will slow its brazenness
and give away to autumns roll
with  splendid colours and shapes
wilting and withering landscapes that
lay blankets of brown views
for winters rapid descent to claim the earth
for its own cold attitude.

Like this, the three seasons challenge
each other for attention. Overlapping transitions
from one to the other.

But spring returns, bursting with bud and green
fingers, pulling the heart of the resting root
into a warm embrace
and showing off its many coloured array
of flowers and fruit and fantasy.

No matter how you look at this seasonal change
there is an arrangement between themselves
that moods must change and accept
that creation and mind and matter are all
intertwined inextricably.

Author Notes

The seasons correspond to the life cycle of all human beings.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

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

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

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

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

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

The seesaw can swing up or down
we are hinged to life and death
like love and hate
good and bad whatever.

In the middle we have a choice
to swing either way. Stay up?
For how long. You must come down.

Live forever? You cant
Try as you might.
Love forever-possible
but hate follows close behind.

When God made man he was surely
seated on a seesaw!

Author Notes

Its obvious God was upto something
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Each of the little words you wrote
placed in a prefect location clinging
embracing, drawing other words in
into a glowing hug-were important
to keep this bridge between us
permanently reaching out
to each other.

You must know that morning roses
and evening perfumes were kissed
by your complete tenderness
and all I could do was wish upon a star
your universe and mine would mingle
in that eternal oneness
that we created from each others souls.

You must know that all this longing
was born in a distinct realm
which we understood so well
and yet we have never met.
How do we know these simple things
without  any explanation?
There must be  a heartbeat
that we shared in some other lifetime?

You must know that simplicity
is a combination of complexities
and all that we say and do
revolves around the others living moments.
What else is there for us to know
in a lifetime of discovery.

Author Notes

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

Between bullets and policy planks
between boundary lines and front lines
between to's and fro's and diplomatic tussles
pin-pong, ding- ****, right-wrong or otherwise
between threatening noises and patient posturing
between reasons why and why not
it belongs to us and nobody else.

We sat here from the dark ages
under lamplight, streetlight and flares
and fires from revolutions of evolutions
creating a culture of claim
to establishment of our rights
as indigenous people.

And so who are you?
walking into this quarter of globe
claiming you know better on
what belongs to who and why?

Between round tables
and square tables
round people and square people
beautiful women marching up on stage
books open and ready,

we will place our signatures
to seal the argument that
nothing belongs to nobody
until the signature sits
comfortably on an uncanny page.

" Please sign here, Mr Prime Minister!"
Author Notes

The Revolution continues. A signature seals the fate of all arguments. The first man to get his pen out and push a signature wins the argument.

The pen IS mightier than the sword.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The road was broken in segments of dream huts
clinging to 10 sqm of waterless, worthless plains
beside a million flies teeming for life sustaining energy
from rancid smells and miracles of justice that never come.

Living in the light of palaces, the poor understand pain
and poverty like life's  great gifts of wonder
to philosophise and burn in the tabernacle of
rotund politicians. How easy for them to girth
the national wealth under a huge lie.

Out in the open the crows capture the days sound
with raucous caws of indiscretion. Unrestrained
by manners or moments of ecstasy, each crow
sounds off the days entertainment.

At nightfall the city slimmer's to sleep
and the slums awake to underground life
living and moving relentlessly,  from one
moment to another, unheralded, unsung
fully awake with hunger, even as the darkness
closes in and absorbs the days movements
with its blanket of silence.

Tomorrow is another day for the cycle
to turn one more cog in the direction
of no return. Sad. Sad. Sad.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

You were made in March when the groundhogs sensed shadows
and the wine chilled itself in its glassy embrace
I was on whisky, watching late nights, and oh
The wires crossed and we did too near the fireplace

Winter shut the windows with its icy blast
and my rhythm quickened at Scene 4
where the door opened and the lady emerged
in a birthday suit and settled on the floor.

The cat scan showed your wiggly bits in May
and Momma smiled  about the vortex of the man I made
growing plump and rich in a warmer climate inside
For nine long months the case of scotch disappeared

as you grew stronger and bulged out beautifully.
You were born in December when the  lights went on
and Momma cuddled you chillfully!
In Jan you went to Nan. My impulses returned.

Feb came around rather quickly. A year gone
and a son born unblamed of the winter chill
or lusting whisky and late nights surging
outside/ inside wherever. I didn't name you
Jack Frost Junior for nothing.
There's a story behind every name, son!

Author Notes
Ha ha Ha.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Life sparks between two ends
the moment of birth is also death
accept it now
we journey from one spark to the other.

Make the best between the connectors
and do not, whatever maybe,
short circuit that which rolls down
end to end. Shed light
as the circuit completes.Go bright.

Author Notes
Life and death as an electrical circuit.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 26 days ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

In this part of the world its sunny and sweaty
and the just- past- spring air is making a mockery
of the ice and traffic jams in other parts of the world
where people are freezing.

We did not send the weather gods to capture
the sunshine and bring it here. But we did pray that
it rains equally in all parts and the weathermen
makes less mistakes on the forecast.

Whoever spoke of global warming must have had
a cold heart, or his wife would not have massaged him
the morning he took  his notes to the world forum
of weather watchers and spoke all that dribble
about two inches of the ocean rising!
He is now a wife beater.

These weather tricks are dished out by people
up there, around a round table who decide
who gets what. Anyone who mocks a weatherman
again will get an umbrella and a sunhat
as a punishment with a note saying:
Please use this in summer and this in winter.

But even as we argue about such small things
the grass grows quietly
above or beneath the snow and ice.

There is a moment when all things will come equal
and the people upstairs will sleep
and the people downstairs will make
children.

Walls of reinforced steel
reserve, packed high
with political ambitions
the steps leading up
into the night sky of diamonds,
for prayers from the pulpit of  doom
to those huddled below in the basement
chants and incense sticks
the temple stood imposing
upon every worshipers fear.

She was more than *****
as she danced snakes
gyrating to  the tax collections of
repentance. At night she coiled
around the sanctum sanctorum
of greed and faked ******* of deceit.

God gave -the  priest didn't!

Author Notes

Even if God gave the priest wouldn't?
Contemplation 11
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Burn. Burn. In the firelight of dawn when the sun sets aflame
those of us who awake to the clamor of day
unfinished tasks still holding up a traffic jam of events
on a scale unprecedented. Mind-blowing.

Work. Work. To break the list down into manageable machinations
Hoping that one by one the tasks will take flight
The page will be blessed with red  bloodied execution
and the ****** taken, will settle into substantial maturity.

Try. Try. New tasks germinate and populate the columns
and there is never enough time to juggle between starting
and finishing all those noble intentions. They crowd me out
pushing for space in an already jammed tight list of things to do.

I try to get on top of it but it wont surrender to my flirting,
and pampering and pushing, dressing and *******
and will not yield to my best one-liners.
Tasks come with a stern face and stare back at you
if you dare do something else instead.

The battle of boldness continues day in and day out
and I move on into sunnier climes where the beach
beckons more than another day at the desk
plodding through plots and summaries and shaping characters
line after line.

Sometimes I wonder what internal turbo charged engine
drives me to keep going-without looking back
at all those unfinished, abandoned tasks that never
helped in taking me forward.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

We can arrive at the huge gates
with tickets lost and fumbling
for an explanation. Not many slur off the tongue
like new found ****** escapades, but
we still want to taste the heaven that exists
in unknown wonders
in the twilight zone!

I am but human, dream human
explicit at times but real
taking you in waves, surfing on a shore
where the waters create a new baptism
and your moans unleash a symphony
lost between the covers of a lifetime
in the twilight zone.

Tomorrow I will come again renewed
refreshed and wanting
to take you to a special place
in the twilight zone!

Author Notes
An Unknown destination with the lover of your dreams.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

No rocks or boulders nails or spears
Romans hidden behind plumes and fears
of reprisal. No high priests or Jews or gentiles
could hold back the history of the Written Word
spoken through the megaphone of time
Nothing  holds back body and spirit from rising
to believe. Faith

Even as the witnesses stood at the threshold
the earth opened to the sky's arms
and He transcended physically
in an eternity of being.

Did He rise from the dead? He 'was' always.
Just as we who die from the moment born
he too was born and died forever
in the crucible of time. Believe.

Yes, of course in the atom of the minds
eye, boulders and bricks only hold
words and visuals which explain as best they could
what permanence means.
God needs no explanation
Man does.

Author Notes

The Resurrection is the core of the Christian faith. Without the belief in the Resurrection the entire belief system of a third of the world would fall into pieces. That belief has been held for two millennia and long before the Word was encased in meaningful dialogue. That wont change. Belief in resurrection existed long before the Crucifixion and Rising from the dead and never embodied in the richness it deserved except in the Christian faith.

The Resurrection is the greatest metaphor  for all believers in eternal life.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The deepest understanding  between lovers
stands majestically above the deepest abyss
as if, unbreakable and pure in its unreachable,
unbreakable bond.

Whatever melts this emotion together
was forged in a hotter furnace than ever found
that only two people can understand.

Rising above the highest tide
soaring above tornadoes and typhoons
and cruising along points of paradise
available only to the two of them.

How serene it feels to know
that your own reflection mirrors
in the other person and their every nuance
is written into your own poems
adding the rhyme and rhythm
for your own journey together.

Author Notes
Feel like this at times?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Where have you gone today,
my only love?
the weather weeps its tears
and wears a dull grey overcoat
waiting to bring a deluge
of floods into my  already
chill  autumn of the just vanishing
warmth of your sunshine.

I check my phone every few minutes
but you have not opened the windows
to  let the best rays of your  sunshine
silence my searching with you presence.

I will wait here
watching through the mist
of the stained glass emotion
of your absence
until you send me a signal
that we are still connected
soulmates.

Author Notes

Did I just write those lines? I'm still at the window waiting for the window cleaner to bring the snow down upon my watching!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a day ago

Lips and kiss don't rhyme
but neither does love and hate
Sorrow and pain seem elegant
and together accept their fate

Love and laughter have elegance
a waltzy unified dance
an embrace of happy togetherness
not left to anyones chance

Meetings and partings are similar
they stand in opposite twirl
It takes but a little adjustment
to keep it all in a swirl

Whatever the reason or rhyme may be
Two people are waltzing and free
One must be careful to keep to the tune
for the other to swing in with me!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

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

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

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

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




Author Notes

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

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

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

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago

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

Going astray was easy in those heady days
rocked by Woodstock and groupies
lazing in the limelight of nothingness
I felt liberated from cagey traditions
and floated free in beads and baubles
unkempt, unwise and soaked in sin and ***.

That's when I met the Master himself
at a midnight rendezvous in a quiet chapel
the night of January 7,'73
It rocked my world with wonder.

Here was an escape route from slow descent
into darkness and I took it. The return was slow
but steady upwards, even as I mended
all the broken parts of my life.

The before and after of the same coin
still cha-chings on and off but
sensibility returned and once the fences were
fixed and the lights switched on
the journey to recovery was quickened by reason

Today as I look back, the dark side of me
still beckons but the bright side draws
me into a place that has more meaning.
I am here to stay.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 26 days ago

Thirty years from now
no one will know the colour
of your eyes the car your drove
and the sound of your voice
or the house you lived in
Even the times you swore
you denied bread
to the outstretched arms
milk to the baby
wine to the wise
and love to the unloved.

Unless

you make a mark of man
in the footsteps to the temple
where lives an invisible being
resplendent in mercy
forgiving
and infallible to all
and accept
that your own universe
was crafted by this creator
with your name
scrawled in calligraphy
on a special page with your name
and number embossed
b?
d?
who am I?
What should I do?
to leave behind the best of Me?

Author Notes
Recognise this reflection?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

This is a family show

There should be no swear words
Nothing to do with *** and laughter
No racist comments
No political satires
No throwing pies at each other
No peeing on the fence
No graffiti
Nothing
No watching TV after 7.30pm
No snide remarks about broccoli
All must eat their carrots and peas
And work off those calories
No playing games
Complete your homework
Go to bed ( alone, mind you) at 8.00pm
No driving without a license
No staying out late at night

Jeez! what kind of abnormal family is this?

Author Notes
Getting crazier by the minute
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Time spirals like a stairwell through an infinite
Space where the beginning and end are never understood.

In the gravitational enigma of atoms and particles colliding
in perfect symmetry against a backdrop of forces
that we attribute to God and his  Mind over matter.

This is, for ‘something’ greater than god himself,
gave Him
the power to possess such awesome precision
that we still do not comprehend. Never.
Try as we might. Who or what then
exerted so much energy to create a man
comprised of infinite possibilities, deviations
and standards in a  controlled mind
to surpass all of creation?
And  and and  
attempt to understand its inner workings
from every angular dimension
yet never give up until he has found
the microscope pin-hole in the universe through which
he can see the face of the creator himself!

Is this a way
to tease this simple mans
understanding of his immense power?

The Body is the temple of God
No doubt about it. You were born
in a thermo dynamic quantum furnace embedded
in the very pulse that the Creator distributed
through another Creator
Another Creator, Another Creator
etc etc.

Accept it on your knees.
Author Notes

Exploring an afterthought. Infinity is the Creator himself.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Spark kissed tinder
burst into flames
As men gathered in tight knots
Stitched up a street riot

Wood warmed and glowed
Militant revolution minds
The embers hummed with ashes
As city streets burned

Tyres and tubes were rolled
home brew guzzled
Fuelled the fires further
more streets burned

Water cannons hissed
As men aflame with anger
Lit fireplaces up alleyways
With burning brain torches

Taking the political fireplaces
To the palace of no return.
As soon as the government
Dissolved into a carpet bombing
puddle

The big bear
licked  its paws.

Author Notes

The Revolution continues after a lapse of two months.  Most politics start around a fireplace fuelled by alcohol and hate. Once lit the fireplace chatter
moves into the street and spread rapidly.

The  Bear anticipates a breakdown of law and order and amasses its troops along the border.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The splinter  pain
it just sat there, tingling

as if, unconcerned
small and below deck

like fibreglass invisible
I could not do a thing

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

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

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

Author Notes

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

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

Dear family and friends
At last, my son is walking the long gangplank
to a happy married life. God bless his final journey to sanity.
I'm sure his beautiful bride has learned how to
cart a whole box of beer bottles out to the kerb very tuesday
**** socks, ignore those **** posters on his walls,
collect all his Penthouse Libraries
and tie ties. It will be a happy life together.
I was lost for words the day he came over to Mom and me
to inform of his final adrenalin rush into matrimony.
( or was it matrimoney?)
I was happy for him to be happy
and even offered to escort him to the gate!
We looked at his budget for the big do
and quietly froze our bank accounts, shut down the
family jewels and booked a holiday to Paris
a day after the wedding.Confronting the bills
was a frightening prospect for his mother and me.
I am sure, honourable guests, you will have enjoyed
the invitations of recycled paper?
He offered to return my tie and brocade shirt the day after.
But he was a good guy after all. So much like his father
chip of the old block. Like father, like son
blah blah blah
He has a lovely wife, and she is smiling too
at the catch she made.  God bless that girls cunning.
As a parting gift,my son, I have left you
a legacy of lust and happiness.
A supply of ******, so that you too, my son
could walk around
with a stiff neck!
God bless the happy married couple!

Author Notes

Ok. Its not serious. So what.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

No matter, the road you have taken and stars  counted
the journey still vibrates with your energetic laughter
splendid expression of hope companion.

You never  give up in defeat,  calm
you search out those moments, that will light up the rainbow
with a new shade of colour between deep blue and dark red
unraveling the ribbon of meaning.

Your dreams have magnified  in your collection of esoteric symbols
saying, seeing a hope future, power in the present and mapwork of
magic special people.What a concrete structure you stand between!
Rushmore looking back, the Rockies of the 90's and the art of
writers and poets coursing relentlessly through search engines of learning.

You must have danced on the doorstep
of  Woodstock turf of Freedom and jangled in Jimi Hendrix,
Santana Soul as you sailed through the years of magic
mushrooms and Castenada rolling hills in Ixtlan?  I cannot tell you
where your spirit was drenched and your body beautified
with eyes of opaque  violet emeralds looking through me as
a passerby on a slow train to nowhere?

I will wait at the next station to clip your ticket,
pull the whistle
stay back on this one last journey
to write the notes of the novel
that will embed this urgent understanding
in permanence.

I will wait.....

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a day ago

To find yourself, lose yourself
inside the cavernous mystery
that exists within you.
Self-reflect and remain silent
as you course your own veins
savouring every spectacle
touching every muscle
strolling through platelets
and rbcs wbcs, nerve knots
and cortex malfunctions
kidney pies and testosterone inspired
stimuli surging mountains
spiralling into decaying depravity

until you arrive
at a conclusion of who you really are.

Look back at the millions of systems
that grind and churn your life into meaning.

Never ever forget that like you
billions of others function in the same
mould of magical, mystical formulas.

You alone have a choice to make
to be different and special

Be special.

Author Notes
Outwards- looking in!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Those aged between 10-16, trade in your toy soldiers
for real guns at Barrack No 33 along
mocambo rd. Come alone. Parents not invited.

Be well fed, watered, trained and tempered
in steel resolve to waste the enemy.

Uniforms supplied, washed once a year.
Make your playmates olive green with envy.
Sleep in air conditioned dormitories
roofless, and watch the stars glide in and out
of a universe you do not know.

Learn to ****, ******, loot and march
in pincer formations up and down mountains
and rest near bubbling brooks and silver coloured leaves
in the jungles of dissent. Eat from tin can plates
and smoke delicious kat leaves to rev up your libido.

What are you doing playing with plastic toys?
we can give you real ones, real bombs, guns
serrated daggers,poison pellets, misty eyed maidens,
order your disorder.
(and bald heads for target practice)

Come my children,
learn the art of war
for the good of your country.

Sign up today
the commander will even shake your hand.
Become a real soldier.
Come in today. Come.

Author Notes
The rag tag mercenaries are resourcing real soldiers from the ranks. Sign u today. Learn the art of war. All recruits must be between 10-16 years only.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

You are born into  a gps place where pinpoints of  religions,
rituals and romances have been inbuilt into the waft and weft
of the world from the fabric was rolled out in rolls
of generations that went before you? Think back.

There is little  you  can change abruptly but slow
careful threads woven into the final pattern will reveal
how you wish to include, direct
and introduce a new pattern of thinking
into the new curtains you may hand hang on the walls
of a society that needs new furnishings!

Soon you will find yourself in the middle
of a movement shifting between traditions
that lay suppressed and controlled
by a segment of society that deemed
belief in change impossible without
tick marks from the elders of
a stagnant culture unable
to understand change and consequences!

I say to you. Go change traditions
to make society adapt better
to what lies ahead
not back! Change now. Its your time.



© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago

and it was quiet
the air still
thoughts racing
the feeling demure

what brings this tranquil ocean
to my doorstep
impending pain?
the cusp of happiness
life and its solemn slivers?
what?

I wait for the crackle
of the phone
the twitter sounds
birds chirping
whistling wonders

nothing happens
is anyone alive?
where is the world?
where is the noise and humdrum
the bustle and rustle

why is it so quiet?
should I be afraid?

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11685092-tranquil-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.VIJnmj7V.dpuf

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

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

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




Author Notes

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

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

I just stood there glued to a magnetic compass
that emanated from your eyes
to my crotch slowly rising
because you stared me down with that slant
and silly look that opened and shut
like a silky lipsticked kiss
that was stolen while your husband was busy watching
the Super Bowl of popcorn
cracking up the score.

No I was not guilty at all
Instead I felt for him like a brother
who just lost a squeezed lemon
**** with spoons of sugar
and a touch of vanilla lip-smacking
tongue touching sensuousness.
His games chalked up my own scores!

On the way home I knew
what you were thinking
because I could not resist a reverse
back to your place
but the lights were out
and the dog was snoring loose
the ***** tossing about
and I could not sing like Romeo
at anyone's balcony.

I went home and drew the boundaries
on my own property.

Author Notes
Oh! did I just own up?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month

Forever racing down the highways
of madness in the mind
I scuttle and scare at the engines roar
tossing the needle into overdrive
red bursting at the seams of gravity.

Fully entrenched in  the fast lane
I swerve to avoid articulated trucks
filled with layers of reason on why
I should humble myself in this societies
black hole of boundless depravity.

Given the delicious curve of the racetrack
and the one hundred reasons for delectable
togetherness, I shift to a slow rhythmic pulsating finish
savouring every moment I spent in your clockwork
seduction.

Fuelled and fantasy driven  I polish
and promote my car with all its grunts and bruises
and speeding tickets, near misses
and conquests as a dangerous drivers
logbook of mysteries and miseries.

This model is old and antique
but oils well and grunts its way to stardom.
Price tag-negotiable!

Author Notes
Is this a anything like a fancy car?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Flick a long lash
even accidentally
and a world of lust arises
Flick a false lash
purposefully
and watch what happens
Her entire personality
power passion and promise
is compromised by that one single
prompt!
Author Notes

35 words.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Blistering between the false hope of liberty
and the dream of a destiny
beyond the stars and the cosmic intricacies
of filtered rituals of nonsense, I stayed stymied
on the crutches of traditional customs
and conventions of writing.

Even the telescopic vision of a faraway
fantasy did not change rapidly
until the burning smell of a laissez-faire life
drove me into  the strange new highways
of poetry.

Before too long I re-directed my attention
to writing, reading and contemplation
all of which came together
in an implosion of thought.

I wrote my first poem at the tender
age of twelve
and never stopped racing down the
roadways of writing
tyres burning
and speedometer ticking

Who can stop a getaway wordsmith
from breaking vocab records
for daring the unimaginable fantasy?

Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 hours ago

The heat of summer sizzles
to  seek the embers of the heart
to nurse and nurture those feelings that rise
and burst-star flung into distant galaxies
dense, crisp  memories of the past
where poems fizzle and burn
through the summer solstice
until we arrive star struck
at Valentines Day. Warm and delicate.

Who  now,
waits to hear those succinct words
that untangle all the years waiting
into a warm embrace, naked  in naughtiness?

Roses. Flowers. Chocolates.Kisses
Symbolic of deep red lust in scented secret gardens
where the dark chocolate, lies licked and limp
until the kisses awake the senses.
You are special
and Everything.

Its the day of eternities compressed
and solidified in a moment
which we share together
to  look forward to anothers years waiting!

Begin today.

Author Notes

Valentines Day!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The streets were paved with hawkers
Flamboyant sunshades
two dollar sunglasses discounted from
twenty thousand pesos.

I couldn’t walk past the conversation of skytowers
Underwear hanging precariously
Off high ledges where it was hard to read
The designer labels

A man with a small monkey
Was reading fortunes
With an ape like face
He certainly saw the future!

A delicious woman with pushed up
***** beckoned me away from boredom
I walked into a valley of sinister looks
For looking away.

At night the sky shed its diamonds
On the sidewalks of ecstasy
And the digital signage
torched the front of buildings
With blue and red flames bursting
Invitations to your wallet

I carried a six pack Lion
Home to watch the night sky
Dance till dawn with necklaces
Of neon.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 7 days ago

Dust gathers
insipid dreams
we return to atoms
what is in it after all
death or life
wounded memories
splayed broken

we write because
unburdening happens
wonder what social media
does to the facade we build
cosmetic bridges
imaginary castles
impregnable fortresses

capillaries to the heart
blocked channels
voices of velvet sounds
cascading in the night
of doubt.The dust settles
after the storm

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Spring
There is synchrony in all things
Nature nurtures
Balances beauty to the beholder
Focus as you follow the footsteps of spring
Its dew, its rain, its meaning
And drops nestle against the joyous tears
Of leaves and lilies, sparkling bright
As the rains recede and flowers burst in bloom
Abundance everywhere
Spend a moment in this enchanting dream
You are a guest to eternity
Replenish yourself

As

Summer brings with it, oven heat
To bake and burn the beauty
Into bronzed ecstasy
As you saunter in the gardens
Shaded by giant trees that shield you
From wilting too
Yet how do these flowers never fade until time
Takes it toll and seeds nestled within petals
Are ripe and ready for the bees and birds,
And the grass stays green for the beast
To carry on in the living and giving

Soon

Autumn

Will take its share of painters colours
And dance and song drum the revelry
Of warm amber nights
And sunkissed fruit and flower
Still standing in the shadow of sun
Awaiting winter
With its icy fingers and crystal voices.
The hunter emerges from the wine clad wonder
Of rolling seasons
To stock and taste the fruit and berry
For winters wanting.  Life works differently.
Moods change to subtle melody
And the wanting of inner warmth
As the air descends into the flute
Of feathery notes
To tingle with winters chill

Then

Winter walks in gently
Unhurried and slow
First the farm yard bristles and burrows in
The fences reach for paddings of snow and icicle
And trees decorate themselves in costumes of white
Wearing narrow scarves of draping crystal
Bejewelled in the dance of snow and ice
And staying outside on the paddocks watching
Smoke spirals from long chimneys
Yellow windows of lights
Casting delicate traces on the courtyard
Of memories
And hot vapoury soups of broth and brine
As winter digs in deep
straddles the countryside
With its chill conversation
The silence stays for awhile

There stirs
A seed clutching its heart deep in its chest
Beneath the snow but sending its tentacles
Up through the warming ground
Soaked in nutritional brew
And reaching for the sun again
As Spring opens the blanket of snow
And steps aside for the bud to bloom again.

Natures music sounds again
Resplendent in its giving.
Author Notes

Vivaldi's music is deeply absorbing. The Four Seasons in particular move in a seamless way, drawing sustenance from the entire composition in a gentle way without changing tone and texture abruptly. The music keeps you engaged right throughout in a timeless way.
This poem tries to re-engineer how seamless the seasons are and how cyclical the entire composition is. Nature has a much qualified Maestro conducting this orchestra!
Life itself takes a similar journey and the seasons have enormous impact on how we perceive it.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago