*“For the tomorrows are where the promises resides
…that determines tomorrow's flavours”*
Marshal Gebbie
**a long day in the city, tired in way that only
a New York City can happily tax a body,
awaken just momentary before midnight,
greeted by two disparate realities and peeks of what just
past the bend might bring,
one man laments with utter love
the disappearance of his beloved behind the wall of dementia,^
and another,
by email, newly arrived from New Zealand,^^
inflaming a sensing the common nearing, future of our demarcations,
and yet, he, we,
double down to push yet another blocking boulder off the road,
always one more,
on the collective property that our humans minds share,
with an optimism,
that makes me pen, instantly,
for I am choice-less; now as before,
inhabited
by demon devils and good people,
crying out to all the winged muses hovering, come aid me, unmuddy these rivers of darkest chocolate interlacing the loveliest
of buttermilk vanilla
coursing mightily through a re!freshened brain,
all the clashing contradictory flavours demanded from me
by the powerful quietude of silence
that opens a new day, even though dawn may yet be
many hours away
here I am scribbling, words dripping, page staining,
after a long period
of my soul’s inability to pierce the Jerusalem city walls
of no inspiration,
and the contra~indicators of sanity and its opposite number,
of glowlights of positivity so deep rooted,
that even a lighting strike cannot knock
Oak
down, though deep may be the scars residual,
in a dark home,
where the evidence of life is in a handful of lit windows
across the avenue, of the adjacent sleep noises,
all signals that though spent,
we are not yet rent,
that life’s pleasuring are well and holy embraced with smiles demure,
recalling tales of past that are sugaring our souls, and the saddening
reminders fresh,
that all this, too, shall pass,
our own markers, unique,
all becoming, will be coming
with us
of course,
there is no resolution formidable to these warring states
of mind, and nowadays days,
repetitive searches for the perfect word we once knew too well,
oft come back as
N.C.A.
an acronym of tired sparks saying, that word, beloved to you is,
“not currently available”
as if it has been perma!checked out of the library,
unable to be returned…
the clock has moved us unwillingly to what was the morrow,
to well into the here and now,
and the swirling swishing eddies smashing into each other
yet palpitating vigorously our soul’s surfing,
muscular chested musings,
and our pangs of hunger for perfect certainty of
what will become of me are quietly stored back on the shelves,
of the closeted acceptable uncertainty,
my eyes revert to back to Marshal’s words,
and I make this
promise
to anyone within eyeshot, across this
global sphere,
that whatever are the colours of my continuous searches for that perfect mot,
will end only
at a time and place of,
with words of,***
mine own choosing
12:57am
Sun Nov 23 2025
<nml>
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 1:41 AM UTC
*“For the tomorrows are where the promises resides
…that determines tomorrow's flavours”*
Marshal Gebbie
**a long day in the city, tired in way that only
a New York City can happily tax a body,
awaken just momentary before midnight,
greeted by two disparate realities and peeks of what just
past the bend might bring,
one man laments with utter love
the disappearance of his beloved behind the wall of dementia,^
and another,
by email, newly arrived from New Zealand,^^
inflaming a sensing the common nearing, future of our demarcations,
and yet, he, we,
double down to push yet another blocking boulder off the road,
always one more,
on the collective property that our humans minds share,
with an optimism,
that makes me pen, instantly,
for I am choice-less; now as before,
inhabited
by demon devils and good people,
crying out to all the winged muses hovering, come aid me, unmuddy these rivers of darkest chocolate interlacing the loveliest
of buttermilk vanilla
coursing mightily through a re!freshened brain,
all the clashing contradictory flavours demanded from me
by the powerful quietude of silence
that opens a new day, even though dawn may yet be
many hours away
here I am scribbling, words dripping, page staining,
after a long period
of my soul’s inability to pierce the Jerusalem city walls
of no inspiration,
and the contra~indicators of sanity and its opposite number,
of glowlights of positivity so deep rooted,
that even a lighting strike cannot knock
Oak
down, though deep may be the scars residual,
in a dark home,
where the evidence of life is in a handful of lit windows
across the avenue, of the adjacent sleep noises,
all signals that though spent,
we are not yet rent,
that life’s pleasuring are well and holy embraced with smiles demure,
recalling tales of past that are sugaring our souls, and the saddening
reminders fresh,
that all this, too, shall pass,
our own markers, unique,
all becoming, will be coming
with us
of course,
there is no resolution formidable to these warring states
of mind, and nowadays days,
repetitive searches for the perfect word we once knew too well,
oft come back as
N.C.A.
an acronym of tired sparks saying, that word, beloved to you is,
“not currently available”
as if it has been perma!checked out of the library,
unable to be returned…
the clock has moved us unwillingly to what was the morrow,
to well into the here and now,
and the swirling swishing eddies smashing into each other
yet palpitating vigorously our soul’s surfing,
muscular chested musings,
and our pangs of hunger for perfect certainty of
what will become of me are quietly stored back on the shelves,
of the closeted acceptable uncertainty,
my eyes revert to back to Marshal’s words,
and I make this
promise
to anyone within eyeshot, across this
global sphere,
that whatever are the colours of my continuous searches for that perfect mot,
will end only
at a time and place of,
with words of,***
mine own choosing
12:57am
Sun Nov 23 2025
<nml>
Request permission to use this poem