please girl, always wear blue!

please girl, who among is
not always been a runner up
to somebody, in some endeavor,
and it always be this way forever,

I have read but one of your poems,
(now no longer true)
Though I have read and written
This ideation, in a 1000 variations,
By 10,000 we are~we be  
be poets

But let us start at the beginning,
and not miss the obvious,
Spelling of your name
whether or not by choice by choice,
by somones
incision
upon your everything
I gifted you this po-em

makes a specialist in unique,
Never knew never read a,
Lizie with this single Zed,
And though there may be others

Another I have yet encountered
as a prolific poet at such a tender age,
So now you test & task me, with
a closer examination of your written largesse

i'm a stumbler, and a tumbler of/to those
who dabble in this black on white magical,
artistry, but to your naming, I retuning, returning,
thanks to whomever entitled you to this heraldry,

so here I commence, but not end, for I am too,
Well familiar with the women whose names,
Were deliciously and deliberately misspelled,
to make sure, forever,

their own specialization art  on insight or foresight,
of birthright  and born rights, SO cease the boohoo,
Immediately<
we are always  be behind to a second place finisher, unkbeknownest,
to thousands here. and else where,
but hopefully, much loved, by those who value their
own scripting, for themselves, who let out, emit a slight
growl of satisfaction, and an even bigger smile at satisfying
the inner first among so many, surrounding you,
by name
preserved prezisely for you...
                              


nml

YOU,
one of the  mainstay sails of this ship,
a timbered main, like so many others,
who come here to pray and be blessed
daily, sometime twice, and rare absent
from this battlefield of word worthiness,
where so many fall, unattended, but you
are not one of them

you cross my mind,
and bring me a smile,
all the time. line by line,
your bedlam blue, is our custodian

I repost what intrigues, makes me gasp, jealous and desiring
why and how you found these words, that trick my eyes,
in disbelieving belief, that you got there first,  com~bo~ing
craziness delightfully,  and says me ****, how could have I
missed this, the that, where you are at,  a missive missile firing
in a million directions, hitting every target...

so I thank you, twice times over, you
are the sailor extraordinaire that keeps our
leaky (bad gateway?) afloat, and it is you,
X 10,000  that I wish I could repost, this worthy cause,
but here I must pause, for you have given me a pleasured
insight, in right, it is us who should be shy, for not
honoring
you ever so much more.

with affection,
even I, Left Foot Poet
get it righted, sooner,
but never, is not permissible
so let us sail on...together...

<>
"for the vanity of man is as porous as dust...and, in their supreme wisdom, because of this failing, the Gods have decreed, that mankind deserveth no more, no less than his designated allotment of being.
And such it shall be."
writ by
The Marshal Gebbie
June 2023
<>
rise up, rise up,
son up, sun up!
see for yourself a newly birthing day,
the early rays licking the unlocking of a grinning earth's face,
humbling humans and their perpetuity e~mo/notions of eternity.
how are the daily~we, to measure ourselves, versus our ancestry,
by whom shall we~be set forth as examples to our posterity
what tools we fools think, we possess, an etch~a~sketch,
to imprint of who we are,
what we were, and
who we might become, and
be  beauty becoming,
marking our time with ensigns of
words of integers in some giant network
authored, offered, up unashamedly

and even though the sun
does not always greet & meet
the discombobulated human riffraff
every diurnal,
daily identical,
when it shines,
it shines for us all
in an equality of glorious,
it shines upon us all in equality,
it, great equalizer, who restores and
replenishes our colored planets blue green,
a methodology of air, soil and water interactively,
for we are all chemicals, forever effervescent rebirthing

and so it goes.
our cells, are a
rare earth depository,
we plant ourselves
eternally, fed by
foodstuffs of
our ancestors cells,
their brewed ***** dust,
and thus each of us singly
is thus remembered, reconstructed
as are we, both, individually and collectively,
from dust we are, to dust we return, this matériel future prepped


postscript

We Hebrews have a knowingly foolish,
a most beauteous custom, gifted to us by
our forefather Jacob, who when espying a
solitary grave by the road, a nameless marker of
piled-on stones, marking an unknown person last remains,
added one more, add-on to ensure this nameless one yet remembered,
so we too do not pass by without adding a stone, a tiny pebble,
we encumbered, to solidify, perpetuate, renew, ever sustaining,
cannot pass by without adding another rock,
another pebble, that time will surely shift,
but as long we follow this custom,
spiting time's erosive nature and until today,
yet the same, for at a cemetery, every grave,
all marker, ego big, humbled small, topped,
festooned, with small stones, we top them
signaling that this, very spot here, here!
for now, until for ever
shall never
be forgot

<.
and so this peculiar, deteriorating canister places
one more smoothed handy beach pebble, upon
this, his unmarked resting spot
nml
<>
Monday morning
7:10am
an august, August dream day
specified as the 11th day of this
eighth month in one particular
calendric methodology
and as the
17th of Av 5785
in his ancestral calendar

As I sift through my bathroom shelves,
I ponder over items I made space for, but never used,
Why did I accept what didn't work for me in the first place?
As if with passing time, our chemistry will change.
As if I will come to appreciate that strawberry lotion,
Or the beige foundation sample will grow to blend with my darker skin tone.
Three bags of discarded items later, I gain clarity.
I will be discerning about what I welcome into my space
To only hold space for - what brings me joy.
To only entertain what truly resonates with my spirit.

How do you come to hate,
The ones you loved?
You don't.
They tend to turn on you,
Either that,
Or they weren't real at all.
I forsake any shard of regret I had,
From leaving you,
I regret any feeling I had,
From loving you.
If anyone lost here,
It was you.
Because you'll fall back into emptiness,
Trying to replace it with people,
But I, I will not.
I'll continue to cradle my own light,
Which you came so close to taking.
I'm done sacrificing pieces of me,
In order to receive nothing.

That night,
weary of the crowd,
weary of the human machines that clatter,
I tore myself away from the noise as one sheds a diseased skin.
I left the city,
and found myself alone beneath the warm breath of the summer sky.

I lifted my eyes,
and in that upward gaze,
something from childhood returned —
a sacred astonishment, a soft humility before the infinite.

It felt like falling up.

The sky was wearing a cloak of bronze.

The stars were twirling like tigers of light
that tore through the tar of the night.
Their fangs of fire were gnawing at the dark,
and searing holes in the velvet expanse,
like nails hammered deep in the welkin's bark.

I breathed in the beauty of this funereal veil,
That takes its source from the void that won’t echo,
And that reminded me that I’m only a mote in the abyss.

I stood there—
alone.
Like a moon-fisher
Lost in a sea of wilted flowers,
casting lines into the void.

I baited my hook with pieces of my own heart,
Hoping that something would bite
and pull back from the ether.

And I waited.

I waited for the silence to shatter,
for the night to answer,
so that my dreams stopped bleeding
into my waking hours.

I waited.

But the stars just kept on burning out in silence,
while my dreams kept dripping like open wounds.

I was fishing for meaning
in this night,
I was waiting for its answer
but all I reeled in were fragments,
slivers of light
that faded before I even got to touch them.

The dark stared at me,
daring me to blink first.

And I wondered,
I wondered how many nights like this the stars had seen,
how many souls like mine they had watched with that pale, quiet gaze,
while we knelt beneath their cold indifference
and called it beauty.

And still, they kept twirling.
Still, they blazed,
while I waited,
while I bled,
while I held my breath and hoped
that maybe,
maybe—
the next flicker would light the way,
maybe it would spill some hint,
some clue that there was meaning hidden in their glow,
a reason buried in their fire.

I would beg the stars to break the silence,
to stop their silent spin
and to just say something,
anything.

But I know they wouldn’t,
and that I could only choke on the ash of their silent dirge
that smothers those who dared to look up
only to find out that there is no answer.

And then—
it hit me.

What if it was never about the stars?
What if they are silent because they’ve already said all they had to say
and this eternal silence of the infinite spaces
only existed so we might pour ourselves into it?

I understood why we built gods,
erected cathedrals,
raised cities of glass and steel,
split atoms,
and walked on the moon,
why we loved,
sang,
screamed,
wrote poetry.

And maybe that’s also why I drink so much.
So, so much
just so I could catch flames
like these stars,
to be like them,
to rend the void that doesn't echo back,
just so I could look at myself the way I look at them
and believe that I could make any sense of it.

Science is too short to measure the infinite.
Art is too vain.

But this flame—
my flame—
is all I have.

And I want to burn.

I want to cast off this skin that traps me,
I want to lighten my bones from the weight of the world
bare my teeth at the cosmos,
howl at the heavens,
tear through the ether like fangs of fire,
and scrape the cold black bark with my nails.

Maybe I was born to blaze,
or at least I just need to believe I could,
that I am the beacon,
the dawn that splits the abyss,
the answer made flesh.

That night,
I felt something kindle,
as if I, too, could be a tiger of light.

That I could dare look into the dark
and perhaps even make it blink first.