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America the Beautiful is broken
into variations, reassembled
at fifteen, while your friends played ball, tumbled
after grounders.  Met her, vows were spoken,
children came, a job to feed and shelter.
Insurance, managed risk made up your days
while music filled your nights and underlaid
a counterpoint of art and home.  She felt your
dualistic muse; the age-old tale
of starving artist held no taste for you.
Forty years of working every breath
until the night your muse's heart would fail.
You lived for years with your worst fear come true,
for you had starved your artist to his death.
Charles Ives (1874 - 1954), considered the first true American voice in classical music, creator of the tone cluster...and as an insurance agent, creator of the concept of estate planning.  Another musician who never believed in the myth of the starving artist, and a personal hero.

Every choice has a price to be paid.
im sorry
i make your heels bleed from the eggshells,

im sorry
i bury landmines between your toes,

im sorry
i make you choke on your soft words.

im sorry i sail away.
same old same old
 Oct 2014 W A Marshall
ryn
Destination home...
Making my way
Sleepy heads leaning
End of the day

Different people
Diverse ethnic races
Same endpoints
For us nameless faces

Where we're headed
Timeless cues
Rain-stained windows offer
Only blurred views

Beautiful display
Droplets colliding
Like liquid missiles
Crashing and merging

Yellow street lamps
Neons on buildings
Vehicular signals
Intermittent flashings

Reds, greens and ambers
Fighting for attention
Blues, whites and their hues
Feast for perception

Myriad colours
Refracted and broken
Prism induced dispersal
Little light show haven

Quite the spectacle
This dance and flight
Kaleidoscopic effect
Between water and light

Rain didn't abate
Unleashing full fury
All of us still safe
Capsule of tranquillity

Watching the chaos
Still silently looking
Overwhelming wonder
Heart is choking

Found myself tearing
At the sight of this view
Realised for certain
That I'm missing you...
Bus ride home in a rainstorm. Beautiful...
Your jargon seems to be precise,
but I know your deepest language.
My lips know the ins and the outs that drive you mad.
Your insides nor your outsides will ever shed the taste I left within your bones with my tounge.
We'll call it a blessing.
We'll call it a curse.
You may call it a lie;
But we both know its the naked truth.
You're digging through her heart,
but of course you'll never find me there.
 Sep 2014 W A Marshall
RW Dennen
Imperialistic meddlers,
men of power greed and wealth
Western Imperialism
not too long ago
was once put on the shelf
Not too long ago
this name was never heard
Its name is New Order of DiSoRdEr
But still us folk of sanity
with eyes wide open
we see their compliance
lock-step herd vanity

In White House spin gone amuck
they throw their bolts of anger
to all countries on the globe
And with more and more displeasure
we witness their destructiveness
from sea to shining sea

But now I hear, see and feel
a distant faint rumbling the rising Valorous
the rumbling stampeding of democracy
by the forceful rightful anger,
the free-spirited valiant word
a word of truth and dignity,
the echo of today,
and aaah yes
to hear the thundering of the mass
To hear the thundering of the mass...
This short reading of mine protesting for freedom for Haiti- with Haitian dignitaries- was presented in Philadelphia at City Hall
on the western front facing traffic and straight ahead was Market Street heading west. The year was 2005
 Sep 2014 W A Marshall
Christine
Not all people who enjoy the rain are sad
Those who cannot stand the absence of sunshine are going trough hell
for it is the only light in their life
some wisdom after midnight :)
I'm tired of relentlessly digging up my own guts.
Insides wrenching until I feel something close to empty.
Empty.
Sometimes empty seems so loud.
To escape the confines of my hollow silence,
I plead with my whirlwinds to redirect my madness.
Madness strung hand in hand with the outlawed 40,
and over rowdy yuppies that are too old to illegally sketch their rebellious spirits on ads that taunt them with their own insufficiency.
The sounds of smashing glass invite me to **** up my blackness into the midnight hours.
The smell of defacement summons me to heave my loneliness onto someone else's tangible reality.
But even in the electrifying twilight, I can't help but feel tired of digging up my own guts.
 Jul 2014 W A Marshall
Louise


The sun has barely risen
but you're leaving for work
I know this will make you late
but I've really got the urge!

I miss your body
desperately crave your touch
it'll be quick I promise
so you are definitely in luck

I don't even need right now
all that I usually do
so please 'take me' before you leave
this one baby ...
is just ..

for ..

you.


I'm up way too early this morning, too much energy and too much of something else
; )
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