"atremble" poems
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
A very firm intention
To tell it as it is
Has the audience attention
On its toes and all afizz,
Though channelled to the circumspect,
With a patterned thought awry
It chaotically cascades
Across the prism of the eye.
It chaotically discharges
In a scattergun array
Of verbal innuendoes
Through a thin, saliva spray,
And all the passion spent in telling,
All the effort of the tale,
Sends a barrage of confusion
To occipital portrayal.
Where the tiny bones of balance
All atremble with the sound
Have discharged interpretation
Through a penny to a pound.
There’s a lost extrapolation,
There’s a blank look on the face
Where the balance of exchange
Has frittered nimbly from this place.
A calmness in both parties
As a sad pretence prevails,
Where communication nexus
Is ignored to save the whales.
Marshalg
Incommunicado
30 May 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
I have waited in certain landlocked towns,
Near and far, and far from here.
And I have sailed and been in low ports found,
Their inlets clad in salted air.
And I have dreamed on oft spoken of starry nights and on largely unspoken starless nights,
Of select places with opportune and tactless new found faces.
And I have lain out restless and uncomfortably awake,
Hearing human voices shriek and drown,
In salt clad harbor towns,
And heard those specific siren calls of those particular siren girls,
In those inlets, salt clad by the sea.
And still awake I have heard, in those waiting-space landlocked towns,
Curiously, those curious sounds,
Of only human and yet inhumane calls.
Dressed in that specific gauze of an agony-tone,
For that specific landlocked home,
Where drinkers go,
That drunkard’s throne,
And been sullen at that once and forever shoreless drone.
And I have also been, you see, in places left unknown.
And in a daydream I would hear and be heard by almost gasping voices,
From waking and still somehow sleeping and unbelieving men.
Grasping out onto air that has been made thin and further,
Been gasping.
Searching for woefully inaccurate words,
With a woefully inarticulate tongue,
And I have danced and been set atremble by the timbre of your breathe
And then enamored by the resonance of your gasp,
And I have gasped with a tongue set dancing behind lips all aflutter.
In those unutterable places with specifically unknown locations,
I have listened,
Through rock and metal,
Between those landlocked towns and those salt clad harbors,
For the full sound escaped from your trembled lips.
And I have listened, through daydreaming mist veils,
And through known and unknown places,
For that voice that speaks through space and time and rock and metal,
And I have only heard that curious sound of human and inhuman calls,
And I have heard those particular siren calls of those specific siren girls,
And that cry of human voices that shriek and drown.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Anger, the seductress
Lips as red as sin
A swirl of flames fall to her shoulders
In curls of scarlet ribbons
Envy, with her scowls
And eyes of darkest green
Insecure in her olive skin
Ever the angsty teen
Fear, the wallflower
Mousy and so pale
Delicate hands atremble
Half-hidden under her veil.
Joy, her golden locks,
Dripping into her eyes
A daisy twirling in the meadow
Full of sunshine and surprise.
Melancholy, with her lovers
Countless as the stars
An enchantress leaving behind her
A trail of broken hearts.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
I fell in love with a frog,
who was sitting alone on the banks of the Nile,
mooning over the premature decease of his beautiful wife.
He was sobbing his heart out,
his lips convulsed with woe, dripping emotion,
his chin atremble, the words buried in a raven black but deafening silence.
I instantly knew he was the find of my ultimate search for love.
A bathos unknown to those seeking earthly pleasures,
a poignancy knocking vulgarity off its temporal pedestal.
My dear love, dearest of all other loves,
my love for this frog, please become a wreath
a halo, a redemptive power to soothe all pain
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
my fears arise
you rip apart
with soulful eyes
and open heart
voice so gentle
touch so deep
souls atremble
joyful sleep
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
i have already something
new and sublime to say
about love.
as two people on the bench
where the birds are
unashamedly perching right by,
pecking on the cheek of the world
soon enough now, the hand of
which mad drivel shall tear
this photograph in two
and with a hand on the knee
as a gentle stamp to
a reaching-for-and-out epistle,
we are far away,
and love is as sad as the
flower that has grown
weary of waiting for the sun
to fulminate altogether with
its eyes staring in the
veranda of hope wide-awake.
and love is as short as the
sudden jolt of bones, atremble,
as though you have fallen
completely into,
but have only fallen out,
partially, one foot first
out the yawning door
and into the heavy premises
of a heart's trying forgetfulness.
to have heard once, the call
of a tame voice through
the wild hand of trouble's immensity, and to have held it
once so shortly bold thereafter,
with leonine eyes i see only
a small distance i cannot seal
with one kiss. i need a hundred more of you and a thousand more of this before i can fill your nebulosity with a million star-like
kisses traced only by the
white hand of time that continues to punctuate our
sentences right even before
our lips quiver to speak them
softly like how i first sank
in you and you in me, a flotsam
of memories.
i have something new to show
about love with mine eye's
unresting shutters capture
moments held loose like a mother's
frail child,
this photograph with your hand
on my knee,
cleaved into worlds from the
silence of our eyes and
only longing
speaks so much the straightforward,
we are far away.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
rose alone, cannot grow.
my hand on your hand,
the twilight of this
inner whirlwind.
palm brushing off the dust
of a dream,
your tear on my cheek
slenderly needing all of my rivers,
is your reflection,
my tender night,
rose alone cannot grow.
i watch the tiny hands of rain
fritter back to your breast.
i witness everything seek its
asylum, in your arms, where
no love breaks, only sings,
laughs atremble,
and i see all the roses, alone yet together
in all-consuming silence, needing
your transmissible voice to
make resonant, the day or
the bend on our roads,
like saltwater, like complaisant
air meaning only one word
through all the roses that
spring in the field
of the ephemera: your
too sudden image claiming
no sound yet all of my language.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC