Poetry travels
  where Prose cannot go

To sleep with the stars,
  by heaven aglow

Each new verse a planet,
  orbiting round…

An Epiphanous light,
—burning profound

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)

Flowers bloom,
Susie notices,
While the weather looms.
She blithely sings,
"All is sunny, despite the heavens' gloom..."

But, near a tomb,
Old Man Witherspoon
Says it only spells of doom.

With spirited skips
She twirls
As her hair billows and whips.
She courageously croons
Songs of praise crawling from her lips.

But, near a tomb,
Old Man Witherspoon
Yells, "All only smells of doom!"

Then the storm clouds corral
Them both and open fire
Like a showdown at the OK Corral.
Witherspoon bawled: "You're happy to die?!"
She countered: "No; but die happy I shall."

But, near a tomb,
Old Man Witherspoon
Shouts, "Your death only tells of doom!"

She heeded no single warning.
Blissful, the winds lifted her
Into the dark morning.
See, Susie had determined,
"If I must die, I will not die mourning."

Meanwhile, above a tomb,
Old Man Witherspoon
Cries, "Life is merely tales of doom!"

Then suddenly, beneath a fine awning,
Susie's eyes flashed open
To embrace the dawning.
Her frantic pants were slowed
By a gasp of yawning.

A new aura filled her room,
Her bed caressed her
As her mind began to zoom.
She arose in shock by the beaming sun
And the flowers' bloom.

See, Susie never heeded a single warning,
She ignored many blessings—
Until that morning.
And from thence determined,
"If I must die, I will not die mourning."

Susie leapt & left from that room,
And ventured somewhere—
It was near a tomb.
She sat next to Old Man Witherspoon
And crooned a tune: "All will be sunny, despite the present gloom..."

I wanted to be there for Parsnips but time and  money availability have precluded it from happening. I cannot make it down for the funeral.

I f you would please pass on the following few words for me.

Parsnips was my mate, He was the epitome of a man from a different age.
He was wild and intense, dark of mood  and definite of opinion.

He was poetry in motion astride a good jumping mare, many a time I have seen him clear a seven wire fence with a good foot of daylight to spare.
His understanding of equine mentality approached that of witchcraft. He was capable of anticipating the  lashing hoof before the horse had formulated the thought, much less put it into action. He had NO patience with intemperate horseflesh. Many a frisky animal had second thoughts of misbehaviour after they had worn the thick end of a coarse rasp at close quarters.
Parsnip’s work was artistry, he was truly... one of the GREAT farriers.

The end of the working day would see Parsnips drown his sorrows in the demon ***.
This was the emergence of the dark soul who cast about for answers to impossible questions, who wallowed in the unhappiness of his failed horizons and the bitterness of his life’s disappointments. My mate Parsnips was not the easiest man to know in his dark moments. But a mate is a mate... you take the good with the bad.

And there were a lot of really good times... when a happy Parsnips had laughter in his eyes and a flash of excitement in his demeanour. I recall one such time when, on a wild rafting trip on a rampaging, flooded Mohaka river, The raft was marooned on a jammed stump in the midst of violent huge killer white water. Parsnips hung off a rope and with a look of wild joy on his face announced to his flabbergasted mates...”And I can’t even ****** swim a stroke!... fantastic. Needless to say he survived the trip and loved every moment of it.

I called to spend the afternoon with him a short time ago at the Rest Home. This was a shadow of the Parsnips I had once known. He was completely disillusioned with the hand fate had dealt him. He saw no future to speak of... He wanted out.
So I must say that I am not entirely surprised with the way things have materialised.
Parsnips usually arranged the system to get things the way he wanted them.

I grieve for the loss of my wild, intense mate, God knows there are few enough of them left.
Real people who live life in the black and white way.
Definite personalities who, for the good or for the bad, never ever leave you in any doubt as to where they stand in the way of things.

Fare well my old friend, I leave you with these words.

The Winds of Life
by Marshal Gebbie

The wind careers across the years
Gathering leaves and dust,
Sweeping lives before it
In cartwheels of redness and rust.
Epiphanous moments of magnitude
Through special occasions employ
The will o the wisp of everyday stuff
From sadness to anger to joy.

The billowing tumble of living
Through vaulting halls of trees
In the dappled light of sunshine
And green corridors of breeze.
The exquisiteness of living
When senses soar in the air
When the colours of being are rampant
And we savour each moment with care.

For the living time goes quickly
It flares and fades with speed,
‘Tis best enjoyed boisterously
With passion, love and need;
‘Tis best when tasted piquantly
Like a claret on the tongue
When you cloak the days with good things
And you hope your dreams die young.

Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
29th January 2009

He comes out of his house, off into his ****** limousine,
The pride and glory of American handicraft,
Drives away past his main gate, guarded by a Luhyia national,
The nation from which watchmen are mass manufactured,
The gate is banged closed with a sharp emblem dominating;
tafadahli umbwa kali, please fierce dogs are in don’t dare enter,
when no piece of a dog is in, hen pecking husbands perhaps,
He drives away in low spirit, like the tail of a snake,
Sharply contrasting his tiger thoraxed debates in the parliament,
In defence of state corruption; Anglo leasing and her sisters,
The wife has chased out our state officer, his sole Succor,
of the night and chilly loneliness so nameless ,in the streets of Nairobi,
Is the epiphanous street of koinange, after Mbiu Koinange
The colonial orchestrator of intellectual globalectics,
He sired political immorality that sired social depravement,
To rove his avenues as the state and money capitalist
Convert beautiful daughters of the poor peasants
Into defenseless protégés of class misfortune
Roaming the back streets minus
Any lingerie in their bosoms.

I went to that well again and again
And never refused what my lips desired,
But after a while I knew deep within
The cost would be steep for what I acquired.
I turned a deaf ear and then a blind eye,
The well was defiled and yet I still drew
And drank my bitter fill of every lie,
Until I was nauseous with what I knew.
Then daybreak’s dawning and with it came grace.
My soul was washed in an epiphanous rain
That fell on me like a lover’s embrace
To grant me ablution erasing the stain
That clouded my eyes and hindered my heart
-I’ll never again feel life’s torn apart.

The wind careers across the years
Gathering leaves and dust,
Sweeping lives before it
In cartwheels of redness and rust.
Epiphanous moments of magnitude
Through special occasions employ
The will o the wisp of everyday stuff
From sadness to anger to joy.

The billowing tumble of living
Through vaulting halls of trees
In the dappled light of sunshine
And green corridors of breeze.
The exquisiteness of living
When senses soar in the air
When the colours of being are rampant
And we savour each moment with care.

For the living time goes quickly
It flares and fades with speed,
‘Tis best enjoyed boisterously
With passion, love and need;
‘Tis best when tasted piquantly
Like a claret on the tongue
When you cloak the days with good things
And you hope your dreams die young.

Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
29th January 2009

The rage I feel
At the loss of one so fine!
So young, so lovely, so calm, so together...so KIM!

I rage at the turbulent waters that stole her promise.
I rage at the annals of  chance which paved the way to her end.
I rage for the agony I see on the face of her father, her lover, friends and work mates.
I rage for the tears and heartbreak of my darling wife who loved this girl as a sister, since her days of skinny
childhood.
I rage for the missed moments of tomorrow’s laughter which will now, never be...
and the vacuum of fun in her words of dry humour, which will now, never be uttered.

I share this rage with ALL OF  YOU!...because the death of this beautiful young girl IS JUST NOT RIGHT!

But I DO CELEBRATE the GIFT of the PLEASURE experienced in sharing her vibrant, living years.

There is, however,  a wonderment here amidst the tragedy...
Because Kim voluntarily bequeathed the gift of hope to unknown others.
She gave three unknown people her organs, her heart, her kidneys, her cornea.
SHE GAVE THEM THE PROMISE OF A TOMORROW!

Her beautiful heart lives on in the soul of another...and for this I give thanks.

THE WINDS OF LIFE
by Marshal Gebbie

The wind careers across the years
Gathering leaves and dust,
Sweeping lives before it
In cartwheels of redness and rust.
Epiphanous moments of magnitude
Through special occasions employ
The will o the wisp of everyday stuff
From sadness to anger to joy.

The billowing tumble of living
Through vaulting halls of trees
In the dappled light of sunshine
And green corridors of breeze.
The exquisiteness of living
When senses soar in the air
When the colours of being are rampant
And we savour each moment with care.

For the living time goes quickly
It flares and fades with speed,
‘Tis best enjoyed boisterously
With passion, love and need;
‘Tis best when tasted piquantly
Like a claret on the tongue
When you cloak the days with good things
And you hope your dreams die young.

Marshalg
@ the Gate
Mangere Bridge
29th January 2009

Placid water parts,
Up flies quick, a cormorant;
Epiphanous this!

Rats in a line,
All ordered and filed,
For miles, they stretch,
Each tail to a head,
Faces calm and well-worked,
No scuffle, noise or protest,
No words, because they know none;
Every few moments they shuffle,
Further down the dirt path,

Approaching a pit,

A pit, very wide,
The width, of course, not their concern,
The leader stops
Before the pit’s mouth, staring into blackness;

With a thought, he falls, silently,
Carelessly,
Wind rushing between his legs,
Whisking itself up against his eyes, ears, and lips,
In fantastic flight

Into uncertainty

A new leader takes hold,
This one, shaken;
He stares into the abyss,
But soon realizes the
Horrifyingly insipid Earth surrounding him

Soulless branch after branch,
Teeming with filth and despair,
Rays of sun dampened by a
Caustic fog

A nudge from his successor
Forces him out of his
Epiphanous trance,
And into the well of nothingness,
Squealing

Who falls the fastest,
The philosopher or the realist?

Of all observable phenomena,
you persist most favorably.
A circular hub of arrows aimed
at a center already hit, dislodging
freedom.
Arrowheads split down a hair.
Epiphanous bulbs counting
the new number needed to
stay conscious.
Of you.

Living on the fringes of
faith, you become epiphanous.
A halo chases you, its stomach
coming out, like a starfish
to engulf you.

Small winnings, I was
no prophet, as I knew
myself, still unsure, still faltering.
I become a gymnosophist,
managing my destiny.

A death ago, I was
young, walking down the lane
of unlearning. Coming of
pain has made all the difference.
An old man in the sea of emotions.

as every candle holds

its gaunt station with no

epiphanous head.

the temple stands at the

mercy of days, with no

word from the messenger

whose sign in coming began

the act of worship.