"marshal" poems
In nineteen hundred forty-nine
China was won by Mao Tse-tung
Chiang Kai-shek's army ran away
They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday
Supported by the CIA
Pushing junk down Thailand way
First they stole from the Meo Tribes
Up in the hills they started taking bribes
Then they sent their soldiers up to Shan
Collecting ***** to send to The Man
Pushing junk in Bangkok yesterday
Supported by the CIA
Brought their jam on mule trains down
To Chiang Rai that's a railroad town
Sold it next to the police chief brain
He took it to town on the choochoo train
Trafficking dope to Bangkok all day
Supported by the CIA
The policeman's name was Mr. Phao
He peddled dope grand scale and how
Chief of border customs paid
By Central Intelligence's U.S. A.I.D.
The whole operation, Newspapers say
Supported by the CIA
He got so sloppy & peddled so loose
He busted himself & cooked his own goose
Took the reward for an ***** load
Seizing his own haul which same he resold
Big time pusher for a decade turned grey
Working for the CIA
Touby Lyfong he worked for the French
A big fat man liked to dine & *****
Prince of the Meos he grew black mud
Till ***** flowed through the land like a flood
Communists came and chased the French away
So Touby took a job with the CIA
The whole operation fell in to chaos
Till U.S. Intelligence came into Laos
I'll tell you no lie I'm a true American
Our big pusher there was Phoumi Nosovan
All them Princes in a power play
But Phoumi was the man for the CIA
And his best friend General Vang Pao
Ran the Meo army like a sacred cow
Helicopter smugglers filled Long Cheng's bars
In Xieng Quang province on the Plain of Jars
It started in secret they were fighting yesterday
Clandestine secret army of the CIA
All through the Sixties the Dope flew free
Thru Tan Son Nhut Saigon to Marshal Ky
Air America followed through
Transporting confiture for President Thieu
All these Dealers were decades and yesterday
The Indochinese mob of the U.S. CIA
Operation Haylift Offisir Wm. Colby
Saw Marshal Ky fly ***** Mr. Mustard told me
Indochina desk he was Chief of ***** Tricks
"Hitchhiking" with dope pushers was how he got his fix
Subsidizing traffickers to drive the Reds away
Till Colby was the head of the CIA
January 1972
10.1k
Turquoise in the morning light
The treetops are alive
With the myriad of birdsong
As the swirling mists arrive
And the shaft of brilliant sunshine
Penetrates the greenish gloom
To illuminate the craggy ridge
In a honeyed, golden bloom.
The rabbits head for burrows
Retreating from the night,
A flock of teal, in unison,
Explosively take flight,
There’s a freshness in the morning air
A tingle to the skin
And the twinkle in the blue eyes
Lets a secret smile begin.
Autumn in the country glade
The russets and the gold,
The song of early crickets
In the leafy knoll takes hold,
There’s a brilliance in the crispness
In the piles of windblown leaves
And the healthy crunch of underfoot
Invokes a sense of ease.
The peacefulness is calming
The solace in the sound
Of the distant song of blackbird
In the tall oaks that surround
And the velvet feel of morning
Thrills the mind to warmly hum
To the glory of occasion
In the warmth of Autumn sun.
Marshalg
Beneath the reds and golds of Autumn leafage.
14 May 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 2:09 AM UTC
Love to his singer held a glistening leaf,
And said: ‘The rose-tree and the apple-tree
Have fruits to vaunt or flowers to lure the bee;
And golden shafts are in the feathered sheaf
Of the great harvest-marshal, the year’s chief,
Victorious Summer; aye, and ’neath warm sea
Strange secret grasses lurk inviolably
Between the filtering channels of sunk reef.
All are my blooms; and all sweet blooms of love
To thee I gave while Spring and Summer sang;
But Autumn stops to listen, with some pang
From those worse things the wind is moaning of.
Only this laurel dreads no winter days:
Take my last gift; thy heart hath sung my praise.’
4.8k
_Standing with Marshal Gebbie_
No trumpet sounds.
No banner bleeds.
Just the quiet hum
of satellites watching
what we dare not name.
Power does not sleep,
it drips
from trade routes,
from whispered sanctions,
from the tremble
of a diplomat’s hand
hovering over the red phone.
We are not at war,
but we rehearse it
in algorithms,
in tariffs,
in the way maps
shrink and swell
without consent.
The empire is hungover,
but still it walks,
barefoot through proxy fields,
cloaked in plausible deniability.
And we,
the breathers between borders,
write poems
on the backs of embargoes,
sing lullabies
in contested airspace,
and pray
that silence
is not mistaken
for surrender.
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 6:51 AM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
There’s a sense of something really good this Christmas,
There’s a feeling in the air that it’s OK
The anticipation’s there about ….a happiness out there
And the weather outlook’s brilliant for the day.
Mother’s planning a big roast for Christmas dinner
There’ll be sparkles and bright spangles on the tree,
Underneath there’s quite a pile, gaily wrapped to bring a smile
And a kiss beneath the mistletoe for me?
Spare a thought for all poor souls who have nobody
Gift-wrap a parcel or two for the disowned,
To make some unknown person smile advances Christmas by a mile
And really brightens up the prospects for the un-homed.
It’s a day to gift good wishes to your loved ones
Share some cold beers in the sunshine on the deck,
And when we’ve eaten to excess and helped mum clean up the mess
There will be time to take a snooze…and what the heck!
So to all our friends, across this world, aplenty,
May we take this opportunity to say
We hope your Christmas be as good as we know it really should
And may Santa gift you happiness ….to stay!
MERRY CHRISTMAS
Love from Janet and Marshal.
“Foxglove”
Taranaki, New Zealand.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
*Locked within expressions
In this little girl’s smile
Are nuances of wonderment
Destined to compile,
All the mystery of womanhood,
The guile of the breed,
The allure of her ***
And the promise of seed.
Her love for her mother,
Her joy for her dad,
Her path to tomorrow
Be it happy or sad,
The tears and the joyfulness
Stretched out before..
There’s the dog at the hearth
And the cat at the door.
And the beautiful sunsets
Those blue eyes will see
And the love of her life
Who’ll get down on his knee,
The scent of the lavender
Fresh from the fields
And the lakeside laburnum
Which subtly yields.
The colours of love
And the texture of fire
When the threads of her life
Turn to passion’s desire.
The moment of truth
When she turns to her mom
And her face wears the smile
And her arms bear….a son.
Oh the world turns in circles
Of shades of soft hue
And time waits for no soul,
Especially you,
And the babes of today
Become mothers of yore
And the great lesson learned
Is.... keep open the door.*
Uncle Marshal
With wonderment at the beauty in a little girl’s secret smile.
Auckland
12 October 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
For my mate Chris
To sit around in anger…does no favours,
To bellyache to me… It’s all unfair,
To hope somebody else… comes up with answers,
To see the world’s shortcomings… flaunted there.
A lack of motivation keeps you grounded
Friends and family try to keep you at arm’s length,
You loathe the Government’s lack of comprehension
In that joblessness depletes your hope and strength.
You feel those carbohydrates clog your arteries
And see your muscled body turn to flab,
Discipline’s resolve flies to oblivion
And you curse all that… which makes your life so drab.
Disappointment curbs the high expectations,
You feel the planet owes you that, to which you seek,
Aghast to comprehend your own misgivings,
You feel the need to say…but then, you never speak.
Then suddenly… a stark, clear realization
That NOTHING HERE WILL CHANGE…UNTIL YOU DO,
Until you turn around your thinking to endeavour,
Till then that something that you seek… shall hide from you.
So look, my sweetness, look into the mirror
Shed the worry lines that always cloud your brow,
Kick your sorry **** profoundly to tomorrow
And lose the ****** shards of bitterness….RIGHT NOW!
Marshalg
Endeavouring to re-motivate a lost cause.
18 August 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
*Balanced on the cusp of reason
Teetering in rationale,
Gyroscopic permutations
Take the leap or stay and snarl.
Reason fights with high confusion
Torn between the yae and nay,
Gyroscopic permutations
Pack the case and leave or stay.
Screaming taunts in ragged order
Torment in saliva mist,
Gyroscopic permutations
Cut the throat or slit the wrist.
Standing on the lonely cliff top
Way below the surging tide
Gyroscopic permutations
Take the leap or run and hide.
Balanced on the cusp of reason
Teetering on right or wrong,
Gyroscopic permutations
Join the dead or sing a song.
Walking up the baking highway
Soaking up the streaming sun
Gyroscopic permutations
Laugh or cry... today I won.*
Marshalg
Throwing the dice.
22 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
Lazy days and choppy waves
Upon a copper sea,
A breezy, warming westerly
Is blowing down on me.
Sunlight striking wavelets
Below clouds of cotton cool
And seagulls hang in squadron lines
Aloft from oyster pool.
Road signs judder in the breeze
Ripples weave amongst long grass,
Mangroves bend in unison
And asphalt bakes in molten glass.
A parasol of brilliant blue
A picnic basket brimming high
With lemonade and icy beer
Whilst sausages and onions fry.
Two barking dogs cavort with joy
Chasing hard on sandy beach,
Leaping high in summer air
Running, fetching, ***** to each.
The lazy summer saunters in
Engulfing us with solar heat,
The pretty girls wear tiny shorts
Which breathless boys find such a treat.
Pohutukawa’s bursting forth
In waves of rich and scarlet red
Which juxtapose dark olive greens
Of leafage midst each flower bed.
A sky of brilliant powder blue
With salt spray aura in the air
As swimmers splash in gales of fun
Hot sunlight baubles kiss their hair.
Marshalg
Port Waikato beach
15 November 2011
© 2011 Marshal Gebbie
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
The regions’ magic carpets are a-beckoning
The brassware in the back bazaars aglow,
Exotic spice is nice
For a very reasonable price
And the camel market’s just the place to go.
But…
Afghanistan’s dark Muslims are scheming
The women folk are sharpening their knives,
When foreign troops depart
The bloodletting will start
With collaborators screaming for their lives.
The children of the Ottoman are smarting
For their neighbours are showing them disdain
By peppering with bombs
Along with Syria’s pogroms
And I wonder why the local folk complain?
Oh the sun comes up with glory in old Egypt
As another national leader meets demise
And old Nasser’s bile will burn
As from his grave he will return
To try to rectify his children’s Holy lies.
There are whispers of a strike at the reactor.
There are reactionary reactions from Iran
With annulment of the bomb
The region should resume aplomb
But I have my doubts this mixture really can.
And it never rains on dear old dusty Cairo,
Here, you never feel the chill of falling snow,
You may stalk the back bazaars
For the rare blue water jars
But you should really buy protection when you go.
And they whinge that all the tourists here are dwindling
That the middle Eastern charm is all but spent,
When the red blood flows like wine
In the good old Bhyzantine
As the peace of night, with gunfire, is wrent.
But…
The dates are really sweet
And the carpetry so neat
And the music is exotic in the night,
And with the flash of Asian eyes
I can guarantee surprise
As you flee for very life…with ****** fright!
Marshalg
From the dark Bazaar
23 October 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.
'You dare come on parade like this?'
'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.
'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'
Some days 'confined to camp' he got,
For being 'dirty on parade'.
He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot
Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.
'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away,
Far off to where his wound had bled
And almost merged for ever into clay.
'The world is washing out its stains,' he said.
'It doesn't like our cheeks so red:
Young blood's its great objection.
But when we're duly white-washed, being dead,
The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'
2.3k
Preamble at the showdown the fighters eye to eye
Droning pulse of discourse from the referee is dry,
Bouncing back to my corner the butterflies take charge
For the other guy’s a monster, like a Doberman at large.
Bell resounds alarmingly, I shuffle forth to meet
A combination thrown with steel…it whacks me off my feet.
Seeing stars I resurrect to lurch about the ring
To try to keep some distance from the monster’s punching sting.
Roaring crowd are baying now they call to take me out
The Doberman is grinning for he reckons it’s a route,
The flashing light confusing, the noise a steady din
As the monster comes in quickly to achieve expected win.
Throwing jabs to keep him back, retreating to the rope
I cover up with everything to give myself some hope
He pounds with his salvos they hammer hard and fast
His breathing rasping in my ears I pray to God I last.
Saved by the bell and cold water, such disgrace
The crowd are loudly booing, I’ve not put leather on his face,
A wash of resolution hotly surges from within
So I **** the mouth guard back and rush on out to tackle him.
Defensive expectations had him open up his chin
So I feinted with a left and launched a mighty right with spin,
Boring in with fury and a combination score
I hit him with an uppercut which traversed from the floor.
Miraculously the eyeballs rolled and disappeared from sight
I threw another flurry…but had no one to fight
Flat out on the deck he lay, the Doberman was out
As I bounced around like Rocky to the punters frenzied shout.
Camera flashes blinded as the raving crowd went wild.
It defied all expectations, I was the sacrificial child.
Bets were laid that I would fall within a round or two
The screaming din reflected that all bets were in the poo.
The countdown took forever and I swear I watched each stroke
And kept one eye on the fallen, should he rise he’d go for broke,
My amazement with two wobbly knees and heaving lungs of fire
When my leaden glove was held aloft to victory entire.
Winners come and winners go but this I’ll not forget
When fortune favoured sweetly…and I collected on the bet!
Marshalg
My thanks to Shane Cameron…a real fighter.
14 April 2013 (Pukehana Paradise)
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
One must believe in something be he misanthrope or gambler
In tomorrows omnicience or the future proof of God
The penance in a drunk's decay sets self destruct's imposer
Wether speakerphone's on disconnect or cellphone's in the bog.
Conveyance of a threat to adherants of St Selfwise
Show athiest's are proof here, in belief of disbelief,
Haunted by the images painting painfull retribution
Picture sympathetic **** star's allocated hand relief.
A moments allocation of a syllogist abstraction
Shows perspective of the calibre we now reserve for Saints
A paradox regarded as autistic fascination
In a one act play of living disregarding all restraints.
Deliberately indicative of fraternal heat's expression
Notebook at the ready and deep frowning at the brow,
Question definition's collage of confusion's contribution
Do we sit it out pretending or just catch the late bus now?
Marshalg
13 February 2014
© 2014 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
Manacled the hands
Which intertwine with one another now,
Hands that come to grip with issues
Locked within the soul, somehow.
Manacled, the hands that hold her
Manacled in blood and bone,
Hold the baby’s head so gently
Veined and scarred with love intoned.
Hands of strength that strike the anvil
Shape the shoe to fit the hoof
Hold the stallion’s head commanding
Strong control to stay aloof.
Hands that wield the sword of vengeance
Hands that feed the wood to fire,
Work the field with ox and plough
Stroke her body to desire.
Veinous hands, so strong and calloused
Locked within his every day,
Hands that clap to merry music
Hands that to the piper pay.
Hunter hands to snare the rabbit
Catch the carp in yonder lake,
Pen the words of love to paper
Knead the dough of bread to bake.
Quiet hands that rest in evening
Sitting by the fireside,
Listening to the snoring hounds
Which on the mat, asleep, reside.
Manacled, these hands, he ponders
Locked within the ways of sin,
Reminiscent recollection
…Quiet smile on whiskered chin.
Fingers cooled in fresh spring water
Feel the rays of rising sun,
Stride across the purple heather
These hands, a goodly day begun.
Marshalg
FOXGLOVE, Taranaki.
4.20am 17 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
Having washed her doll
Battered Betty in the baby
bath, Helen dries it in an
old towel her mother gave
her, rubbing it with her
childish motherly attention
to detail. That done, she
dresses Betty in some doll's
clothes her father brought
home from a junk shop
on his way home one Friday.
She wraps Betty in a fading
shawl, and goes to the front
door. Where you off to? her
mother asks. Taking Betty
out for a walk, she replies.
Where abouts? probably
to Jail Park, Helen says.
Watch out for strange men,
her mother says. I'm with
Benedict, Helen says. O,
well that's OK then, her
mother says, relieved,
pushing damp hair from
her lined forehead. Helen
goes out the front door
and walks along to the
railway bridge next to the
Duke of Wellington pub
where Benedict said to
met him. She pats the doll's
back as she walks, tightens
the shawl to keep the doll
warm. Benedict is waiting
by the pub wall; his cowboy
hat is pushed back, 6 shooter
gun is tucked in the belt
of his short trousers. Helen
sees him before he sees her,
she prepares herself: licks
fingers to dampen down her
hair, straightens her thick
lens spectacles, wipes her
nose on the back of her hand.
Am I late? she says as she
approaches him. He pushes
himself from the wall, his 6
shooter quickly out of the belt,
he blows the end. No, he says,
just thinking of the Billy-the-Kid
I saw at the cinema the other day.
Got shot. Died. I wouldn’t have
done that, I'd not have turned my
back on the marshal whatever
his name was. Helen rocks Betty
in her small arms. Given Betty
a bath, she says, nice and clean now.
Benedict gives the doll a glance,
puts his gun away in the belt.
Good, he says, can't have our
kid ***** Helen smiles, no, we
can't, can we, she says. Mum
says to look out for strange men,
she adds as an after thought.
Benedict pats his gun, no strange
man will get to you or Betty,
he says determinedly. Just as
Mum says, Helen says quietly,
looking at the cowboy beside
her, his hat now pushed forward,
his hazel eyes focusing, on her
and the doll. Let's go walk, he
says, I'll give you and Betty
a push on the swings and
roundabout. So they walk up
Bath Terrace, she telling him
about a boy at school calling
her four eyes, and he musing
of putting a couple of slugs in
the kid's head: BANG BANG,
the caps will go, just smoke,
no holes, no death, or if he chose,
maybe a good sock in the nose.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Thats Rock Bottom
When this life makes you make you mad enough to ****
Thats Rock Bottom
When you want something bad enough to steal
Thats Rock Bottom
When you feel like you've had it up to here
Cause you mad enough to scream
But you sad enough to tear
Thats Rock Bottom
- Marshal Mathers, Slim Shady LP
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
Inspired by the dream of the founders of city
Collated by planning of leaders and mayor,
Built by the muscle and sweat of believers
A Masterpiece fashioned for pride and for care.
Magnificent structures of bridges and tunnel
Faultlessly conjoined by highways of God,
Dreamt by the forebears of knowledge and passion
Crafted in concrete and sculpted in rod.
Towering edifices scything through city
Asphaltic motorways curving with grace
Estuaries bridged by elegant girders
Created by vision with tears on it’s face.
Fashioned by strength and belief in the promise
Fashioned by fortitude's strong hand as guide,
Crafted by people's belief in tomorrow
A Vision for Auckland and nation with pride.
Marshalg
With the Wellconnected Alliance.
AUCKLAND N.Z.
(Inspired by the animation on a good Mayor’s face)
6pm,14 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
What surmounts the best of best
What surpasses excellence,
Where resides the wherewithal
To top the prize of prescience?
How to master that which hurts
The song which wears you down?
Limitations splendour son
The fool who fools the clown.
To climb the bleak forbidden peak
To sleep with guts and gore,
Endure a cancer's world of pain
Where moments shut the door.
Resurrect a broken life
When love has fled the room,
Found the strength to seek again
And find light in the gloom.
Hold an old man's withered hand
And listen to his tale
Of life's travails and hardship
Where broken dreams prevail.
Take that cute kid on your arm
And kiss her with a hug,
Treat her like a Pixy Queen
And cuddle dolly snug.
What surmounts the best around
What surpasses all,
Where resides the wherewithal
To claim the prize recalled?
How to master songs of joy
Tunes which wear the crown?
Limitations laughter son
The fool who fools the clown.
Capture magic's glow around
Make each moment ring,
Fling confusions net away
To let your heartstrings sing.
Smooch a mountain maiden
Cry for great things done
Celebrate your life my friend
For it's a fact.... We've Won!
Marshalg
In Sweet Celebration.
27 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 3:29 AM UTC
I hired a carpenter
to build my coffin
and last night I lay in it,
braced by a pillow,
sniffing the wood,
letting the old king
breathe on me,
thinking of my poor murdered body,
murdered by time,
waiting to turn stiff as a field marshal,
letting the silence dishonor me,
remembering that I'll never cough again.
Death will be the end of fear
and the fear of dying,
fear like a dog stuffed in my mouth,
feal like dung stuffed up my nose,
fear where water turns into steel,
fear as my breast flies into the Disposall,
fear as flies tremble in my ear,
fear as the sun ignites in my lap,
fear as night can't be shut off,
and the dawn, my habitual dawn,
is locked up forever.
Fear and a coffin to lie in
like a dead potato.
Even then I will dance in my dire clothes,
a crematory flight,
blinding my hair and my fingers,
wounding God with his blue face,
his tyranny, his absolute kingdom,
with my aphrodisiac.
1.5k
Extrapolating time as distance, the last 1000 million years, which is the age of our oldest known rocks, is represented by the distance from here to roughly, 3 city blocks distant.
For instance:
Mankind rose from all fours just 60m down the road… and Christ was born just 60cm away.
This allows the enormity of time to gain credence in the capacity of man to visualize…especially difficult considering the limitation of humankind’s puny lifetime duration of just under 100 years.
But I beseech you… consider the advancement of humanity in that incredibly short span of his existence as a species.
From cave to skyscraper
From raw bones to haute cuisine.
From jumping a metre in the air to manufacturing and implementing a successful research exploration to incredibly distant Mars.
From the snarl of wrath to an intricate debate on advanced mathematics
From faltering first step to Ferrari.
What other species on earth, or as far as we know, anywhere else in the universe… has made progress at this astonishing rate?
What other creature exhibits the drive and compulsion to excel and succeed?
What other creature exhibits the variance betwixt an expression of love in eloquent poetry and a declaration of outright, murderous warfare… to his fellow man?
What other creature has the capacity for infinite creation and absolute destruction?
What other creature even considers these absolutes?
We humans are the vanguard and promise of tomorrow.
We have the responsibility squarely, on our shoulders…to endure, to succeed.
Marshal Gebbie
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:53 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
Thou spinster of the silken night
Why slide beneath that sylphen cloud,
Why hide the blush of pallid cheek
To mask your secret smile in shroud ?
Pale crescent love of velvet void
A vivid splash of pinprick gems,
Suspended in black solitude
Such beauty midst celestial friends.
Lovers kiss beneath your spell
Hand in hand they stroll the lane
Garlanded in silver light,
Ensnared within your crescent’s reign.
Thou siren voice doth wax and wane
These very oceans sing your song,
As seabirds ply your ebbing tides
And global winds blow clear and strong.
Lunar light threads through tree boughs
Casting lurid shadows bare,
Causing wolves to crouch and howl
At living, moonbeam shards in air.
Oh sister of the silent night
Feel the haunting call of owl,
Scan the forest’s shadowed light,
Gild the snow clad mountain’s cowl.
Thou spinster of the silken night
Rest thy secrets in thy soul,
Fade as shadows blend to day,
Relenquish all to sun's control..
Marshal Gebbie
Victoria Park Tunnel
14 January 2011
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC
"You aren't supposed to step on the cracks, I'll tell on you," I stick my tongue out at his comment and he laughs. I saunter closer to him on the street as we close in on our destination and he wraps his arm around me. We are just about to the pet store when Peter pulls on my hand and stops on the sidewalk. I turn around confused, "What's wrong? Having doubts?"
"No, I just want to make sure you aren't."
"I'm fine, I want to do this. I'm ready, I promise."
"Do you think we're going to fast?"
I laugh and he smiles sheepishly, "I don't want you to get scared again, I don't want to rush you."
"Trust me, Peter, I'm ready for this. Let's get engaged."
We walk hand in hand into the pet store and pick out our little puppy, our ring, and our promise to each other. He's more playful than the others and his right ear won't stay upright. I like his dopy looking half smile and Peter likes his boundless energy.
After we leave the store with our new family member, Peter bends down to look eye to eye with Marshal. I watch him whisper something in his ear and it almost looks as if Marshall nods. I giggle as Peter straightens up and ask him what he had said. Peter turns to me and smiles the same kind of dopy grin Marshall had and says, "Oh I just warned him not to step on any cracks, as I am very fond of this back."
He places his hand on the small of my back and we walk down the street like everything that was meant to be, was being, and we were at the center of it all.
-bcg (we always talked about getting a dog as an engagement ring)
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 2:04 AM UTC
Times behold when twisted men are captured by their spleen
When souls will writhe in torment though their thoughts are seldom seen,
When agitation rides aloft with blunt spur on its' ****
And the hounds of hell are baying as though purgatory will pass.
Torment in its' basest form is shaded beastly red
Immersing flocks of faithful in the mind set till they’re dead,
For shredded nails and worry lines, so deeply now ingrained,
Are signatured paralysis of the breed that has abstained.
Abstained in all things beautiful, such as dreams which flow in mirth,
Abstained from eyes of merriment and joyful leaps from earth,
Divorced to all that conjures up the gracious well of love
Divorced from thoughts of holiness in faith, both hand in glove.
Baptised to despondency, inured to sights and sounds
Which lift the mind's creation well beyond all earthly bounds,
Committed to the trench of the dark abyss of gloom
Assigned to unenlightenment...The soul has left the room.
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 23, 2012
May 23, 2012 at 4:26 AM UTC