It was all silk and sawdust
Mamas skirts rustled a sunday mass
and dad wore his bowler hat tilted at an angle
(dirk bogarde -like look)

But he was a farmer.
soon after the service was over
he'd hang his hat by the cowsheds
and wallow in green slushy poo
irrespective of how much it stank
and how natural  he looked
throwing sawdust over the caked green pancakes
and shovelling all that crap into a corner,
with sundays best clothes on!

Mama insisted he change first
but no. "The cows need attention
as much as god does, Mama"

We did not argue with his farmyard philosophy
but that's where we cut our teeth
and tasted a mans love for his animals
both human and beast and that's where
we understood that sunhats, bowlers
and polished walking sticks
were just statements that didn't come
from a book- but society. Somehow
he mixed the two learnings
to get along with everything.

I missed him when he milked his last cow
and lay down forever in that quiet evening
as the sun set in an orange sky. The brightest star
that night climbed over the eastern ridges
to grace the night. Dad?



© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

A smile stretches over her face,
as they come.

There are old men,
in shorts and sunhats,
indoors
and
ladies in heels,
who,
dash in from work,
they are moaning,
about their weights,
and their waits,
their husbands,
their children.

Winchester folk are queerer folk than her,
yes,
honestly,
they are
there are precious old dears,
who love having her near,
she makes them feel safe.

They come to pick up their pills,
while discussing their ills,
discussing the weather,
the air conditioning is that,
just an air con,
and she melts again,
they make her melt,
her job pays her bills,
it is them,
however;
who,
stretch her smile!
(C) Livvi

The scorching season pulls its shades down
in blinding light, raising temperatures
like tantrums. Uncontrolled desire for iced
drinks and sunhats, brown skinned beauty
unfolds in flowered dresses seeking attention
in round bottomed, figure hugging comfort.

Soon the sun will slow its brazenness
and give away to autumns roll
with  splendid colours and shapes
wilting and withering landscapes that
lay blankets of brown views
for winters rapid descent to claim the earth
for its own cold attitude.

Like this, the three seasons challenge
each other for attention. Overlapping transitions
from one to the other.

But spring returns, bursting with bud and green
fingers, pulling the heart of the resting root
into a warm embrace
and showing off its many coloured array
of flowers and fruit and fantasy.

No matter how you look at this seasonal change
there is an arrangement between themselves
that moods must change and accept
that creation and mind and matter are all
intertwined inextricably.

Author Notes

The seasons correspond to the life cycle of all human beings.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

For RG.

On the day you passed
I was in Istanbul
And the ATM outside
The Radisson Blue Hotel lobby
Swallowed my card
And I couldn't work out
Who to contact for help

On the day you passed
I drank coffee in a bakery
On the street
Where the gypsy woman
Selling flowers
On the corner
Gave one to a stranger
Asking nothing in return

On the day you passed
The people in the hotel
Looked worried,
Said it was strange
But  I knew why
The sun went in
And it rained and rained
And the man on the corner
Yesterday selling sunhats 
Started selling umbrellas instead
And  I got drenched to the bone
And never wanted to see the sun again
Because I felt so sad and alone