In the blue passing sky
Eyes of white stalk the canopies
Of loud buoyant dreams
Where nightmares are past
And cyclical rhythms are present
In a stream of running mist
Over the bracken of walled off thoughts.
Here we stand
In a line
Waiting
For our turn.
I eat the round raisins
like dipped chocolates
inside a capsized shovel
[spilling softly the meat
of the streets
left hanging branches]
A ball gown designed
inside the spotty periods
between a & z—
a cutlered set of pie petals
reapportioned amongst the digital
inevitable.
So softly the weeping...
[kept inside waiting
golden &
solemn & chaste
like a special puppy]
Understand the concept
Of liberty
Without boxes
Rulers
Pops...
Instead a dangerous civility
Where transgressions meet brute force
& the certainty of what is right
[plus the time
future time
all the time
waiting for an apple to fall up]
Stephen Martin, 6/10/2021
The paltry eyes of loons with spoons
attached to the whimble of sight
O night, the sighted beast–
Your shores of darkness
speak endlessly.
And, misrepresented all, we seek to
whither and waste our youth on
schemes and things;
underscoring our simplicities
while we bask, slack jawed &
undiscovered, in the mismatched
sock drawer of our lives.
But we, never giving up—
grab the cup, again & again
hoping to hold our breaths for long
enough, to wake from a sleeping grip;
for the lives we sell ourselves–
Short sales all.
O we, young in blood, innocent to harm,
drifting, ever drifting toward the fumes
of our demise;
how we despise our circling backs
bent after rigid courses we do not set!
How much longer? How much longer–
are the hours we flush?
And, the dreams are growing still
after every passing lawnmower,
after every new week of growth–
And what for? What for?
The children? The children?
they are grown into their castes before
their first diapers are changed;
their hope is a golden chain
unraveled like umbilical cords at their
mothers’ feet.
O we the wretched few–
What are we to do with tomorrow,
Or today?
Stephen Martin, 5/31/2021
the grieving winds
slow the pace
of progress;
lighted bends
slick with your spittle
caresses of the wilderness
broken bodies
scarlet past
smoking my worries
in a manufactured liquid
uh! the seepage is disparaging
clues of newness
bisect tears
held at bay with bewilderment;
so slow the progress
so unorganized
so blue
the words are soft
like spoken kisses
drubbing at my staleness
prodding at my inertia
making a lull
tying a knot
pushing the boulder
is kind of exhausting
maybe i’ll let it roll...
watching passively
expecting nothing
just watching
and then i will pick my eyes up.
electrons sizzle and crackle in the spent out beds of my pockets dynamos of pottables decisions, decisions and nighttime when the moon is my friend i back my guitar into a softened kiss speaking, but not singing feeling all the while and outside on my street a quiet repeat Stephen Martin, 4/15/2021
The long man can not follow me
I’ve led him off the path.
He’s busy guiding fools
To humbly wear a mask
He’s using all his tools
Formulating tasks
But the long man can not follow me
I don’t rely on “facts”.
The long man’s lost my scent again
He had it for a while.
His tapestry had tempted me
So I marked it at the mile
He piped a tune I found quite nice
As I listened in the meadow
But the long man lost my scent again
When he picked up on my fellow.
The long man is a busy guy
He’s got a lot of cattle.
He laughs a lot and scoffs a lot
At all the mindless prattle
He’s busy sorting fools in groups
It is a constant battle
So the long man’s lost my scent again
He’ll wait for sheep to tattle
Yes, the long man’s lost my scent again
But he hears the faintest rattle.
Stephen Martin, 4/4/2021
Image by congerdesign from Pixabay
The end of all the chatter starts
With lines of daffodils.
And breaks upon a patterned step
Beneath the window sills.
The light of spring brings yellow bloom
To wake palatial spread.
The melancholy winter has been
Firmly laid to bed.
Bikes and things are dusted off
And taken into view.
Children with their wild mops
Are sprouting legs of blue.
Play time sings her song again
As the world awakes to cheer.
Eyes are popping at the seams
With every brightened spear.
Moms and dads remember when
They were small and new.
Boys and girls with apetites
Unfettered through and through.
Life is there for all to touch
And kiss the lips so cherry.
Each soul feels the stirring such
That each soul will be merry!
Stephen Martin, 3/2/2021
inside the seconds of our thought looms desire so heavy as this the only sprint to molten slop an agile tank of sorry sorry for this and sorry for that the last one never packed or tied in spot but left to dot the moon of me and you Stephen Martin, 4/1/2021
If I stop to wonder
at the light flowing cat
peeking corners
star stabbed with anticipation,
then I must refuse;
over powered by soft banes
cloistered in ineptitude.
Instead I will dream
candelabras of jellyfish
jars of delight
shining orange in the night
And you—
the cyclical killer of fun
can lambaste my jargon
ripping shreds
puncturing
miracles
making me weep my dreams
into pillows of smoke.
Stephen Martin, 3/31/2021
Great escape An ape to blame The same...the same Don’t sink the flame
To overlook The book...the book A manuscript of sip to sip And drip to drip That strips the grip Of blips and dips Of comicstrips and cripts with whips Of birthed ships That spit the shit And never quit
Or order up And fill your cup With coffied brine To top the shine Upon the line...upon the line
Don’t grieve The sieve Inside your sleeve Up end the bend In brains of red And look around...look around
The muffled gotcha Will soon be flotsam If belief forms decrees And puts them on their knees
But I don’t want that... I don’t want that.
Stephen Martin, 3/28/2021
