Poetry - Blue Dragon Blog

Waiting for an apple to fall up

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

Or Today

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 Long Man

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

Daffodils And Children: Poem By Stephen Martin

Image by congerdesign from Pixabay

Daffodils And Children

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

me, you, and the dotted moon

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

The Hesitation

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

I don’t want that

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

If we will let it be

I see a world where love reigns all,

It’s not too hard to see.

Everywhere my eyes are cast,

I find a new beauty.

Human nature is universal,

Hidden from ourselves.

In children we can see its print,

We see pure love in cast.

So is it lost?

I dare say no!

It’s just that we don’t see,

But heaven is inside us all,

If we will let it be.

Stephen Martin, 3/1/2021

Category: Poetry