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
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
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
As I watch you grow old and fail
On the precipice of death,
Your eyes so bright like a child of night
Your spirit making waves,
You talk of graves and longing thus
Restless but not afraid,
I feel your will with the words you thrust
As I sit with you for days
As I sit with you for days…
Stephen Martin, 3/1/2021