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.
Tag: Creativecoin
energy bed
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
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
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