The paltry eyes of loons with spoons
attached to the whimble of sight
O night, the sighted beast–
Your shores of darkness
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
O we the wretched few–
What are we to do with tomorrow,
Stephen Martin, 5/31/2021
the grieving winds
slow the pace
slick with your spittle
caresses of the wilderness
smoking my worries
in a manufactured liquid
uh! the seepage is disparaging
clues of newness
held at bay with bewilderment;
so slow the progress
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...
and then i will pick my eyes up.