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
Tag: writing
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
‘Lambs Of War’ Featured In A Collection Of Stories From AuthorWorld Connect
At the beginning of the year I submitted a short story for publication in an anthology. It was accepted and is now available for purchase on Amazon.
I’m going to be submitting some poetry for the next anthology. This publication is being produced by a collective group of authors that you can connect with at AuthorWorld Connect. Submit your poetry or short stories for consideration in Book Two.
sisyphus no more
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.
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
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
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
As I sit with you for days
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