Dennis S. Martin's Blog

Fountain of Youth

Where, pray tell, is that fountain of youth?

That great panacea for age?

The millions have fruitlessly foolishly sought

To keep life from turning a page.

 

Though hope springs eternal we someday may find

A cure so we never grow old,

The fountain of youth is a far-fetched untruth;

A fantasy fools have foretold.

 

Who's To Blame?

Who's to blame when things go wrong?

Who takes the ire of error?

Who rants and raves and places fault

And fills the room with terror?

 

Does it really matter who's at fault?

Who may have done the deed?

There's a greater cause for which

Our keen attendance has its need.

 

Fix it first, and later you

Can play your little game

Of figuring a scapegoat,

And finding who's to blame.

 

These Old Eyes

These eyes are old.

They need assistance in focusing

On the printed word...

The picture frame...

Your face.

 

But my minds eye is keen.

It builds a lasting memory

Of insightful press...

Inspiring art...

Your face.

 

These old eyes may fail,

But memory will never fade

Of literature...

Mona Lisa's smile...

Your face.

 

The Letter

Staring at a blank page,

Wondering what to write,

Searching through my recent

Recollections of the past.

Looking for the right words

That will cleverly convey

The tender meaning of my message.

It comes to me at last.

 

The words begin to flow out

Like a river on the page.

My pencil point grows wider

As the pages start to crowd

From margin left to margin right

Continuing unchecked

With text that Mr.  Pulitzer

Would surely have been proud.

 

With all the items of my news

Assembled one by one,

And carefully placed upon the page

My masterpiece is done.

And in closing my epistle,

This update of what's new,

My loving gift of happiness

Is sealed and sent to you.

Halloween

The full moon rises to a crest

As the briskness of October air

Comes sweeping down the corridors;

The leaves of autumn everywhere.

And with the moon the only light,

As ghouls and goblins lurk about,

The hearty souls make their assault.

With open bags the boldly shout,

"It's trick or treat".

It's Halloween.

A time of haunts and scares,

Of bold charades and masquerades,

Of challenges and dares;

When ghosts and mummies rise to haunt

Among the living dead;

Where little children hear of tales

That make them hide their heads;

When vampires, devils, cartoon creatures

Burst upon the scene.

Every scary creature

Comes alive on Halloween.

 

Gambling

Do you gamble?

Bet you do.

Would you chance a buck or two

To hit the big one?

All that cash?

All that money you could stash.

 

Not to worry;

It's no sin.

It's just a game you play to win.

Time to crawl down off that shelf.

Life's a gamble in itself.

 

Politics

Oh! How I hate politics!

Dirty liars.  Dirtytricks.

Sleazy campaigns, twisted truth,

Oozing from the voting booth.

Every one is honest

While opponents all tell lies.

Well, someone's surely lying.

That's a fact no one denies.

But how are we to sort it out

From sound bites on t v?

Who are we to trust

To be what they "all" claim to be?

They burst upon the scene

And advocate a grand upheaval;

Leaving voters in the end

To choose between two evils.

Is it any wonder why

The public screams and kicks

When the topic of discussion

Turns to politics?

 

My Easy Chair

Having come to the end of a long hard day,

Where frustrations have tangled my mind in a knot,

Where my sleeves have grown long

From the pulling and tugging

In every direction 'til self is forgotten,

I slip off the armor of workday combatants,

Running my fingers through, mussing my hair,

Slipping in silence into calm oblivion,

Wrapped in the comfort of my easy chair.

Rolling

Rolling 'cross the highways

And the byways of the nation;

Every condition

Every trial and situation

Passes by the big rig's window

As it rumbles on its way,

Counting miles on miles on miles

As night turns into day.

 

Another town goes speeding by;

Another up ahead.

A hundred more go rolling by

And not a word is said.

The lonely droning of the wheels

Against the asphalt line

Accompanies the singing

Of the mighty engine's whine.

 

Five hundred miles. A thousand miles.

How many more ahead?

Rolling, rolling, rolling on.

A nation to be fed.

 

Cynicism

When we bypass cynicism

Leaving prey to criticism

From an unknown outside source,

Falling victim to remorse,

There is something to be missed,

Something trivial dismissed,

That will come back down the road

Hauntingly to prod and goad,

Best we look with watchful eye

Everything that passes by;

Every little witticism

Scrutinized by cynicism.