Dennis S. Martin's Blog, page 104

All on Sale

Whatever happened to honesty?

It seems to be on holiday

Or maybe simply gone away

Along with culpability

To hide in recidivity

In muted shades of gray.

 

What has happened to respect?

Is it baneful to expect a

Simple act of courtesy?

Blindness courted by degree

Unable to detect a

Modicum of modesty.

 

Will the well of decency

Run dry of staunch sobriety

Awaiting conscience to prevail

When comfort and propriety,

Standards and conformity

Are up for auction?

All on sale.

 

Smile for the Camera

Try to remember, imagine, embrace

A time in your pretty past.

Distant or near,

Time filled with innocence,

Hopeful with trust,

Facing the future void of all fear.

Kittens and puppy dogs frolicking free,

Prancing, pawing, kissing your cheek.

Sweet lies and mud pies and stories unending,

A brisk round of tag, hop scotch, hide and seek.

Rainbows and mistletoe…

          Springtime to winter…

                    Feasting on cantaloupe…

                              Sloshing in snow.

Basking in sunshine…

          Scary ghost stories…

                    Squishy sop soakings

                              With garden hose.

Creep past remembrance to times of enchantment.

Toggle the handle. Race through the portal.

Light up your eyes with the sparkle of fireflies.

Now…

          Smile for the camera.

Click! You’re immortal.

Look the Other Way

Charging like a fierce Nor’easter

Bounding off costal Atlantic shores,

Tearing inland to wreak its worst,

Leaving a trail of sorrow behind.

Casting a net over masses of innocents,

Pleading no mercy, knowing no shame.

Locating targets with pinpoint precision.

Laughing on leaving, pompous and full.

 

Who will stand up for the tear-stained victim

After the tirade subsides into dust?

Who will be witness against the atrocities?

Who will find backbone to cry out, ‘enough’?

Where is justice? Who will be hero?

Why is action froth with delay?

Why can’t we shake off this propensity to

Simply look the other way?

 

Put a Lid on It

This has been brewing for quite some time,

Your babbling, bubbling cauldron of gruel.

Much like the witches who garnered no good,

Looking for trouble, pitiful fool.

Chattering, smatterings speak to the air,

Baseline pretensions run wild,

Stabbing the life out of palpable logic,

A mentally midgeted child.

No one in earshot evades your tirade.

It carries as though it has wings.

It smells of the heat of a thousand fires,

Reverberating in rings.

No one wants to simmer inside your

Pot of trouble and toil.

Time to turn off the flame and

Put a lid in place to temper the boil.

 

Iced

No longer does your stream flow

Through the valley of reason

Filling her banks to overflow with

Constant compassion, tender thought,

Waiting to bask in your afterglow.

Days gone by your waters refreshed,

Nourished and healed like a gift from above.

No fires survived or resisted your quenching,

No one went thirsty or hungered for love.

No prayer unanswered.

No care vilified.

No fare unpaid.

No dare cast aside.

Now it seems springtime has hastened departure.

Summertime skipped and autumn cold blown.

Waterways deep in the core of your basin

Suddenly chilled…

                               Iced to the bone.

 

Playing Out Back

A ball and a stick and

A diamond of trash cans as

Fifty thousand adoring fans

Fill a postage stamp yard

To wait and watch in anticipation,

Knowing all too well your

Late inning heroics will

Somehow rise to save the day.

 

Chalk roads on concrete,

Pathways through neighborhoods

Real and imagined

In intricate patterns.

Crossroads and railroads,

Stop lights and stop signs,

Fire truck and ambulance,

Cops chasing speeders.

 

Playing til sunset,

Beyond if allowed,

Til mother yells, “bath time”.

Reality stinks.

 

The Visit

Braced and ready for any endeavor,

Awaiting the tirade that surely will follow,

Feeling the weight, the pure intent of

Noncataclysmic benign confrontation.

 

I remain steadfast in anticipation,

Winsome yet watchful of every move.

Measuring spoonfuls of history’s lessons

To temper the spice of today’s recipe.

 

Brisk to the footfall you enter my castle.

Too late the drawbridge, too slow the gate.

Invading my kingdom, my breached sanctuary.

I muffle a scream; put a smile on my lips.

 

Maybe today the results will be different;

Gathering honey, rendering fruit.

Maybe I’ll win the Irish sweepstakes

And move to Bali… or maybe the Moon.

 

Whiffle, Wimple, Tadpoles

Blow you mighty gusting wind.

Blow and cease. Blow and cease.

Make me wonder who created you

In geometric form.

Cutting forth to whiffle this,

Whiffle that, and are no more.

Rippling at water's edge

You cast your breasts upon the shore

A simple wimple foraging

Here to there for who knows what.

Ride the crest to lands downstream

To come to rest in fields afar.

You were just a tiny speck when

First you came. Little dot that grew a tail,

Began to slither ‘cross the pond.

Nosy tadpole swimming, skimming,

Growing to a mighty leaper,

Leaping high into the wind.

Landing on some distant shore.

A whiffle now. A wimple then.

 

Whifle, Wimple, Tadpoles

Blow you mighty gusting wind.

Blow and cease. Blow and cease.

Make me wonder who created you

In geometric form.

Cutting forth to whifle this,

Whifle that, and are no more.

Rippling at waters edge

You cast your breasts upon the shore

A simple wimple foraging

Here to there for who knows what.

Ride the crest to lands downstream

To come to rest in fields afar.

You were just a tiny speck when

First you came. Little dot that grew a tail,

Began to slither ‘cross the pond.

Nosy tadpole swimming, skimming,

Growing to a mighty leaper,

Leaping high into the wind.

Landing on some distant shore.

A whifle now. A wimple then.

 

If… And… Then

If the calendar was malleable

And we could pick and choose,

Then mistakes would not be permanent,

Do-overs would be commonplace.

If it’s true that fame is fleeting

And wealth can’t buy happiness,

Then I must be the happiest

Poor bastard in this unknown world.

If the myths of Troywere factual

And looks turned men to stone,

Then man would have evolved by now

To lifeless frozen rock.

If the world should stop revolving

And the sun refuse to glow,

Then I’d seek the warmth of kindness

That dwells inside your eyes.

If the angels came tomorrow

And took me to Heaven’s door,

Then the answers would be obvious

And I would guess no more.