Dennis S. Martin's Blog, page 129

FLIGHT

Whispers of the lonely wind...

Feathery delight...

Drifting, shifting, lifting, falling,

Silently alight.

 

Longing to be lifted up

Into the gentle light...

Racing to the setting sun

Into the dark of night.

 

Flitting like the butterfly

Who does not know its plight...

Chasing windmills...

Braving storms...

All dread hid from sight.

 

Lifted to the heavens like

A silent wind-blown kite.

Fears abated, pulling on the

String with all my might.

 

Moving forward; never back;

Never left or right.

Nothing else to equal the

Pure ecstasy of flight.

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INDIAN NATIONS

The ancient warrior, drawn and pale,

Hardly the image of eons ago,

Still gives us pause to reflect on his plight,

The grave indiscretions of

His conquering foe.

 

Long ago, no one can remember,

Before all the ships arrived on his shore,

This was "his" land teaming with

Every abundance imagined to fulfill his needs.

 

But boat load on boat load

Explorers and settlers amassed

On his borders, eyes hot with passion,

Primed to the hilt; sword at the ready;

Meant to proliferate credos of greed.

 

Lies upon promises, heaped to infinity,

Pushing and crowding him west to the seas,

Killing his livelihood, breaking his spirit,

Prodding and pounding him down to his knees.

 

What kind of shame can a nation endure

When it's destiny feeds off her native son?

Somewhere in time there's a reckoning day

Where truth is revealed...

And justice is done.

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BROKEN INFINITY

Everything is measured somehow,

Marked by linear space and time.

What begins must someday end.

It's proven time and time again

As church bells toll their loathsome chime

To the passing of another friend.

 

Youth is such a hypocrite,

Letting us believe forever

Is a goal we might achieve,

Leading children to conceive

Of never-ending fairy tales,

Of fabric with unbroken weave.

 

We are but a moment here,

A pebble dropped into the sea.

Our concept of eternity

Is just a theory.  Hopefully,

We strive for our allotted time

In life's broken infinity.

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THE ROSE OUTSIDE MY WINDOW

Look at you!  You're just amazing.

One of God's most perfect gifts

Growing right outside my windows,

Brightening a dreary day.

 

Petals softly kissing dewdrops

In the early morning mist.

Colors seldom seen except on

Nature's pallet dipped in hues

No artist's canvas duplicates,

Nor photograph to capture all

The subtle textures of your skin,

The soft sweet fragrance waiting there.

 

Pity that my time allows but

Just a brief tormented glance.

Would that I could give you all

The tender care that you deserve.

Yet you survive despite neglect

And flourish in your habitat,

Bringing me a joy unmeasured

Beaming in the morning light.

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FIDELITY

My ways may not always be common

To general philosophy;

The rugged macho credo of

Male dominant society.

The outcry and the decry

Of later day liberality

Speak boldly from necessity

For all to seek fidelity.

 

No shame to bear the weight of trust,

To shun the tempting lure of lust,

To find the one and only one

To share your all until all is dust.

An honest person is "not" rare,

Or should not be if truth be told.

A place is waiting those who care.

Fidelity is Heaven's gold.

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WATER OFF THE BACK OF A DUCK

"You have no right!"  yatta, yatta, yatta, Boom!

"You can't do that!" Nag, whinny, whine, nag.

The volleys and salvos continue to fly unabated.

Unaided, your defenses reel

Until calm is a foreigner, and lashing back seems

The only alternative left in your repertoire

Made up of candle-lit folly and dreams;

Once filled with logic, gusto and zeal.

 

How do you deal with the daily barrage,

The desert mirage, the facade of contentment?

How do you feel at the end of the day?

Do you put it away?

Are you filled with resentment?

 

Living with pressure is no easy matter.

Do you run and hide?  do you pass the buck?

Do you square your shoulders

And take its full measure?

... Like water off the back of a duck.

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HARBOR NO ILLS

Harbor no ills for you, my brother.

Harbor no ills, my enemy.

Sing in the sunlight,

Dance in the moonlight,

Softly embracing in sweet harmony.

 

Is seeing believing?

Is truth merely blind?

No one is all-knowing

For there's too much to know.

But we can take time to

Deliver compassion

To realms seldom seen

By mere mortals below.

 

Reach out to the one who

Has smitten your hand.

Reach out even though you

May not understand.

The sun casts long shadows

From the crest of the hills.

Stand tall on life's hilltops,

And harbor no ills.

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PLEASURE AND PAIN

If passion holds pleasure,

It also breeds pain.

No other emotion is free

To lay claim to

The bold multiplicity found

In it's faces;

Nesting in dozens of

Dark hiding places.

 

No one can know when

Passion may strike,

When two people meet and

Their small worlds collide.

Drenched in emotion,

Drawn to each other,

Driven by feelings they

Soon cannot hide.

 

What of the outcome?

Pleasure or pain?

Melt the facade 'til

All passions lay bare.

Time is our mentor, our teacher,

Our healer;

Patiently waiting to

Render her care.

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FEAR

There are but two things in life, as we know it,

We mortals tend to fear:

Pain, which we constantly strive to avoid,

And death, which is always near.

 

Would you put your hand into a vice

And turn the screws until bone was dust?

I dare say you wouldn't. The pain would be far

Too much for one to tolerate.

But if passion guides our will or

If we're bound to mend a broken trust,

The fires of Hell may not be goad

To make us pause or hesitate.

 

The Reaper bares his shadowy scythe,

Forbearance to the dark unknown,

Foreteller of a fated end,

Beleaguering a troubled mind.

It is this great unknowing which

Gives cause and pause to fear.

The grand regrets of things undone,

Of loved ones sadly left behind.

 

There may be more for us to fear

But somehow they are all connected.

Pain and Death are parents to

All fear... imagined or collected.

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THE HICKORY SWITCH

Mother would get so frustrated at times.

Raising six children was no easy task;

Especially six who were so much dissimilar

In interest and temperament.

It's no small wonder that

She was able to keep her sanity,

Able to refrain profanity

When six strong wills clashed with her own.

Amazing we all came to be fully-grown.

 

But mother has a secret companion

Tucked in the corner there by the window.

Twenty-eight inches of flexible pulp

Ripped from the limb of a nearby hickory,

Standing in wait for her to command

With the quickness of lightning,

The sting of a bee.

 

We always knew when the call went out,

When she summoned the threat of the hickory switch,

The time had come when her patience was broken,

Better to yield than to try and pitch

Our case any further, although the switch

Was really nothing to fear for the pain.

But the choice was made. the course was laid.

The switch had decided... There's no more to gain.

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