Dennis S. Martin's Blog, page 132

THE NEXT HILL

I wonder what's over there, Chris Columbus.

What marvelous tale of adventure could be

Holding the gold, which is there for the taking;

The unabashed thrill of discovery.

 

Treacherous oceans offer no boundary

To those who are born with inquisitive minds.

Accepting the challenge, our hero sets sail

To the ends of the universe, only to find

That there is no end, only a bend,

Or a corner to turn to the next great adventure.

By now he is hooked and can never turn back

'Til completing the quest which began his indenture.

 

Green fields may call him to peace in the valley,

The creature of age may dampen his will,

But nothing on earth will quench his desire

To take up the gauntlet;

To climb the next hill.

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THE GARDEN

Stepping out into the green of the garden

My mind is a rush of olfactory senses

Mixing and mingling here in my head

'Til the fragrance of June and July come together.

 

The lilac trees which grace her borders,

Long since shed of their luscious bloom

Which captured the evening air of April

And left the most wonderful feeling of freshness,

Now only offering gentle reminders of

Springtime's renewal, bursting with energy

Sprung from the earth as the product of sunshine

And raindrops reviving a cold winter's sleep.

 

I bend and brush aside tender young foliage

Revealing the sweetness it hides from the sunlight.

My eyes are full moons surprised to discover

Tomatoes ripening there on the vines.

Anxious to pluck, to devour it's juices, yet

Finding restraint to wait just one more day

'Til its redness is full, it's flavor complete.

I pluck a blade of grass instead.

 

Standing and stretching, I reach for the treetops,

Taking in volumes of crisp morning air.

Finding a treasure that gold cannot purchase.

A secret to share... A promise to keep.

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HANDICRAFT

We were truly amazed at

The parcel we received from mother,

Overstuffed in nature,

Though not heavy for it's bulk.

Inside, neatly rolled, not folded,

Packed with tender loving care,

The most amazing patchwork quilt,

Made with love by hands which ached

With each and every needle push and pull;

At times too much to bear.

 

Skills acquired from generations

Somewhere in the distant past

When necessity beget art and

Care was more than memory.

Handed down from mom to daughter,

Rarely placed into a book.

Hour after hour learning,

Bonding everlastingly.

Little wonder we are blessed

With such amazing gifts to keep.

When the seeds are sewn in youth,

Maturing years are sure to reap.

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FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD

I have an underlying passion for food.

Just look at my waistline;

It tells a tale

Of wicked obsession with

Oral delights tickling taste buds

To snap to attention.

Marvelous scents tease

Olfactory senses,

Begging, pleading,

Wanting for more.

Baked or broiled, fried or filleted,

Toasted or tossed to a turn,

Not to mention

I'm never left out when

They offer up seconds,

Or met a desert I didn't enjoy;

Obsessed with a fire raging out of control

Which no flood of water can possibly douse.

If this trend continues unchecked and unaltered

With no end in sight, no method employed to

Cure the beast that rages inside me,

I'm sure that I'll soon be

The size of a house.

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WHITE PAPER / BLACK INK

My blank stare reflects off

The linen white paper,

Stiffened and dulled to a

Blind state of boredom.

A texture, minute, barely detectable,

Plays on its surface,

So naked and bland,

'Til the ink from my pen

Finds it's voice and it's

Story flows on to the page

Like the rush of the tides,

Creating a tale of marvelous

Detail, splendid adventure

To share one and all.

 

Should the lily-white paper resist

The disfigurement?

Would it fair better to

Keep itself pure?

Life is a story which

Cannot be told until

Black ink and white paper

Learn to endure.

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THE BEACHES OF CAPE COD

We strolled hand in hand

Over creamy white sand

Which captured our footprints

So briefly in time, 'til the tides

And the whitecaps erased

Every trace of our lingering gaze

Into endless expanse.

 

Hillside bedecked by a

Towering lighthouse, a

Monument offering course and direction,

Left to remind of the days

Of our glory;

Seafaring heroes who praised her reflection.

 

Stiff breezes piercing the October morning,

Riding the waves rolling in from the east.

The surf is alive with the voice of a lion,

Rising to crash like the jaws of a beast.

Yet, somehow serene,

Alive, Enduring,

Knowingly constant,

Meant to survive.

Never a worry on

These sandy beaches;

Joyous to celebrate

Being alive.
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FULL MOON MADNESS

Once again, the cycle is full.

The crescent has grown from

It's Cheshire cat grin

To a floodlight of madness

Filling the sky

With it's lunar reflection,

Blocking a billion

Stars from my vision,

Beckoning lunacy,

Calling the moonstruck

To walk in it's shadows,

To stumble about

Without clear direction,

Weeping and wailing

Without knowing why.

 

Werewolves and vampires,

The stars of tradition,

Reduce to a bit part

When Luna grows bright.

No one, it seems,

Can corner the market

When full moon madness

Captures the night.

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...COMES IN THREES

Good news...

Bad news...

Comes in threes.

Isn't it the way?

Life is fine when good news rolls in;

One after two after three

'Til euphoria sets its sights

On a dizzied brain...

Sunshine so dazzling it

blocks out the rain,

Even forgetting how mortal we are,

How end comes

To even the gayest refrain.

 

So sad when tragedy strikes at the heart,

When it compounds event on event

On event 'til the tray is

Too heavy to carry the burden and

Balance is lost

As you crash to your knees.

Praying for miracles to lift

Your spirit. To set

Your ship on an even keel.

Life is a seesaw;

A balancing act.

Good news... Bad news... Comes in threes.

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KISS

The lips of my love are

The gateway to passion.

Ever so lightly they

Touch my soul

With a loving caress which can

Only be felt by

A kindred spirit

Who's arms enfold

And touch much deeper than

Mere flesh can know,

Finding a treasure

More precious than gold.

 

Sweetly the lips of my lover

Invite every passion

Inside me to rush to the fore.

Gently they touch,

Softly they urge as

Passion arises from every pore.

Kissing away every care we have known,

Leaving us spent,

But longing for more.

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I'LL SMACK YOUR FACE

You, looking at me with that

Self-righteous grin,

Eyes leering in undertones,

Sure of a win.

Head tilted, nose upturned in the air.

Lips seething attitude

Offering to dare.

Arms crossed, knuckles white,

Shoulders rigid, poised and straight;

Feet planted firmly,

No shifting of weight.

So self-assured...

So confident...

Full of venom...

Logic spent.

So high above all forgiveness and grace;

So much in need of a smack in the face.

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