Dennis S. Martin's Blog, page 170

Zones Forbidden

There are places we're not meant to go,

Walls that we're not meant to scale,

Battles fought with foe so mighty,

No point,

No chance we may prevail.

 

Still there are those who dare to try,

Who face unknown and test their fear.

Often beaten, torn and shattered,

Battered into mournful tears.

 

There lies in our human spirit,

Deep inside, most often hidden,

Staunch defiance, daring do,

To travel into zones forbidden.

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Zero Hour

Check again.  Is all in order?

Have you everything?

Check out time and you're not ready.

Typical to say the least.

Piddle, piddle, dawdle, diddle,

Never in a rush until

Zero hour comes and you

Become a raving beast,

Ranting, rushing willy-nilly,

Hither-tither to and fro.

Time ticks shorter every second

Watching your impatience grow.

Planning would have been a plus.

Perhaps you wouldn't be so sour

If you had concentrated, honing in

On this, the zero hour.

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You Are There

Witness... You are witness...

You are fabric...

You are there.

The truth calls out your name from

All directions... Everywhere.

Fact has found you one with nature,

Naked, unaware.

There's no crying, no denying,

Face it!

You are there.

Where did you think that you were headed?

Some far off distant isle?

Peeling grapes and coconuts

Or living a life of style in

A villa near to coastal waters

In the south of Spain?

Where no one stops to ask you favor.

No one gives you pain.

Oh, if it could only be...

But life seems seldom fair.

Where you are

Is where you are.

Face it...

You are there.

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Yesterday's Child

All too seldom yesterday comes

Knocking on the door,

Beckoning reminders of

The way it used to be.

Playful little tidbits meant

To tease the aging process,

Far too distant to return

Except in memory.

Whimsically, they're set in place,

Mind games of deception,

Artful in the conquest of our time.

Tipped with vinegar and honey,

Complete with background music,

A sweet and sour poem set to rhyme.

In the hustle and the bustle

Of our hectic lives,

When problems of the world

Are heaped and piled,

Meditations of the past will

Ease the pain of tension,

As we search for

Yesterday's sweet child.

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X-Ray of the Soul

Broken bones can be detected,

Then set in place to heal.

Physicians never have to guess

With modern day machines.

Take a picture. Look inside.

X-ray will reveal

The battered, tattered, broken matter

That was previously unseen.

Sad to say this wonder,

This precious miracle,

Is not the grand solution to all ill.

If only we could somehow take

An x-ray of the soul,

Very few could stand

To pay the bill.

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"X" Marks the Spot

On a multicolored treasure map created and

Designed by youth,

Experience draws lines and markers,

Scaling facts,

Pointing truth.

Goals begin to focus as

Objectives become clear.

Fact spreads like a virus

As calm belabors fear.

Hoping to achieve,

Glad to receive the gifts we got.

Searching, ever searching,

For the 'x' that marks the spot.

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Wash Day

Mom's old wringer washer was an ominous contraption,

Back porch dweller, silent sentinel.

But wash day saw it spring to life

With reckless wild abandon,

A fire-breathing dragon sent from hell.

 

Water drawn from nearby well

To feed her empty belly,

Carried pail by pail 'til she was full.

Grinding agitation as she

Mauled her fabric diet,

Everything from silk to scratchy wool.

 

Mother's little helpers would

Complain and run away,

Much too busy for such mundane tasks.

Totally exasperated, trudging on ahead,

She'd grit her teeth and don her mother's mask.

 

Washing, wringing, rinsing, ringing,

Ringing once again,

Seemed a never-ending carousel.

Difficult but necessary,

Mom did not complain.

She tamed the weekly dragon sent from hell.

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Walking Through the Wood

Master rabbit foraging,

Where is your home address?

Do you believe I mean no harm?

Forgive me to confess that

I am only passing through your

Neighborhood upon this day,

An interested observer

Here to watch you as you play.

 

Walking through the wood

In search of secrets, nature's guise.

Pleasuring my mind with beauty

Filtered through these eyes,

Sheltered in your forest womb,

A modern Robin Hood,

Seeking peace and solitude

Walking through the wood.

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Victory Is Easy - But Someone Has To Lose

Winning can be such a welcome bouquet.

Roses and lilacs should smell half as sweet.

Victory rides on the wings of the tides to leave

Sparkling pearls on the shore at our feet.

Counted so rare, the favor we savor

When triumph uplifts over summit and peak.

Hardly a thought of the depths of dilemma

Suffered by those trodden down in defeat.

 

Winning is easy. It bears not the burden

Of inward reflection, inspection or thought.

A wild and untethered complete celebration

Is what you expect from the battle you fought.

But out in the wings there awaits a new challenge.

Take care which opponent you knowingly choose,

For only the winner can claim victory's laurels.

Someone has to lose.

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Voices from The Past

Oft life offers difficulties,

Plagues of indecisiveness,

Barrel-chested thugs who pound

On reason with an iron fist.

Cannibals of logic,

Clear confusion from mass offerings,

Twisted, thwarted, thrashed and trashed

'Til every point is soundly missed.

 

What would FDR have done?

Would doctor King just preach and pray?

Would Confucius have the answer?

What would Gandhi say?

Would your grandpa share your burden?

Could old friend's advice apply?

Can philosophers of old help lift

The darkness from your eyes?

 

There's a time for us to listen,

Keeping pace, but not too fast.

A cloak of benefit abides within

These voices from the past.

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