Dennis S. Martin's Blog, page 224

Abuse

It's really hard to understand
The kind of mind-set subject to
The twisted actions put upon
And set upon the innocents,
Who's only crime is being there
In a close proximity
To one whose presence strikes a fear
Of hurt in those of weak resolve.
Why then must you dominate?
Why must you wreak hurt and pain?
What events in childhood
Made your hand a weapon to destroy?
Why can't you endeavor in
The milk of Human kindness
Where the peaceful tides reciprocate
And fill a heart with kindred joy?
And when will all your victims stand
To pay you back for your refuse?
To give you in good measure
A taste of your abuse.

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Happiness

Happiness is listening to the wind 
when the wind is not blowing. 

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Theories on Creation

I wish I had the answers,
But the questions are so huge
When we theorize the origins
And try to break them down.
As the Prophets wrote in ancient time
Dispelling doubt with testament,
The words of God sent from on high
To call on all humanity.
We toe the line believing
There is something after, something more,
Something worth behaving in polite society;
Whether it be need for Heaven
Or the fear of living Hell,
Or just a need for some small piece of immortality.
Scientists would have us think that
It all started with a bang,
That the universe expands in ways
We cannot truly understand;
That someday far into the future,
In time we cannot measure, it
All will come collapsing in a hurried timeless rush.
And Mister Darwin tells us that
We climbed down from the trees.
That we are ever changing,
That the future will evolve,
And a hundred generations hence
Will look at us and wonder
How Humanity survived
With all its questions unresolved.

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Bodacious Banter

You can be so scandalous
With your bodacious banter
As you probe and prod or pick apart
With needle pricks continuing to rant or
Rave for days on end,
Never calling reason in
To settle a dispute with fact.
You just continue to attack
With bleeding knuckles, bloody cheeks,
Blackened eyes that cannot see.
Common sense becomes a stranger;
An abstract curiosity.
Kicking victims when they're down
Like raging bulls in full attack,
Obsessing your obsessions,
Bent on venting for a full payback.

Just don't bring your litany of
Stinging comment bare to me.
I'm too content to hear you vent,
Too discerned to disagree.

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Home

The sloth knows only self. 
It is the beaver who builds 
a home and community. 

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Legs

More than just a mode of transport
Carrying from room to room,
Legs are part and parcel
To a sense of sensuality.

Curved and molded, long and luscious
Secretive appendages
That tempt and tease
Libido's ire
To points of curiosity
Where glances linger unaware,
Imagination runs amuck
And fantasy becomes too real
As heat increases by degree.

Turn of ankle, twist of hip,
Touchable, as smooth as silk.
Longing for the good old days of
Hem lines raised above the knee.

Men obsess at their allure,
Grunting, rutting, wallowing
For passersby with skirts hiked high;
Imagination holds the key.

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Brazen Hussy

Low cut, high slit bold exhibition
Of lace covered breasts
And mesh covered thighs.
Pheromones broadcast a wide-banded signal
To capture attention from ogling eyes.

Heads turn as brows raise and lips purse
And quiver, marking the moment inquisitively.
What is the message?
Where would she take us?
What substance is hidden beneath what we see?

Good Christian girls could never imagine,
Nor Hindu or Moslem or Orthodox Jew,
Such brazen and bold, such craven behavior
The temporal world has fallen into.

But she flaunts and flitters from one to another
Like hummingbirds feeding on nectar like wine;
Using the wiles that nature has given
To capture the bounty that clings to the vine.

And men being weak, as the creatures they are,
Are helpless to fall for the spell that she casts,
And wind up alone when the time comes to pay for the meal,
When it would have been prudent to fast.

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A Dog's Life

Old Buster was not a docile creature,
Though doggie naps were his specialty.
He loved to run and romp and play through
Wood bordered meadows and pastures unending
Where rabbits and squirrels were tests for his speed
That seemed unbounded by all human measure.
No dog in six counties could match his pace.

Totally loyal to family familiars.
Even the cats with which he was raised
Were his to defend if a stranger should pass
Through his yard with a cold-hearted sinister leer.
Visitors knew when they pulled in the driveway
To wait in safe confines if Buster was near.
His bark not a bark, but the baying of madness,
Like hounds of the Baskervilles cast toward the moon,
Quieted only by Master's command
To calm acquiescence and cautious resolve;
Yet staying the sentinel, keeping his watch
Until firmly assured that no harm was in store.

Sadly, old Buster had one fatal flaw.
He loved to go chasing the whining of wheels.
We buried him there near the side of the road
Where he runs forever in Heaven's fields.

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One Loose Shingle

A neighbor pointed it out to me
One evening as I opened up my gate
After toiling through
Another day of drudgery,
Hoping for an easy evening
Lounging in my rocking chair,
Drifting off to sleep before
The late night news report.

The evening breeze stirred just enough
To verify the neighbor's tale
And, looking up beyond the dove
Who settled on the gutter rail,
A single shingle waived and fluttered,
Even struggled to be free.
Teasing, daring, taunting me
To climb the mast and lash her sails.
Perhaps the breeze will settle down.
Predicted rains may pass us by.
Perhaps the fluttering will cease and
Settle without help from me.

Perhaps I'll be a millionaire,
Can hire a crew to do my chore
So I can lounge and rock and sleep...
So much for reality.

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Whispers in the Dark

In the stillness of the dark
When all the senses rise to shine
And every nuance of a clear
Subconscious mind is kindled new,
Every whisper becomes thunder
Echoing from bedroom walls
Of darkened canyons cut by glaciers
A hundred million years ago.

No one answers when I call;
Not a soul for miles around;
Just the shadow of the raven
Gliding across canyon floor.

I search for you to hear my whispers,
Long to find your gentle voice,
Need to feel your heather hair
Brush gently on my waiting skin.
But senses fail me... no response...
Nighttime becomes cold and stark, and
No one's there to quench this thirst
Or answer whispers in the dark.

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