This Blog features the musings of Dennis Sidney Martin; Poet, Playwright and Novelist from Baltimore, Maryland. Feel free to browse the content and leave your comments.
I dearly love the theater,
Its' relief from daily strife.
A story played out on a stage,
Imitating life.
You never can be sure
Exactly what may happen next;
What bold surprises lie in store
Within the playwrights text.
And when the final curtain
Brings a satisfying end,
It's like sprinkles on my ice cream,
And life is good again.
Perfection is a fleeting bird;
Never sitting still.
It knows no perch;
Builds no nest.
It has no shoes to fill.
Its greedy talon reaches out,
But holds no olive branch.
We try to capture its true worth,
But there is little chance.
No matter how we strive or strain
Or just how close it seems,
Perfection only dwells within
The sanctum of our dreams.
Lifestyles vary from one to another.
They spring from the lessons we're taught.
Some are determined from date of conception,
While some are acquired through default.
Whether we're living the posh life of leisure
Or struggling to make ends meet,
We all can relish in life's little victories
And cry when we're faced with defeat.
So, whether your lifestyle is princely or pauper,
You need not be filled with dismay.
Each moment in life can be filled with adventure.
Each lifestyle, in turn, finds its way.
Humans love to play their games.
They make it such a sport.
Every contest bred from which
A winner may extort
A victory for bragging rights;
A trophy to display;
A memory of triumph
In the games they choose to play.
Football, baseball, rugby, soccer, hockey and lacrosse,
Basketball, volleyball, badminton, motocross.
Jai lai, sculling, skiing, skating,
Boxing or gymnastics.
Swimming, diving, racing, running
All can be fantastic.
Just remember in your quest
To reach that hall of fame,
When everything is said and done,
In sports, it's just a game.
She comes around through habit;
Making rounds; each one in turn.
Traveling an old familiar circuit,
She has learned
Each yard and door she can depend on
For a handout every day.
She gathers nuts and acorns
As she goes along the way.
Some are nibbled.
Some are buried
With a tender care
In a secret hiding place
She doesn't want to share.
She leaps and hops and shakes her fluffy tail
As it unfurls.
Could there be a more amusing creature
Than a squirrel?
Cheery little laugh that brings a sparkle to the eye,
Tickling the heart with feathered fronds.
No concerns or worries, no regrets, no alibi.
Thinking only of the moment;
Not what lies beyond.
Laughter is a subtle witness to the here and now;
Capturing a slice of space and time.
Observing all the humor in the what and where and how,
Attesting to the irony contained within a rhyme.
How often has a spirit low
Been lifted out of gloom
By the sound of lilting laughter
As it filters through the room?
Most will forgive,
But few will forget
When their ire is inspired to arise.
That wrinkle of gray
Placed deep in the brain
Is implanted forever. It shows in our eyes.
The soul is reflective in kindness and means.
It leans toward benevolent trends.
But the mind in its memory
Doesn't forget;
Like a cut where the scar never mends.
But it's the forgiving
That bodes in importance.
Without it we dwell in regret.
But if we forgive;
If we truly forgive,
We don't really need to forget.
Someone has to keep things honest.
Someone needs to play the role.
Traveling along life's highway,
Someone has to pay the toll.
Even though we lay a plan,
Carefully considering
Every little puzzle piece and
Every problem that they bring,
Still someone must take the part of
Bringing up each caveat.
So, who will don the cloak of dread
And play the devil's advocate.
Have you ever noticed how some people play
At blind benevolence, rounding up strays?
If kindness and fellowship won a reward,
Their curio would overflow with awards.
Kittens and puppies and people who find
Them wandering aimlessly, hope left behind.
Someone must help them.
Someone must pay
The price of compassion
For rounding up strays.
Across the miles, over hills, through valleys,
Past the gates of barbarian hordes,
In the face of cannon fire,
Through the threat of bombardment,
Over seas and harbors mined for destruction,
The courier's message must go forward.
No idle gossip.
No trivial conversation.
Coded, encrypted, secret in nature,
The courier's message must get through.
The fate of millions hangs in the balance.
The courier's message must get through.
These precious little glimpses of life
Seen from the window of the mind...
These pictures in time...
These snapshots...
These keepsakes...
Treasure them always.
Remember them fondly.
Glimpses are memories.
Memories are forever.
Where, pray tell, is that fountain of youth?
That great panacea for age?
The millions have fruitlessly foolishly sought
To keep life from turning a page.
Though hope springs eternal we someday may find
A cure so we never grow old,
The fountain of youth is a far-fetched untruth;
A fantasy fools have foretold.
Who's to blame when things go wrong?
Who takes the ire of error?
Who rants and raves and places fault
And fills the room with terror?
Does it really matter who's at fault?
Who may have done the deed?
There's a greater cause for which
Our keen attendance has its need.
Fix it first, and later you
Can play your little game
Of figuring a scapegoat,
And finding who's to blame.
These eyes are old.
They need assistance in focusing
On the printed word...
The picture frame...
Your face.
But my minds eye is keen.
It builds a lasting memory
Of insightful press...
Inspiring art...
Your face.
These old eyes may fail,
But memory will never fade
Of literature...
Mona Lisa's smile...
Your face.
Staring at a blank page,
Wondering what to write,
Searching through my recent
Recollections of the past.
Looking for the right words
That will cleverly convey
The tender meaning of my message.
It comes to me at last.
The words begin to flow out
Like a river on the page.
My pencil point grows wider
As the pages start to crowd
From margin left to margin right
Continuing unchecked
With text that Mr. Pulitzer
Would surely have been proud.
With all the items of my news
Assembled one by one,
And carefully placed upon the page
My masterpiece is done.
And in closing my epistle,
This update of what's new,
My loving gift of happiness
Do you gamble?
Bet you do.
Would you chance a buck or two
To hit the big one?
All that cash?
All that money you could stash.
Not to worry;
It's no sin.
It's just a game you play to win.
Time to crawl down off that shelf.
Life's a gamble in itself.
Oh! How I hate politics!
Dirty liars. Dirty
tricks.
Sleazy campaigns, twisted truth,
Oozing from the voting booth.
Every one is honest
While opponents all tell lies.
Well, someone's surely lying.
That's a fact no one denies.
But how are we to sort it out
From sound bites on t v?
Who are we to trust
To be what they "all" claim to be?
They burst upon the scene
And advocate a grand upheaval;
Leaving voters in the end
To choose between two evils.
Is it any wonder why
The public screams and kicks
When the topic of discussion
Turns to politics?
Having come to the end of a long hard day,
Where frustrations have tangled my mind in a knot,
Where my sleeves have grown long
From the pulling and tugging
In every direction 'til self is forgotten,
I slip off the armor of workday combatants,
Running my fingers through, mussing my hair,
Slipping in silence into calm oblivion,
Wrapped in the comfort of my easy chair.
Rolling 'cross the highways
And the byways of the nation;
Every condition
Every trial and situation
Passes by the big rig's window
As it rumbles on its way,
Counting miles on miles on miles
As night turns into day.
Another town goes speeding by;
Another up ahead.
A hundred more go rolling by
And not a word is said.
The lonely droning of the wheels
Against the asphalt line
Accompanies the singing
Of the mighty engine's whine.
Five hundred miles. A thousand miles.
How many more ahead?
Rolling, rolling, rolling on.
A nation to be fed.
When we bypass cynicism
Leaving prey to criticism
From an unknown outside source,
Falling victim to remorse,
There is something to be missed,
Something trivial dismissed,
That will come back down the road
Hauntingly to prod and goad,
Best we look with watchful eye
Everything that passes by;
Every little witticism
Scrutinized by cynicism.
There's nothing more thrilling than the triumph of song;
God's perfect gift to the world.
The human companion to grand celebration,
Or when in despair we are hurled.
Whether it's singing the praises of god,
Or desperately crying the blues,
Or rocking the house with a dance of delight,
Or expressing alternative views,
The spirit of song is the spirit of life;
The soul of expression in man.
The reason the trumpeter blows reveille
And the bandleader strikes up the band.
To bring on the singers...
To bring on the songs...
To feed and replenish our souls.
So, let there be singing,
And let it inspire us
To go about reaching our goals.
Should I give you hearts and flowers?
Should I sing a sweet love song?
Fond forgiveness bodes forever,
Loving blindly, right or wrong.
Treachery is not your calling,
And its test you truly fail.
You are more adept at loving.
Winds of mercy fill your sail.
In your eyes I find a spirit
Of compassion reaching out.
Oh! So gently it caresses
As it spreads its' arms about.
Should I give you hearts and flowers?
You, whose love belongs to me.
I shall give you hearts and flowers;
Enough for all eternity.
Gently rolling, floating, falling,
Riding calmly on the breeze.
Not a care or caution lingers.
All concerns are met with ease.
Rising slowly, swaying freely
On a cushion in the air.
Feeling fluffy, smooth and silky.
Not a worry. Not a care.
In it's measure dissipating.
Where it goes to, no one knows.
Bringing back a sweet remembrance:
Springtime blossoms... Winter snows.
Lingering for just a moment.
Soft aroma, never strong,
Comes a haunting lovely memory
For an instant. Then it's gone.
It's funny how we humans
Grow attached to little things,
Like baubles, bangles, beads and bracelets,
Necklaces and rings,
Little statues, candle holders
Tiny little toys,
Cuff links, tie clips, broaches,
Earrings for both girls and boys.
These tiny little trinkets,
Usually of little worth,
Can oft become the greatest treasures
We have on this earth.
And who's to say that we are wrong?
It's not a money thing.
The value of our trinkets
Is in the joy they bring.
I've been here before; just know it.
Has that ever happened to you?
To see someplace, to be someplace,
Someplace you've walked into
At sometime in your distant past,
You can't recall exactly when,
But something so familiar
Seems to stir you from within.
It's a scary kind of feeling,
Somehow nervous, yet quite warm;
Something like the calm that hits you
Just before the storm.
It stirs for just a moment
Sending other thoughts askew,
Then leaves you just as quickly.
What just happened?
Deja vu.
Do you know a cure for hiccups?
I've heard of quite a few.
Everyone I know of
Seems to have a different view.
No one knows exactly
What incites them to begin.
We only know we quickly want to
Bring them to and end.
"Have you tried
to hold your breath
And count to twenty?"
Didn't work.
"Have you breathed into a bag?"
It makes you feel like such a jerk.
Try gulping down some water;
A full glass or maybe more;
Or have somebody scare you
As they lurk behind a door.
We've heard of oh! So many cures
From every kind of source,
But the only sure-fired remedy
Is to let them run their course.
Why is breaking wind so funny?
What makes it such a crime?
Could it be because it comes
At unexpected times?
It sneaks up from behind us
Leaving everyone agog,
And wondering who's guilty,
'Til we finally blame the dog.
We smile and snicker as the humor
Of the moment grows,
Until the scent of guilty air
Comes wafting by our nose.
Nothing is so quick to turn
A smile into a sneer
As someone breaking wind
And proudly grinning ear to ear.
In my youth I struggled,
Looking for the right connection;
Someone who would give and take
My measure of affection;
Someone with compassion
And sensitivity,
Who's gentle understanding
Was meant for only me.
And when I finally found it,
It came as no surprise.
All it took was just one look.
I found it in your eyes.
What did you say? Please, say it again.
I didn't quite catch the last line.
Beg your pardon? Bad connection?
Oh, now I can hear you just fine.
"I'm sorry. May I interrupt what you're saying?
I have a few thoughts of my own."
So, we listen with passive intent 'til the voice
Becomes nothing more than a drone.
It's not an unusually odd situation.
It's not that we strayed from the norm.
If folks were as good at listening as talking,
They all would be better informed.
I grew up on Saturday mornings,
Sitting tall in the saddle of my TV
Toting six-guns and riding the ranges;
Just Hoppy, Roy, the Lone Ranger and me.
Always the good guy, standing for right,
Looking for justice, hoping to see
All the villains get busted, given their due;
Just Hoppy, Roy, the Lone Ranger and me.
Many a lesson was learned in my youth
By keeping such stalwartly brave company.
Honor and truth were of utmost importance
To Hoppy, Roy, the Lone Ranger and me.
Who are the heroes of youth today?
Where will they learn what a hero should be?
I long for the days when it all was much clearer
For Hoppy, Roy, the Lone Ranger and me.
Driving, to some, is a pleasurable chore.
To me, it's a pain in the neck.
Constantly taxing the mental capacity
As down the highway we trek.
Plummeting forward from every direction
To where the paths intersect;
Watching the signs and the bright signals flashing;
Each meant to guide and direct.
Struggling, straining, hoping we've made
The right turns as we try to connect.
Praying to make our intended arrival
Without getting into a wreck.
Yes, driving for some is a pastime of pleasure;
A theory I firmly reject.
But for getting around from point" "a" to
point "b",
It's the method I always select.
