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.
It builds in silence
Like a wake...
A teardrop shed,
A moan, a sigh...
The dreadful quake of a
muffled cry
As emotions burst into open
flame
And the circle breaks
To a world of dread,
As the Serpent comes to
Lay his claim.
We leave this life
In a silent rage,
So unsure yet
Longing for more
As we leaf through the book
Reviewing each page,
Wistfully hoping the
Final score
Will prove us worthy
Of a second look.
Not really sure what made it
begin...
Life's fatal question:
"When will it end?"
I fell in love at seventeen
With a voice who's face I had
never seen,
Echoing quietly, soft and
serene
On the airwaves traveled a
million miles
To touch my soul with angelic
tones.
Speaking in voice so much
like my own;
Whispering softly for my ears
alone.
Soothing contentment...
Tickling smiles...
Where can nostalgia tempt us
to go?
Seeking the joy that we knew
long ago,
Harboring secrets that no one
can know;
No one may enter our private
domain.
Wild beasts may beckon to
break down our door,
Serpents may slither across
barren floor,
Gluttons may hunger...
Longing for more,
But settle for silence...
As memories remain.
You were on a mission, weren't you?
You knew from the start
Where this roadway would end.
You sought me out bringing
wild abandon
To the table to serve as
dessert,
And I was swept up on this
wild Carney ride.
Breathless and helpless to
call to a halt,
We punched every ticket 'til
long after sunset
Never believing the fair
would shut down.
But you never stopped seeking
new rides to venture;
New thrills and spectacles
were your demands.
Never content to just sit
close and snuggle,
Never enough to just walk
holding hands.
So sad you never could learn
love's contentment.
Too bad your fickle heart
couldn't be coy.
I'll not participate.
I'll not be party to you on
your mission
To search and destroy.
Prophesizing visionary
Praying hard for luminary
Foresight to the tertiary
Limits of your goal.
Ever seeking sanctuary,
Running from incendiary
Passions that could crush the
very
Essence of the soul.
Nodding off to Sprite and
Fairy
Cold and dark as January;
Sailing on the tributary
To an open Sea.
Every micro capillary
Plays the tune both sad and
merry
From conception 'til they
bury
And we cease to be.
Playing the reactionary
Found in Webster's
dictionary.
I watched it as it grew from
Just a single column in the
Arts and Entertainment
section
Of the local Sunday news.
I thought it at first to be
an oddity
To place the Personals
In such a section, so
obscure,
So hidden from the public
view.
But week to week it became
clear
The lonely souls were reading
As column grew to pages
'Til it quite obscured the
Arts,
And it finally occurred to me
And filled me with delusion
To think there are so many
Restless, searching, lonely
hearts.
All those people reaching
out,
Longing for affection.
No time left for subtlety;
"In search of" ...
direction.
The artist's hand moves stealthily
From palette to board and
back again;
Almost as if in a single
stroke
As colors unfold on the
canvas of life.
Slowly at first as the medium
blends
And lays down the backdrop on
which to compose
The outline, the structure of
what is to be;
Brushing the texture;
Caressing the soul.
Soon are the bright colors
flashing and glowing,
Going in every direction at
once;
Yearning a structure to give
some direction,
Seeking the meaning of what
is to be.
Days become weary and move
Oh! Too swiftly,
Demanding a signing; a final
review.
Praying the images left on
the canvas
Will serve as a lesson for
others to view.
Every man searches for peace and prosperity;
Not always consciously;
sometimes in vain.
Sometimes it's simple,
Like silent contentment,
The sweet fragrant air that
billows the Earth
And follows the trail of a
gentle Spring rain.
Often as not, it is more
complicated
Trying to fathom the meaning
of life,
Searching out goals that will
somewhat relate
To the patchwork pattern
Pieced together from scraps
of a cloth cut
With a dull-edged knife.
Seeking perfection in an
imperfect World
Can lead only to madness,
heartache and grief.
Pieces of peace...
The best we can hope for.
Take our contentment in
snippets of joy
'Til the darkness of night
arrives like a thief.
I'm trying hard to understand,
But questions are too
numerous.
They fall so hard the weight
Is like a boulder rolling
down a hillside
Giving new perspective as
I view them from a distant
plain
Escaping their destructive force.
So many wheres and whats and
hows
For unwary travelers of this
World;
Unwittingly I journey on
Seeking the knowledge, the
freedom to choose,
And that choices be forever
true
To the nature of my lowly
being;
To serve the right cause,
To seek the right goal.
The plot becomes clear as
stories unfold.
The answers are there,
Though not always seen.
The trick is to
Question
everything.
The old ex-soldier stood,
Bared his head and dipped his
eyes
In silence as the color guard
Strode step by step in grand
review.
Memories flood every stream
To overflowing as the symbol
Waves unfurling in the heat
Of steamy summers' sweating
swelter.
What a grand time it had
been;
Days gone by when youth was
king.
How much pride could one heart
hold
For honor's duty gladly done?
How many lives were his to
touch?
How many differences
resolved?
Could he have done just a
little more?
Will he find peace at the end
of his road?
Forever seeking
To find something new,
Lives spent
Passing in review.
It brings me discomfort to see people cry.
I never know how to react or
respond
To the steadfast emotion so
common to humans;
So deeply attached to the
frailties we share.
It's so unpredictable, so
like the wind;
Clouds
laden with moisture
That
burst at the seams.
One truly can never
anticipate
What may precipitate unwanted
tears
To burst upon hearts with a
jagged edge,
With a vengeance to tear out
our dreams.
Sadness is all around every
day and
Tears are abundant to wash it
from sight,
But tears alone never will
take it away;
Crying will not set things
right.
So, we cry for our losses...
We cry for ourselves...
We cry for the pain that we
must endure.
We cry for the child who
cannot understand.
We cry - because life is
unsure....
I sit in the darkened room and wonder,
Marvel even at the great good
fortune
Now bestowed upon me
Here among the Arts elite.
Watching as the actors play
the rolls
That were created in my mind
So very long ago
Now cast for all the World to
see.
I try to read the mind of one
who
Watches with a quiet patience
And a chuckle now and then
When the timing is just
right.
I cringe when someone flubs a
line.
"That's not what they
were meant to say."
I wonder, when it's over will
I want to
Run and hide from sight?
Waiting for the final
scene...
The audience applause.
My heart then quietly
celebrates;
My mind arush can take a
pause.
You were my world at daybreak;
Shining, glowing with the
amber light
That grew to passion's fiery
red
Long before the morning
awoke.
We thought we would last forever,
Knew our torch would light
the way.
Pity that the flame concealed
the
Demons lurking in the smoke.
Time can be an evil teacher
When the truth at last
unveils
The colors hidden in the
heart
Which, early on, were cloaked
and masked.
Had we seen in the beginning
What the trek of time
revealed,
We would not have made the
journey,
Would not have been so sorely
tasked.
All the wonders one foresees
While other roads the mind
forsakes.
This path was not meant to
be.
In the end... a heart breaks.
It's snowing now; has been for a day
Or more. The evergreens are
pregnant
Pure with white, and the
sidewalks sigh
With the weight until shovels
clear
And the sun arrives and it
can breathe again.
Now the elm tree waits,
hoping Springtime will
Renew all the innocence and
joy that
It once knew 'til the Winter
winds
Blew her covers far away
And laid bare her soul for
the world to see.
And you were gone in the
early Autumn air.
As the leaves were falling,
fate was
Planning, too. And you left
me here
Standing stark and alone;
sighing, shivering
With loss no one has ever
known before.
...Sadly now, the leaves have
simply blown
Away 'til threadbare limbs
flail wild in
Winter winds. And I'm
wondering,
Are you somewhere safe
tonight?
And does God have mercy for
those left behind?
I know that we speak the same language.
You know that I've said it
ten thousand times,
But somehow we're just not
communicating
In enumerating a tired old
theme.
Taking apart every syllable,
Every nuance laid threadbare before us, picked clean.
And still you don't hear, or
do you ignore?
Would it help if I shouted
and screamed?
The rules of polite
conversation sometimes
Tie the pitiful hands of the
articulate
When the ears of the listener
deafen and turn
In directions too often not
meant to be tread,
Leaving the speaker, the
teller of stories, to
Squirm in frustration much to
the point
Of wishing the listener, to
his dismay,
Were strangled, beaten and
left for dead.
Such a simple, magical
plan...
Pity you don't understand.
I don't need scissors to cut out your heart
And toss it aside without
shedding a tear.
Actions and words have more
cutting an edge
Than the most finely honed
pair of stainless steel shears.
I won't abide by your
mollified codes that
Demand acquiescence to
civility.
You won't find me yielding or
wielding an edge
To the notions of polite
society.
There is a line which, when
crossed, kindles sparks
That build to a wall of
impenetrable fire
That can't be put down,
Cannot be extinguished,
But only grows deeper and
hotter and higher.
You had to hurt me.
You had to dig.
You knew the ending right
from the start.
Now it's my turn, and I won't
be kind...
And I don't need scissors to
cut out your heart.
Every evening,
Hear him pull through the
alleyway
Headed to what must be the
solace of
Hearth and home at the end of
his day.
Not that the engine of his
Tracker is
A loud unmuffled roar;
Not that the potholes in the
alley scream
Of rattles bottomed out;
Not that he's greeted at his
door by
Loved ones gladly welcoming
his
Tired bones to a weary rest
After an arduous evening out.
How do we know our neighbor
is home
Just as our sleep time is
settling in?
"Boom-ba da boom-ba da
boom, boom, boom"
Our walls quake with the
deafening din.
How can he stand it?
What evil demon possesses his
spirit...
Rules over his mind?
Piercing his ears to the
marrow of bone,
Leaving all semblance of
logic behind,
Filling his head like a horn
of plenty...
He'll probably be deaf by the
time he is twenty.
Joy... Anger... Pain... Sorrow...
Love... Elation... Hate...
Depression...
Fear... Confusion...
Agitation...
Jealousy... Aggravation...
Logic doesn't seem to fit
The pattern of emotion
That the Human factor tends
to lend
Our dismal dreary days.
No wonder we become confused
With minds befuddled and
bemused
When pathways clutter and
refuse
To follow logic's ways.
Like pieces of a patchwork
quilt
All cut and scattered on the
floor,
Like bricks before the house
is built,
All separate and alone;
Until they're placed and
stitched or mortared
In a pattern prearranged,
The pieces are just pieces...
The bricks are merely stone.
Complicated, aggravated, heavy weighted situation
Permeated with the hated
calculated risks.
Choices from amalgamated
theories become agitated
'Til awash and fluoridated,
holding just the gist.
We combine and slowly grind
until we find solutions
To a problem which, without a
stitch, Stood naked to our eyes.
Could it be we couldn't see the
coming evolution when the
Answers bare and often stare
and even glare
With wheres and whys.
Choices. Ah, yes! There's the rub;
Far too many in the tub;
All the spokes lead to the
hub
Of where we want to be.
We need but to simplify;
Penetrate the needle's eye;
No regrets... No alibi...
Your choices set you free.
Did you ever notice the sky at sunset?
When feathers of fire gently
flicker and wave
As they roll up to heaven,
stretching to reach for a
Point where they penetrate
God's holy shrine.
Stars are not visible yet as
the sun settles
Over the crest of a far away
hill;
And sometimes the Moon has
awakened too early
And peeks like a ghost
through the shadowing clouds.
This is as close as we
Earthlings will come
To seeing the face of our
eternal God.
This is the beauty, both real
and imagined,
A preview, a prelude to
afterlife
Where sunsets are constant
and beauty surrounds
Every moment of wait for
eternity.
But we ignore sunsets,
Look to tomorrow...
Too busy to stop...
Too blind to see.
Old man Millsap was a sad little creature.
He lived down the road with
his wife and daughters
Who, sad to the world, had
their father's features
And grew to be spinsters with
no social graces.
A quiet sort, old Millsap,
the handyman;
Skilled with a hammer and saw
or a wrench.
He could build a shed in the
spit of a minute,
Clean up and be gone without
leaving a trace.
Everyone thought him an odd
little man;
Someone to pity, perhaps even
fear.
Though his heart was awash
with the kindness of ages,
His stoic demeanor was
misunderstood.
And the tattered attire and
ramshackled pickup
He drove didn't help his
persona at all.
People had such a hard time
seeing past the surface
To find that part that was
good.
Old Millsap took masses of
teasing and taunting
From self-righteous
hypocrites lost in themselves;
People who joy at the expense
of others,
Who laugh and cajole as they
pull on the reins.
Little wonder they could not
imagine
What must have possessed him
that fateful evening
When all the walls came
tumbling down.
Old Millsap went home and
blew out his brains.
With all the back biting going on
It was hard to declare a
decisive winner,
Like needles and darts thrown
'cross a room,
A Friar’s roast, or a
Toastmaster's dinner.
Impossible to distinguish the
truth
From the lies and deceits
being bantered about.
One can only hope your
detectors are functioning,
Sniffing the air 'til the
truth finds you out.
Pity the openness lost in
your youth
Can't carry its' weight as
the years pass you by.
Suffer its' loss with the
loss of innocence
Grown to a beast as you covet
your pride.
Can you imagine a World
without lies?
A World without people you'll
more likely see.
Let's be honest... To
ourselves and each other;
Leaping the mass of humanity.
Even the best of friends have trouble
Sometimes seeing everything
eye to eye.
The multifaceted multiplicity
Pacing life's queer
circumstance
Contrives, deprives and even
connives
To offer more choices than we
can bear.
Do we seek shelter to hide in
the sand
Or ruffle our peacock
feathers and prance
Around naked before God and
company,
Playing the fool,
Breaking the rule,
Flaunting the school of
traditional dance?
All the alternative options
and choices,
Changing experiences, motion
of growth.
Little wonder we cling to a
constant,
Yearn for stability,
Pray for a rock to hold on to
When winds seer the night
With it's passionless kiss
Hiding from sight.
Who will be there when you
turn on the light?
The best of friends never
study the clock.
In a world that makes us quiver
Every day at 6 PM when
Local News sends shard and
shiver
Of the tragic days events;
Missiles fire and miss their
target
Finding innocents instead;
Miltimediated markets
Often leave the conscience
spent
To dwell in anguish, jaws
agog,
Praying that the world
repents;
I have only one true treasure
That consoles my every pore
of
Being to the fullest measure,
Though the World beats down
my will.
Knowing you are mine forever
Wards away pernicious harm
That baits and goads to pull the
lever
That would leave me cold and
still.
Until such time, we stride
together,
Hand in hand we climb the
hill
Her's was a story so often told
Of hopelessly hopeful
futility.
Blinded by love she did not
foresee
That he would be gone before
Springtime was done.
Men are such animals,
Grunting and rutting,
Breaking the rules of polite
company
Until all that is left
Is the cheap pick-up line
That lingers in anguish
Long after he's gone.
No moral dilemmas,
No great philosophical edicts
Are written to which he
adheres.
No conscience to bother,
No groundswell of feeling
Comes rushing to make an
emotional plea.
Only the bodies he leaves in
his wake
To languish and drown in an
ocean of tears -
Waiting for someone to throw
her a lifeline -
As he sails the trade winds
of tropical seas.
Traces linger all around
In cold deserted streets and
byways.
Dark back alleys hide the
tears
Which, wept in acid, burn the
flesh
And blur the vision,
Making life just slightly less
intolerable
Until a calm can settle in
Encircling fears with an iron
mesh.
Memories are like the
swallows
Flying back to Capistrano.
Even if we tried we couldn't
Fight the fate of their
return.
Finger poised on trigger,
Ready to explode when
beckoned.
Secrets known to one alone;
A private lesson to be
learned.
Who can say which love
endures?
Who can guess what fates
allow?
The starting and the ending
find
Us standing naked and alone.
The memory of how it was,
Of how it cannot be again,
Becomes a slashing saber's
edge
That cuts you to the bone.
I'm no big fan of seafood;
Never have been;
Never will be.
Though many love it, I find fish
Is not me cup of tea.
Those funny little aliens
Snatched from another world,
Where we would die in minutes
Were we untimely hurled.
I love to watch them flying
Through their liquid atmosphere;
Courting danger every moment
With no trace of fear.
Eyes that gaze expressionless
Into the sea ahead.
Caution-tempered innocence,
Unaware of dread.
Yes, fish are fascinating,
And to watch them is a treat;
Just as long as they're not placed
In front of me to eat.
They say the way to fix the law
Is to get rid of the lawyers;
A theory of some merit, I suspect.
A certain small percentage
Gives them all the "nom de plume"
Of a greedy, slimy, hateful, horrid sect.
Ethically unethical...
Self-serving in their creed...
Praying on the avarice
Inherent in mankind...
Hiding truth deep in the dark...
Keeping justice blind.
But hope lies in awareness
If we only take a look.
The advocate can change;
Can write a new page in our book.
With true concern and real compassion
We can turn a leaf,
And lawyers lose their reputation
Of praying on our grief.
Don't be too hard on yourself
If you don't win each time you try.
It's the trying that's important.
You never need an alibi
If you have given every measure
Of true effort in your quest.
Competition stirs the spirit
Bringing out your best.
Demons try to undermine us.
Selfish dragons snap and snarl.
Pushing, pulling, nagging, yelling,
Baiting... Begging not to quarrel.
Just remember in the end
You've just one life to save.
You can't let competition
Put you in an early grave.
My all time hero is Mister Spock;
Not the doctor, but the trekker;
The science officer of the
Born of logic, freed of
feelings,
Void of human fallacies.
No emotions evidenced
When gazing in his eyes.
Although his stoic
countenance
Was carried to extreme;
Too complex for us to
understand,
The aspect of his character
Is simple in its form;
Pointing to the frailties in
man.
All things must be logical;
Adhering just to facts.
Science forms the singularly
All-embracing tract.
Fortunately, Spock was not
Completely void of feeling.
Even though his training hid
it well.
His human half emerged and
helped
To guide in his decisions
Like Pavlov's dogs
Responding to the bell.
So, even though I do admire
This "simple logic"
notion,
I wouldn't really want to be
Void of all emotion.
What makes us do things just the way we do?
Who makes up all the rules of order?
Tell me. Was it you?
What makes a captain
More than a private?
What is a C.E.O.?
What gives police authority
To tell us where we cannot go?
What makes us put our things in order
And make a daily plan?
Explain to me why we do things
As we do, if you can.
Is it habit?
Is it logic?
Is it strategy?
Is it drawn upon a map
For all the world to see?
Can we simply let things happen
As they would anyway?
Why must we be organized
In planning out each day?
