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.
Time to climb out of that blue gray funk;
Shuck off the haze that you wear like
a shroud.
You've cried enough.
You've died enough.
Time to come back and be part of the
crowd.
Sorrow and sadness indeed have their
place,
And reflection need not be berated.
But weeping and wailing should both
have a limit.
Crying is so overrated.
The anger you felt turned to tears in
the night,
To wake you with eyes caked and
gritty.
Time to reflect and get on with your
life
And stop wallowing in pity.
Like a puzzle with missing pieces...
Like a crossword without the clues...
Like a pizza without toppings...
Like me without you.
Like the sky without the sunlight,
Dark and dreary, midnight blue.
Like a road without direction...
Like me without you.
Life goes on to search for meaning,
Sees me waiting, passes by.
Tears well up from deep inside but
Never make it to my eyes.
Like a play without a hero...
Like a ship without its crew
Floating lost upon the ocean...
Like me without you.
Sitting in the waiting room, hoping for a turn;
Desperate; trying not to fall asleep.
Wringing out the magazine like a
washcloth for my face
To wipe away the tension of a long and
anxious keep,
When in he walks, or should I say
He struts into the room; energy too
plentiful to fret.
Flitting like a butterfly one person
to the next,
Desperate just to bum a cigarette.
Then spying an acquaintance, an
amazing thing began;
Like honeybees erupting from a hive.
A triad much akin to English,
somehow, but not quite,
The two of them began to speak in
jive.
A helplessness fell over me, a thing
I can't explain;
Like nothing I had ever felt before.
Not a word did these two speak that I
could understand;
Although their tones were no less
than a roar.
On they spoke, and there was no joke.
Each clearly understood.
And I could tell by the way they
talked
Their lives were going good.
It took a while, and it made me
smile,
Made me glad to be alive.
And now I know it "ain't no thang"
To be speaking all that jive.
Bargains come in all shapes and sizes;
In colors bright and pale.
Dressed up, dressed down,
Loaded, stripped, all equipped for sale.
Touted as the best there is,
The message clearly sings and rings.
"Take me! I'm free!
Best there can be."
But watch out for the strings.
Freedom speaks to all that listen,
All who are willing to pay its price.
To those half-hearted, half in tune,
It sells it by the slice.
It goes as it goes,
And so it goes.
Day turns to nighttime...
Friends become foes.
Mud always squishes
Between your bare toes.
Life is for living...
And so it goes.
Faced with grave dilemma
Treading pathways of the soul,
Braking hard and turning back
From tragedies untold.
Heading out on runways,
Turning faces to the wind.
Never sure of destination
'Til the journey's end.
Paths divided. Which direction?
Comes a time to choose.
Just keep walking.
Sometimes you win.
Sometimes you must lose.
It seems quite apropos
To anyone who's ever taken time
Enough to know.
Birthplace of a nation's anthem...
Home to Ruth and Poe...
Gleaming blocks of shining marble
Lined row after row.
Born of maritime profession;
Nurtured by the seas;
Gateway to the mighty
Tall ships filled your gracious harbor,
Laying off their bounty,
Resplendent in their glory,
Bold and sleek.
Gobs from every point and every
corner east to west
Revel in your hospitality.
While those who know you best of all,
Those who call you home,
Know full well your place in history.
More than just a crab house by the
harbor,
You deserve a place of reverence in
the book of time.
Only now, your head held high, the
world is taking notice;
Mighty oceans, bluish green,
Continents you come between.
Unforgiving,
Teamed with living
Creatures. Objects seldom seen.
Do we reach for fame and glory
As our fateful star ascends?
Or does it come to seek us out?
A silent secret friend.
For some it's made of perspiration
Born of honest work,
Talent and ability,
Duty never shirked.
Lengthy in it's coming,
It lingers but a while.
Its sweetness is uncommon
Like the flavor of a smile.
But fame and glory climbing
Out of notoriety
Isn't quite the same,
And not what it's cracked up to be.
In a flash it comes and goes
Like lightning in a storm,
Leaving only empty feelings
Without shape or form.
As we struggle for the spotlight
So all will know our name,
Few will know the joy of glory
Or the price of fame.
Addictive? No! It couldn't be;
At least not physically.
Mentally is another matter.
I heartily agree.
Chocolate bars and chocolate chips
And German chocolate cake;
Frosting, icing, ice cream cones;
It makes the pallet ache.
Breathe in deeply;
Heaven opens up its pearly gates.
Place a sliver on the tongue
And paradise awaits.
There is just one problem;
If anyone is keeping score.
When it's gone, it leaves its' victims
Always wanting more.
Crooked little evergreen
Growing up outside my window.
I've watched you from a seedling
In your struggle to be tall.
Weathering the passing seasons,
Never changing colors.
Disregarding winter,
Not bothering with fall.
Giving birth to like and kind,
Your lovely cones burst open
Gently nudged by wind and rain
To kiss the needled ground.
Stirring, stretching in the breezes,
Whispering a love song.
Sheltering, nurturing,
Peaceful hearts abound.
Some may deem your crooked branches
A sight too sore to see,
But I can see your character,
And you're beautiful to me.
No one ever said that losing
Is a joyful thing.
The simple point in fact is...
Losing stinks!
No one rides the losers
On their shoulders from the field,
Pats their backs
Or takes them out for dinner or for
drinks.
Yet losing is a part of life
Most difficult to learn,
And no one knows enough
To teach it well.
We can only play the game
And do our level best
To not create, in losing,
Our own private little hell.
What is in a blade of grass?
That simple, slender wisp of green.
What nature's secret makes it grow?
What miracle unknown, unseen?
From tiny seed too small to hold,
Or born a distance by the wind,
Nurtured by the sun and rain
'Til anchored in the earth again.
Sprouting, growing, taking root.
Reaching out to kiss the sky.
Ever changing with the seasons;
Desperate not to die.
What is in a blade of grass?
Life.
Life.
Who planted these trees that have grown so tall?
I stand amongst them feeling small.
Giant trees of steel and concrete
That make the sequoia and redwood
petite.
Massive cathedrals to live and to
work.
Menacing forests where night
creatures lurk.
Ground-level paths where the sun
never shines.
Back streets and alleyways. Havens for
crime.
Yet, something about it keeps drawing
them back.
Saints and do-gooders brave the
attack.
From beggar to princess, from priest
to clown,
All breeds and all creeds can be
found
Downtown.
Talk about oxymoron!
This one takes the cake.
When it comes to truth in advertising
There can be no mistake.
The two words shouldn't even be
In the same vocabulary.
'Caveat emptor', buyer beware;
Listen, but always be wary.
Competitors never tell the truth
Regardless of who takes the stand.
"I'm better!" "He stinks!"
"Don't buy his product.
Buy ours. We think we're grand."
Each one accuses
The other of falsehood,
So, who knows which product to buy?
The only sure thing about advertising
Is that someone will surely tell a
lie.
Said everyone in
the history of time.
Every adjective
and superlative
From phenomenal to
sublime is
Tossed in reverent
wonder to
Her angelic
composure,
And she must seem
a patron saint
To everyone who
knows her.
It isn’t hard to
understand
Why moms are
always so revered,
Their swift
approval needed
And her
retribution feared.
The very first to
stroke your brow,
To tell you that,”
I love you.”
Just knowing she
will always be
And put no one
above her.
No matter who
walks through our life
Or what flag is
unfurled,
It is agreed
That we all have
The best Mom in
the world.
Stone and steel, track and rail,
Aged by sun and rain.
All the world parading by,
Waiting for the train.
Bleak and stark, the station waits
In sore need of repair,
Rusting, peeling,
Iron and concrete,
Captioned in despair.
Still the travelers storm its' gates
In passive mute attack;
Destinations never heard of
Somewhere down the track.
Every flavor, every fashion,
There's no telling what you'll see
while
Waiting for the train.
If you've ever tried to smile
When you were mad,
Then you should know,
It isn't possible to do them both.
A smile's a carefree, unassuming,
Happy crescent moon,
Immune to hatred,
Knowing none of loath.
When you smile your happy muscles
Reach deep down inside your brain,
Turning all aggression upside down.
It's true! A smile can cause your
Cloudy sky to clear of rain,
And wipe away a mournful sad-faced frown.
So, next time, when your ire is
stirred
And your craw is filled with bile,
Try putting on a happy face.
Forget yourself... And smile.
Did you ever wonder,
As you drive around the town,
Why people wait so long to take
Their decorations down?
Holidays are joyful
And it's nice to decorate.
But when it's gone, it's over,
So, why do we hesitate?
Perhaps they help to keep our smile
From turning upside down,
But it's a pain when we must take
The decorations down.
Sorry, sir or madam,
The complaint department's closed.
You'll need to tell someone
Who gives a damn.
I've simply heard enough of
Your inane and moany whining.
Come again tomorrow.
Thank you, ma'am.
Why is it people whine and moan
And cry and plead in bitchy tones?
Why can't they just accept things
And react as if they're fully-grown?
It's children's ploy to make a noise
And fuss when things don't go their
way.
Maturity should bring us reason,
But it doesn't, sad to say.
So, I repeat redundantly,
As I sit relaxed, reposed,
This complaint department,
Regrettably, is closed.
Rolling, flowing, freely filling,
Mighty rivers run downhill,
Capturing each dewdrop
They encounter on the way.
Seeking larger basins to
Deposit all their bounty;
Gravity, it seems,
The only law they must obey.
Greening all the lands that would
Lay bare without their favor;
Playful home to creatures
Who exits on fin and gill.
Planted near her mighty shoulders.
No great plan to undertake;
No duty to fulfill.
Lakes and rivers are the givers.
Mankind takes from rivers and lakes.
Oooh! My gosh! My goodness!
That never hurt before.
In younger days I could overdo
And still come back for more.
But these days even simple acts,
Like the turning of the head,
Can cause an aching in the neck
And be a source of dread.
The acts of bending, kneeling,
stooping,
Reaching, grabbing hold,
Offer up a quick reminder
Of the pains of growing old.
It makes it necessary to learn
Modesty and pace;
To deal in moderation
And not try to run a race.
The wise man learns that brawn
Is not a substitute for brains.
It helps when age requires us all
To deal with aches and pains.
What are your favorite aromatics?
I'm
sure that you have quite a few.
I
have some thoughts with which you may agree.
Come!
Let me share them with you.
What
could be better than freshly baked bread?
It
makes the mouth water;
A pallet's
delight.
Almost
as refreshing as gentle spring rain
Coming
softly and quiet on a hot dusty night.
The
sweet lofty smell of vanilla in baking
Arrives
on wings sent from heaven above.
The
bold brawny scent of a coat made of leather;
Another
aroma that I've come to love.
To
open the door, for the very first time,
Of
a brand new car as it sits on the lot.
To
breathe in deeply the heavenly scent
Of
your favorite coffee fresh from the pot.
But
of all of the odors abundant on earth
To
tease the olfactory nerve,
The
lilacs of spring are my personal choice.
A
memory cherished, to keep, to preserve.
So,
keep these and others, your own favorite scents.
Remember
and treasure them well.
One
of god's greatest gifts to the human condition
Is
our marvelous, glorious sense of smell.
The world may look as if it's gone
To Hades in a basket.
The streets may cry with hatred;
The open road with fear.
The battlegrounds explode
To give combatants the impression
That the world itself has come apart;
May not survive the year.
But the sun still rises.
And you may try to run away
And hide from grave misfortune;
Denying the existence of
Mortality and fears,
And you may quake to know
That each beginning has an ending;
That all must someday be
The sad recipient of tears.
But the sun still rises.
And though all life may pass away,
Come the dawning of the day,
The sun still rises.
A thousand million tentacles
Reaching skyward toward the sun,
Laid bare against the winter sky,
The summer's tale undone.
Where once the hue of green and gold
Stood succulent and lush,
A nakedness abides amidst
The frigid snow and slush.
Winter trees are stark, foreboding,
Knowing no defeat.
They reach out to the sun in hope,
Like beggars in the street.
Waiting for the gentle spring,
The kindness of a friend,
To give its warmth and sustenance
And bring it life again.
What is a poem?
These lyrical little glimpses of
life,
Snippets from the window of one's
soul;
A tiny picture framed in rhyme,
Formed by words as they unfold.
'Come, let me show, let me demonstrate',
Pleads the poet's gentle sigh.
'Let my words paint a landscape of
life,
Of the sun and stars, moon and sky.'
Quickly the words leap out from the
page
Flowing swiftly like waters
downstream;
Painting a portrait of metaphor,
Creating a world filled with wonderful
dreams.
Finding our souls with a measure so
sure
That the truth of it cuts like a
knife.
Leaving us wondering who stole our
tale
In a glimpse from the window of life.
One man's truth is another's deception.
Does this mean that truth is subjective?
Or could it just be that the angle of truth
Is dependent upon one's perspective?
Man's predilection of each situation
Contrives to bend truth in his favor.
But truth stands too tall; it's metal too strong
To buckle, bend or waiver.
Lies are for fools looking for an adventure.
Deceit knows no ally, no friend.
When the pan clears to the gold at its bottom,
Truth is the metal of men.
