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.
Coconut palms and gentle breezes,
Beaches washed with golden sand...
Crystal waters dance their ballet
As they softly kiss the land.
Never a word of thirst or famine...
Never a need to fear or hide...
No more wanting... No more lacking...
Every need is satisfied.
No more hunger... No more dying...
No more souls to sacrifice...
Love and kindness ever growing...
Wouldn't that be paradise?
Have you ever seen a wishing well?
I wonder if they're real.
Wouldn't it be marvelous
If there was such a deal?
Just toss a coin and make a wish,
Whatever it may be,
Then sit back, relax
As it becomes reality.
It's too bad
And it's so sad
Life doesn't work that way.
The wishing well,
So I hear tell,
Comes from working hard each day.
Details, details, details...
All the tasks that we must track.
Little wonder some things wind up
Falling through the cracks.
So important... Must remember...
Don't let me forget....
"Do you?" "Will you?" "Have
you?" "Did you?"
No, I didn't yet.
It can all be so frustrating,
Bordering on mean,
When the unexpected
Interrupts your set routine.
Taking actions out of sequence,
Anarchy attacks,
Leaving more important details
Falling through the cracks.
There's a mouse in our house.
He's an uninvited guest.
A furry little flash of gray;
A brash unwelcome pest.
He doesn't seem to realize
As he streaks across the room,
That by coming in from outside
He has surely sealed his doom.
I can hear you
Puttering about inside my wall;
Seen your little droppings
In the corner, in the hall.
Shared a slice of bread or two;
Although you didn't ask.
Tried to teach you manners;
Yet another futile task.
No, I'm afraid there's only one
Solution to affect.
I'll set a trap
And bait it well,
And snap your furry neck.
Red or white, rose or blush...
There's nothing so sublime
As vintage nectar of the grape
Taken from the vine.
Pallet pleasures boldly bottled;
Placed upon the rack,
Silent soldiers at attention
Ready to attack
The senses of its' victims
Until they're overwhelmed,
Sending cold reality into
Another realm.
Softening and mellowing
And loosening the lips,
'Til the temperamental tongue
Starts shooting from the hip.
But done in moderation
There is nothing quite so fine
As the sweet aroma of the grape;
The nectar of the vine.
Going through our daily tasks
That sometimes seem routine,
It's easy to forget what brought us here.
Guiding forces, ever present,
Sources seldom seen,
Leading us along throughout the year.
Only fitting we should
Set aside a special day
To give thanks for all our bounty,
To reflect and pray.
Life is such a special gift;
A miracle it seems.
Reaching far beyond the heavens
From where starlight beams.
Tiny blessings fill our lives
With joy in every way.
To be thankful is a mantle
To be worn each day.
Gypsy woman, call my name.
Tell my fortune true.
Is the future bleak or bright?
Give me just a clue.
As I cross your palm with silver
Free me of my doubt.
Tell me of the deep dark secrets
Lurking all about.
Looking in your sphere of crystal,
Seeing through my soul,
Turning cards upon the table,
Playing out your role.
Gypsy woman, can you hear me
In your trance so deep?
Offer hope to all who pay you.
Never let them weep.
The world is small and growing smaller
Thanks to technology's boon.
Journeys that once took days to complete
Are now done in one afternoon.
With the bend of the arm and the touch of a button,
With the swiftness to make your heart whirl,
Your voice is transported almost immediately
Anywhere in the world.
Though seldom we stop to contemplate
The wonder of it all,
We must not forget how we got to this point.
It's man who has made the world small.
I was watching an African tribe on TV,
And suddenly it occurred to me,
That I really haven't a single clue
About how they live or what they do.
Shrouded in mysteries of a strange land;
Steeped in traditions I can't understand.
Jungles so deep and deserts so vast
That the thought of traversing them leaves one aghast.
A world of discovery;
Silent and bold;
Africa, what wondrous gems do you hold?
Puppies are cute,
There's no denying.
No other term conveys
All the clumsy,
Klutzy bumbles
In the way that they behave.
A sad face or a fuzzy face,
Those lonely puppy cries.
Little puppy tummy.
Moony puppy eyes.
Skittish, cautious, curious;
Frisky, furry fun;
A ball of boundless energy
Born to jump and run.
So, don't feel weak and don't feel soft;
Don't be filled with dismay,
If you let a playful puppy
Swiftly steal your heart away.
To see a child in wide eyed innocence
Behold a lighted tree
With garland, tinsel, bows and stars;
A wondrous sight to see.
To see the joy of a simple card
Light up a loved ones eyes;
To feel the warmth of cheery greetings
That money cannot buy;
To fill your heart with loving,
Giving all the world your best;
To give a gift at Christmas time
Is to be truly blessed.
How many houseplants do you own?
We own six. I counted.
Some folks own a dozen; maybe more.
Dainty little jungles in
A cave of paint and plaster,
They keep a room from being
Such a bore.
All they ask for on occasion
Is a drink of water,
And just a little sunlight every day.
Not so hard a task
When you consider what they're giving;
The crowning greening glory they display.
Then tell me why so many die,
If not from mere neglect,
When people buy a houseplant on a whim.
Would folks be more attentive
If they thought that, in return,
Their houseplants would be taking care of them?
It's a gray day. It seems as if
The whole world's standing still.
The sky is weeping misty tears
That mask the
The clock moves at a turtle's pace
And on its' face, a frown,
Disdaining all activity,
Which would otherwise be fun.
A gray day doesn't have a friend.
It stands all by itself.
A day for calm reflection
To be placed upon the shelf.
A day to just forget that
You have promises to keep,
To just turn over, pull the shades,
And drift back off to sleep.
Did you ever notice children
As they play at being grown?
A thing of which, at their age,
Very little is really known.
It doesn't matter if their play
Has any point or aim.
It's their imagination that
Transports them in their game.
It's sad to think that growing up
Can bring on such a change
As to stifle creativity
When imagination wanes.
Just watch the children as they play.
There's a lesson to be learned.
There are no boundaries
Where imagination is concerned.
I read a book by Ogden Nash;
A gift for which I spent no cash.
Though I seldom laugh when I'm alone,
He really touched my funny bone.
A poet with a flair for flash.
I thank you kindly, Mister Nash.
What do you think of the color red?
Where does it send your mind?
Is it kindred to passion,
Or anger instead?
Is it subtle?
Bold? Refined?
There's red in the sky at both dawn and at dusk.
It signals beginnings and ends.
The color of life as the blood in our veins.
The color of love between friends.
The scarlet of cardinals, swift on the wing.
The signal of autumn's arrival.
The symbol of tragedy born on a cross.
The struggle for human survival.
So much is contained in the color of red;
The story of man and his kin;
The conflict of ages,
The future enfolds, as he looks back
To see where he's been.
The seers may foretell of misfortune and gore,
But the wise foresee fortune ahead.
They keep in their hearts all the hope of compassion
That springs from the color of red.
Whoever invented the second floor
Had a masochistic yen.
They made it necessary to build stairs.
Just how it first developed
From beginning to the end,
No one really knows or even cares.
The elevator is a better
Avenue by far,
But not always available to all.
So, stairs are necessary
To ascend to higher ground,
Though the thought of climbing
Simply may appall.
So, even though we groan and moan
The sad state of affairs,
Sometimes we have to suck it up
And simply climb those stairs.
Sitting by the window
With nothing much to do.
Bored with daytime TV;
All the soaps that weep and wail.
Sick of cooking. Sick of cleaning.
Looking for a change.
Desperation sets in while I'm
Waiting for the mail.
Hoping, longing, looking for
Some grand exciting news.
Perhaps a sweepstakes winner
Or a deal we can't refuse.
Perhaps a letter from
A long lost friend from years ago;
One who always used to
Pick me up when I was low.
And now it's here. The wait is over.
The mailman's at the door.
Anticipation bubbles out
Of every single pore.
A catalog, a magazine,
A bill, an ad for sale.
The same old crap as always.
I hate waiting for the mail.
Ding dong - doorbell!
Oh, my! Who could it
be?
The
Perhaps a salesman hawking wares?
The postman ringing twice?
A politician canvassing
Political advice?
Perhaps some neighbor looking for
Some gossip or some news.
Never hesitating to
Communicate their views.
Whoever rings your bell
One thing for sure. You cannot hide.
You must open up the door to see
Who's on the other side.
I've heard it said that justice is blind.
It takes no sides, considers all
The evidence that's left behind;
Weighs each piece, then makes its call.
But when the scales are tilted
And advantage is unfair,
Who will rush to balance them?
Who takes time to care?
Who offers up a helping hand
When hope is left behind?
Each one of us must have a voice
For justice to be blind.
Fast food isn't always fast,
Although the name implies
You can quickly reap a bounty
Of burgers, shakes and fries.
Deep fried, pan fried, flamed or grilled,
On a seeded bun.
Pastries filled with
Cream cheese, chocolate, whipping cream
Until they're bursting at the seam.
If calories are what you need,
With no thought for nutrition,
Make fast food your daily feed,
A deadly ammunition.
It's not a question of deep thought
Or noble attitude.
Just take a moment to reflect
And savor your fast food.
Rednecks, hillbillies, bumpkins and hicks;
Bred in the country;
Raised in the sticks.
Laid back and on track
And hard to predict;
Skeptically wary
Of each little trick.
Badly maligned as slow-witted and thick;
Misunderstood and unknowingly slick;
Always be wary, and don't ever pick
On rednecks, hillbillies, bumpkins and hicks.
Pin striped suit and power tie...
Patent leather shoes...
Wall Street Journal making sure
He keeps up on the news.
Sip of coffee and a pastry,
First meal of the day.
Little time for idle chatter
As he makes his way
From elevator to the board room,
Salutations brief...
From one problem to another,
No time for relief.
Making money is his forte,
Little time to care.
The man with the briefcase?
Beware. Beware!
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.
