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.
"Confession" they say, "is good for the soul".
Though not always good for the seat
of your pants.
Fessing up isn't always so easy
when
Confronted by one who raves and
rants.
Little Billy was taught from birth
That truth is important, lies are a
sin,
That honesty builds character,
Crime doesn't pay,
Cheaters don't win.
But the reality of growing up
And learning of the end result
Can make the truth a bitter pill,
Can make confessions difficult.
Symbols and mementos
Reach deep inside our souls,
Conjuring fond memories
We thought had passed us by.
Picking our emotions up
Off of a dusty floor,
Some will lift our hearts with
laughter,
Others make us cry.
Still others fill our hearts with pride
Like the raising of the flag
By marines on Surabacci,
A tattered, bloody rag.
Every little slice of life
Deserves consideration.
The symbols we hold in our hearts
I learned at a very tender age
The art of contemplation.
Searching through the maze of choices,
Weighing the results,
Considering alternatives,
Looking far ahead,
Breaking down components
To the very nuts and bolts.
Every solution has a domino effect.
Every choice affects another space.
Like bumper cars colliding front
and rear
And side to side
In a crazy, maddening, helter-skelter
race.
Some folks can make quick
decisions,
Snappy judgment calls.
When they're pressed, they never
hesitate.
Me, I much prefer to give a plan
consideration.
Solutions run much smoother
When you sit and contemplate.
Tragedy has a sudden spring.
It leaps from depths unseen,
unknown.
It has no roots and has a tendency
to multiply.
But it does have a beginning,
A cause, a course, an aim...
And usually a what, when, where and
even why.
Fortune and misfortune are kindred
in their scope.
The result of merely trying to
survive,
Or blind ambition struggling to
make it to the top,
Wanting to be more than just alive.
If one seeks out the reason
For a fated end result,
It isn't really hard to understand.
The end is tied to circumstance
Precluded by events occurring
Pedals churn as spoked wheels turn
And miles go passing quickly by.
Aching, straining muscles needing
rest
Search for an alibi.
Downhill's easy, coast and rest,
But uphill is a royal bitch.
Watch out for oncoming traffic
Lest they run you in a ditch.
Striking out on bold adventures,
Don Quixote on a quest,
Racing on occasion just to see
Whose bike could run the best.
We were young and oh, so foolish,
Never caring where we'd roam,
Knowing when we got to Buford,
We'd turn around and pedal home.
Six cents for a soda pop...
Three bucks for a shirt...
Dollar ten for flour
In a twenty five-pound bag...
Houses left unlocked at night...
Streets still safe to walk...
Candy wasn't bad for you
And it felt good to wave the flag.
Changes come inevitably.
Things move forward,
That's for sure.
But pieces of our past remain,
Reminders of
When life was pure.
Remember how when you were young
You
dreamed of growing up to be
A
millionaire, a billionaire
With
wealth beyond reality?
Even
now the flame resides
Within
our vested treasure troves,
Running
off vicariously
With
Robin Leach to hidden coves
Or
mountaintop retreats
Where
servants fill our every whim,
Where
survival is a given and
There
is no "us or them".
So
we struggle and we fantasize
Of a
life that's rich and full,
And
we drift off into sleep each night
To
find our miracle.
Getting to the point is sometimes
Not an easy trick.
Circling around a subject
Often spoils the hunt.
Hoping that your subject will
At some point get the gist,
And politely take you off the
baited hook
Of being blunt.
There are times when vague illusion
Simply cannot do the job.
Like when someone dies
And you're left to reflect.
From day of birth we're taught
To beat around the bush of truth
And be anything in life except direct.
It doesn't make a lot of sense.
It doesn't ring quite true.
Allusion pays no recompense
When truth is overdue.
Childhood...
A
simpler time
When
mandates were as yet unknown,
Responsibilities
unlearned.
As
children we were all more prone
To
bask in rays of fantasy,
Creating
worlds our very own,
Using
blind imagination
As a
stepping stone.
Images
abound aplenty
In a
child's quick mind,
Flashcards
stored in memory,
No
victim of surprise.
Not
unlike the after image
Of a
smiling face
That
lingers even after
You've
already closed you eyes.
Childhood...
Filled with memories,
Remembrances
to keep,
Tiny
fragments of our past
To
carry in our sleep.
Where have all the brave souls gone? The ones who could inspire;
Who could lift our spirits then proceed
to take us even higher.
Could it be we've lost the simple
trust that they endow?
Can their like be found again?
Where are the brave souls now?
When Cochise broke his arrow and
declared an end to war,
Many stood against him. They
shouted, cried and swore.
But standing firm against the odds
he found a lasting peace.
A braver soul cannot be found than
this great chief, Cochise.
Another stood in time of war; a
nation torn apart.
With brother fighting brother he became
the nation's heart.
When Mister Lincoln lost his life,
the country lost its soul,
And wandered aimlessly for years to
redefine it's goal.
Others such as Lindbergh and
Earheart gave us hope.
Vicariously we can live through
them. They help us cope.
To think that one can bravely leap
into the great unknown,
Inspires us all to greatness and thrills
us to the bone.
But when I look around today I
wonder where they've gone.
Who will give us hope? Inspire the
will to carry on?
There must be someone somewhere who
will rise and show us how.
We sit and wait and wonder.
Where are the brave souls now?
What is this magical creation
We celebrate with zeal?
This modern man-made miracle
Referred to as the wheel.
So unique in it's concept...
So basic in design...
So quick to make life simpler
And ease the daily grind.
It brought man out of cave and stone
Into the modern age.
In history's great chronicle
It has the opening page.
It's made us mobile, spreading man
Across the great expanse.
It taught us to be unafraid;
To dare to take a chance.
Whether made of plastic, wood, or
Rubber, stone or steel,
Our lives would not be what they
are
Today without the wheel.
I love to watch the clouds roll by.
They paint a picture in my mind.
The ever changing images unfold,
Untangle and unwind
Into a vast collage of treasures
Meant for just my eyes.
Reflections of familiar feelings
Scattered 'cross the skies.
Taking in their tattered edges...
Tucking in their ends...
Forming shapes for fleeting
moments...
Driven by the winds.
Roving, rolling, climbing, falling
Singly or in crowds,
Images abound aplenty
Riding on the clouds.
Acting silly,
Willie nillie,
Donning lace
Or something frilly.
Being silly
Can be fun...
Skipping, hopping
One by one.
Don't take life
Too seriously.
It pays to
View it curiously.
Take the time
To smell the lily.
Take some time for
Acting silly.
There are a million billion zillion worlds
Much smaller than the one we know.
To them we humans must be gods on
high
Or devils from below.
Each step we make, each breath we
take
Invades a world we cannot see;
The mini microbe building blocks
Of what we humans come to be.
Is it such folly to believe
That our world is so very small,
That man is merely microcosmic dust
When we consider all
The many possibilities
Of what our place should be.
The universe expands beyond
A point we humans cannot see.
Marvelous liquid
From marvelous bean...
Heavenly flavor and taste...
Luscious aroma...
A pallet's delight...
A sin to consume it in haste.
Amenable to
An enhancement in kind;
A sweetener or
Maybe some cream.
Sipping the nectar
Of nature's creation;
Inhaling the scent
Of the slow rising steam.
Starting the day
With an eye-opening burst,
Or topping an evening's repast,
There's nothing like coffee
To satisfy
From the first drop to the last.
Sometimes I believe that
The whole world's gone mad.
Sometimes I think it's just me.
I look at what's happening
All over the globe
And I just can't believe what I see.
It's not just those things
That occur far away in a land
I can't even pronounce.
More frightful by far
Is the neighborhood news;
The scandal the newsmen announce.
A child caught in cross fire;
An innocent victim;
Life ended before it begins.
Old folks cheated
And robbed of their savings
By people they thought were their friends.
The list is the same
From
From
No wonder at all why we get so depressed
From simply watching the news.
Music feeds the human soul
In oh! So many ways.
There's nothing quite as soothing
As sweet music as it plays
It's gentle melody. It's happy rhythm
Seems to say
That everything will brighten up.
Your skies will lose their gray.
We all have our own idea
Of what music should be.
What may be soothing to your ears
Is merely noise to me.
What stirs the spirit deep inside
Is something hard to see.
But music doesn't care who hears
As long as it's set free.
The smooth sleek contours. The sinewy lines.
Cantering, trotting, running full
force.
Is there a more glorious sight to
behold
Than god's perfect creature... The
horse.
His lineage is long, his heritage
proud...
His empire the envy of sultan and king.
His prowess immortal in fable and
song,
Who's figure we stride as we grab
for the ring.
He was there when the wagons pulled
out east to west.
He was there when Geronimo fought
for his land.
He was there when the settlers
broke the new earth
From the high plains and mountains
to the
Wherever there are monuments to
mankind's victory
We never seem to stray too far off
course.
The building blocks of history
recording man's ascent
Have ridden on the shoulders of the
horse.
I love t.v.
I hate t.v.
I can't make up my mind.
It can inform
And entertain,
Or just help you to unwind.
It can divert,
It can transport
To wherever you want to be.
So, any time
You don't want to think,
Just switch on the t.v.
Nature feeding nature in a mutual fulfillment...
Slaving one another's tasks to a point of near psychosis.
Learning how to nurture one another in the process...
Finding how to live and love and cope through symbiosis.
The river cuts an ugly swath in running to the ocean.
It scars the land with barriers, creating territory.
And yet it feeds and nurtures with it's ever giving waters,
Creating life so varied and too vast for inventory.
The hollowed tree is dying; little left in it's hurrah.
Once mighty, tall and sheltering, it stands a lonely shell.
But to Mr. Owl it's home and hearth; a place to raise a
family.
His high-rise condo in the wood; it seems to suit him well.
And what of man and earth? Are we so bold as to assume
That all is well in our relations?
Can it be we're so neurotic?
Man's relationship to everything needs take a different
turn.
To save him from himself, man / earth must be symbiotic.
