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Robert L. Martin


It’s sleepy time for you and the rest,
Sweet dreams of stony mountain’s crest,
And daytime’s journey up the rocky side,
‘Til the twilight falls and the prairies hide.

The sun is a yellow sphere up high,
Suspended higher than an elephant’s eye.
It enters your dreams as the high winds sway.
It dances and sweeps the dusty clouds away.

While you sleep the flowers come to life
On frosty knolls trailing nightly strife,
When spring-time chants a rousing tune
And the sun moves inside nature’s room.
You miss all of Mother Earth’s hidden secrets,
Of how she looks and how she works.
See what you missed, you sleepy head?

Yesterday the world was all mine.
I wrapped my fingers around the earth.
I brushed it against my cheek.
I felt its soft deserts and craggy mountains.
I sensed its fragility and weakened knees.
I hummed a lullaby to its nervous ears.
I arose in the east and traveled westward.
I shone my light upon the hidden meadows.
I saw beautiful gardens in her bosom.
I opened up the petals on the roses.
I drew the bees to their homes.
I pulled the grasses up through the soil.
I showered the plants with my loyal tears.
I followed the rivers with my electric eyes.
I drank the waters of the waterfalls.
I bathed in the deep blue oceans.
I played with the wolves and the wild grizzlies.
I led the charge of the buffalos.
I heeded the cries of the wounded beasts.
I ordered the lava back into the volcanoes.
I called to the skies and tamed the wild winds.
I held back the fury of the tempest.
I extinguished the lightning bolts.
I silenced the thunder.
I hugged Mother Earth with my loving arms.
I told her how much I loved her.
I told her, “There’s nothing to fear.”
She pledged her allegiance to me.
That was the day she was all mine.

That ballpark yesterday was all mine.
That opposing team was all mine.
That big fat pitch
Down the middle was all mine.
It looked like a watermelon ball,
So I crushed it and watched it
Sail over the fence.
Yesterday the world was all mine, alright.

The patient side of love:
When infatuation is irrelevant,
When waiting is a requirement,
When prudence determines the outcome,
When abstinence subdues the urge,
When reason prevails over desire,
When instinct becomes non-instinctive,
When human nature becomes non-human,
When desire requires the numbing of passion,
When the fire is but a sodden ember,
When families follow the rules of morality,
Love is the union initiated in heaven.

The infatuated side of love:
When infatuation is a masqueraded truth,
When that truth is a beautiful garden
With roses that flaunt their alluring petals.
 When the petals are glossy and silky,
When they are the epitome of beauty,
When there is nothing beyond that beauty,
When they reach down into the loin,
When they blind the eyes of reasoning
And the glare becomes too intense,
When it outshines all other organs,
When it overpowers all reasoning,
When instinct becomes the master,
When the enchanted becomes the slave,
When the slave becomes a blinded fool,
When the blinded fool dances with the devil,
When the devil plays with the spirit,
When he softens the fibers of morality,
When morality invents a new morality,
When that morality becomes a broken fence
That fenced in the abstaining forces,
And love becomes a temporary fulfillment,
That fool becomes a contented slave.

That silent voice for whom the bells toll,
Those commanding words as the heavens roll.
Its roaring sound hushed by the quiet sages,
Authors of ancient scrolls of a million pages,

That silent voice in those who don’t care,
Speaks through the heart through charity’s fare,
Controlled by the spirit that won’t let go,
God speaks through walls and smiles aglow.

Those who cover up are those who can’t.
Emotions come to be as the heavens chant.
The word of God rises up through the cracks,
Filling in the fissures where resistance lacks.

Those who are contented deep within the soul,
Can’t fight the feeling and have no control.
The spirit of God is behind that contentment.
Through charity it rises up by heaven’s scent.

To those who say there is no God,
“How did your charity
Make you feel so good?”
“From the voice of the spirit,
It did alright.”

Jerry saw some old lady walking down the street with a bag of groceries, so he walked over to her. Instead of offering to help her, he tripped her. Then he laughed as she fell to the ground. Old Mrs. Jones was watching out her window and saw what he did, so she called old Mr. Smith on the telephone. “That bad boy Jerry tripped some lady.” Who did that? Was it Harry?” she asked. Then Mr. Smith called Mrs. Flanagan and said, “Harry tripped some lady. “Eh, who was that? Speak louder. Did you say Gary?”  Then Mrs. Flanagan called Mr. Peters on the phone. “Gary whipped some old lady with a whip; that bad, bad Gary.” “Who did that? Did you say Mary?” replied Mr. Peters. Then he called Mr. Rogers and said, “That no good for nothing Mary whipped some old lady.” Who?” said Mr. Rogers. Then he got on the phone with Mr. Whipple and said, “That scoundrel Larry hit some old lady with a baseball bat.”
The next day, poor Larry was walking down the street. The police cars surrounded him and took him down to the local police station. They took him into the interrogation room and proceeded to question him. “Now tell us exactly what happened when you hit that poor lady with a baseball bat. What made you do it?” “What lady? What baseball bat? What am I here for?” replied a startled Larry. “Don’t deny what you did. We know what you did,” said the interrogator.
So poor Larry went to jail for something that he never even thought of doing, and didn’t have the slightest idea how he could have been accused for it. It turned out that the old lady that was tripped was his own mother. After she came down to get him released from jail, the police were very embarrassed and apologized for what they did. The story made the front page of the newspaper the next day, and the headlines read, “Woops, Local Cops Fouled it Up Again.”
Gossip and rumors can ruin someone’s life. Rumors are usually the truth that keeps changing from one to another. They spread like wild fire. By then nothing can be retracted. Poor Larry and so many like him who are victims of gossip and rumors.

What was supposed to be a day of great joy for David, turned out to be a day of suffering. The people at his book signing were buying his books at an alarming rate, but still he was sad. He smiled and thanked them, but yet with a heavy heart. He couldn’t rid himself of that feeling of incompleteness in his soul.
The story had an ending, but to him it was just an obstacle that disrupted the continuation of thought. He suffered from too many ideas that wouldn’t let him finish his novel. Each idea was a segue to another train of thought. The two lovers in his book got married and lived happily ever after, but David’s thoughts didn’t end like that. Their happiness needed more words to describe how they felt. He wanted the words to climb inside of the reader and move his spirit, like the joy he felt when he first saw his newborn daughter. He could give the reader the words, but couldn’t lead him to the threshold of his own happiness. He felt like he was a messenger of truth that couldn’t deliver it.
So many artists, musicians, and writers have to end their train of thought at some time, but they still go on continuing it in their own minds even after the masterpiece was completed. Even though it was, they weren’t.
David went on to live his life with his unfulfilled heart and soul. He made a good living from the sale of his books, but still thought that his life was empty. He thought about his writing as being incomplete, and he was the one who couldn’t deliver the truth.

As the full moon hangs o’er the mossy moors,
And ghouls dance to the songs of wars,
And the silence creeps up the stony path,
One step at a time into the sorcerer’s wrath.

The witch’s house sits atop the hill
Where evil lurks around the still.
Don’t go near or let her find you.
You’ll be caught up in the witch’s brew.

Where’s she to be found on the clammy night?
Nobody knows she stays out of sight.
Some say they saw her riding ‘cross the sky
On her broom way up where the eagles fly.

The stroke of midnight was about to come after,
When lo behold a sound of witch’s laughter,
Cut thru’ the air like a drunken piper,
A sound so loud it stung like a piper.

There she goes, riding into the moon,
Where evil sent forth from her bestial womb,
That lady and all her powers uniting,
Far o’er the hills I saw that witch’s sighting.

In our old age there comes a time
When we can’t find the words to rhyme.

With your assistance, you can surely help.
Words don’t come as easy as__________.

When we were young, we didn’t have to think.
Words were there waiting for us to_________.

For young writers, words are easy to find.
When I was young, they were__________.

Our memories are there, but it’s hard to create.
We remember actions, but forget___________.

Old poets need help to find the proper word.
With your help, you can________________.

I know you can do it, because I used to know
Good rhyming words that were___________.

There are millions of words waiting for us
In our sub-consciousness that we_______.

I know you must be a fine poet like I was.
I could pick words out of the__________.

I could charm the ladies with the words I knew.
They would smile when I said_____________.

But when old age came, they stopped smiling.
And the words seemed to fade like________.

I lived a good life with the words that I wrote,
When in my early years I________________.
Then I started losing the words that could rhyme,
But with your help I can___________________.

Thank you for your assistance for writing this poem.
I know it will be great when__________________.

Old demands aspire to be refreshed again
As worn out sounds need their oxygen
Before their expiration as the music needs,
A fresh new avenue to answer all the pleas.

Music is beauty that needs a new face,
Like a nomad looking for an unfamiliar place,
Like a tired melody that seeks a new paradise,
Or a lovely enchantress and a man to entice.

New avenues are the seeds of revelation
That blossoms in the heart a new sensation
That travels down the spine to the very core
That suffuses the heart and the want for more.

Music is not a tired old journey,
But an exhilarating expedition.
It is not the old seeking the old,
But a step in the familiar
Toward the unfamiliar,
The avenue to a new sound,
A culture that needs its innovations.

Black is the color of the witch’s brew,
Her face of gray and icy blue,
Wolves and their ever persistent howling,
Holding up the full moon falling.

Of ghouls and goblins at the gathering
And ravens with their noisy chattering,
Nighthawks at their midnight stand,
Witches frolic in their wonderland.

Halloween is for the brave to go outside,
When witches mount their brooms and ride,
They race across the red and yellow moon,
Laughing with the devil in his cold dark room.
This is the night for all ghouls and goblins
To come out and play in their spectral skins.

Mr. Miller, the man next door, seemed to be a very quiet man. He lived alone in a small house with the curtains always drawn. He was a disheveled man who never smiled. His nosey neighbors kept track of every move he made when he was outside, but nobody knew what was going on inside the house.
One fine morning, they saw him carrying suitcases to the car. One neighbor went over to ask him if he needed help. “No but thank you very much. I can manage myself,” he replied in a nervous voice. So off he drove on his mysterious trip. Nobody knew where he was going and what was inside the suitcases.
Later on that day, there was breaking news that interrupted the regular programming on the television. Someone had shot and killed a number of people that had attended a football game at the local high school. The authorities identified the dead shooter who turned to be that quiet man Mr. Miller, who drove off that morning on a trip with his suitcases. What could have been the motive for the killings?
Man is a natural born aggressor. Some act out their aggression, but almost every man subdues the urge and becomes civil.  Unless he is totally passive, which is freakish in nature, he will never fantasize about exercising his power. He doesn’t even get an adrenaline high from the thought of it.
Mr. Miller had a war going on within himself. He was calm on the outside, but demented on the inside. He knew about being righteous, but couldn’t satisfy himself and live with that feeling. It didn’t make him feel manly enough. He was always alone and at odds in his quiet way with the people around him. By disassociating himself with them, he could fantasize about being their superior. By being his powerful self, he went out to prove his superiority. Instead of earning that distinction in a civilized manner, he had to earn it that one fleeting moment when the bullets were flying and his adrenaline was flowing. Some say it is the devil that took hold; that war within him between good and evil. The evil side won the battle.
They say forgiveness is a virtue, but it is hard to forgive someone who took the lives of so many innocent people on that fateful day. If only Mr. Miller would have communicated with the people around him, he would have gained their respect, and the interaction would have prevented him from doing what he did. They would have shown him that they are people instead of objects, people that could have helped him with his affliction. The evil side of his mind kept him isolated from his neighbors and motivated him to act out his superiority over them.
It is impossible to keep peace over millions of people. All we can do is hope that the influence of love can penetrate as many souls as possible, and the violence will lessen in the coming days.

Where homes are houses
And shoes are anchors,
Bound to the earth that
Sings out of tune,
The flight of music is a wounded bird
And dancers all have weighted wings.
Poetry is the hub of assorted data
And stories are lists of vital instructions.
Sleep is a refuge for all the rebels
And dreams are for the disenchanted.
Sound is an obstacle to the flow of music
And the passion is for heated lovers only.

Air dancers leave the earth while they dance.
They roll with the sound of the silent clouds.
They twist their bodies to the mood of the rain.
They fly into stories of space and beyond.
They kiss the angels and jump into heaven.
They sing with their feet in the mystical air,
As they dance with the poetry
Of their playful minds,
And laugh with the wind
As they sail into forever,
While disconnected to that rocky sphere,
That planet of various
Weights and measures,
That earth that touches the dancers’ feet.