dictator’s prostitutes…

copyright 2013 cwmartin

copyright 2013 cwmartin

poor desperate lives
woven into the linen
your head rests upon

blood money payment
time specific services
short-term commitment

dollar cocaine sniffed
celeb’s personal appearance
seals harlot’s contract


a beginner’s guide…

copyright 2013 cwmartin

copyright 2013 cwmartin

political art
never begins
with a blank canvas
there are
always
stains
some faded
like
dried blood
others
black
like oil
all
have
that musty
paper smell
like
money
that’s been
hidden under
a mattress
for years
so
before beginning
your project
a layer
of whitewash
is recommended
it will
facilitate
the sale
of the final
image


travel alert…

aunt bea
said
is there
anybody
awake out there
first
banks
charge us
to use
our money
to make
investments
and profits
for bankers
who apparently
have
no money
but
ours
and
now
airlines
want to charge us
extra
to sit beside
our husbands
and
children
since apparently
such seats
are at
a real premium
for singles
and
lonely travellers
whose iphone batteries
have gone dead
and
are in desperate need
of a transfusion
of human conversation
now
i don’t mind
that they took away
the salty pretzels
and
over-roasted peanuts
but
where
i place
my derriere
does
bother me


listen to me-i’m a doctor….

i find
it curious
that no one
has taken the time
to tell you
that
you
are dead
that lack
of strength
is not due
to an illness
so
if you’ve
expecting
a miracle cure
you know
some unknown drug
from the amazon
that’s not going
to happen
anyway
the amazon has either been
flooded for industrial hydropower
or torched
to provide fodder
for cattle
and
even if they did find it
you’re
still dead
i know
they promised you
a recovery
but listen to me
you’re dead
you’re
a dead
economy


translation please…

now
for a while
I was certain
that god
spoke latin
i mean
why else
would they teach it
in almost every school
but
overtime
i began to think
since all our money
said
in god we trust
that it must be
english
but which dialect
because given
all the harsh words
between religious folks
surely there’s a difference
between southern
and
northern
ways of speaking
but the problem
became even more confusing
when I realized
that people
all over the world
were praying
in their own language
surely
most of them must be wrong
given all the world conflicts
so i’m certain
there must be just one language
we must use
to get through to god
but
what language


lovers’ final decree…

we’ve needed
to have this conversation
for a while
you see
things are
just not working out
i realize
we’ve been together
for a long time
but let’s face it
all we do
is argue about money
how to spend it
best way to budget it
who we should help with it
and
at every turn
we disagree
we’ve grown apart
i’ve matured
and
you
you’ve become
well
self-absorbed
you spend
most of your time
trying to influence others
like some nouveau riche kid
image has become
more important
than anything
that you promised me
and now
now
you’re shutting down
on me
it’s time
don’t you agree
to
out source
congress


the final reformation…

and it came to pass
long after
the ark
of the covenant
and
the holy grail
had been offered
to unite the world
that the pharisees
from each religion
and
the heretics of humanity
from each government
made a pilgrimage
as the new year began
to the canton of zurich
and beneath the shadows
of the valley
and
in darkness of their souls
they moved in unison
like an invading army
into an unholy chapel
each connected together
by an umbilical cord
of greed and deceit
and they bowed down
and offered

human sacrifices
before the altar
praying to
their
true
god
money


the music box…

 

the music box
has a secret
it will whisper
it to you
in its tune
somewhere in this room
was the beginning of a grave
a small shallow home
in the earth
a place of rest
for a small child
the music box
spends its days alone
no one to play with
no one to abuse it
a jury of her peers
said she alone
was guilty
but the betrayals
of a teenage mother
no money
no lover
no family
no time
no sleep
she
a  l  o  n  e


This poem represents my third response to  the third challenge series between Jade and I.  This challenge is somewhat different in that the prompt is now an audio prompt.  Each poet provides the other with five instrumental songs (so that the song’s words do not interefere with the poet’s) from which the poet is to write a poem.  Jade has written her first response which can be found here

based on standards or rationality…

Photo Challenge from Toni Cross

now i paid good money
to rent this place
but it ain’t no
american dream
just a second floor apartment
where watching your step
becomes a way of life
carefully ascending
this stairway to heaven
becomes a way of avoiding
a shortcut to the hereafter
you may have noticed
i change the outside
decoration depending on
who’s in power
that way maybe
i’ll get a job
see i found
that the folks who
make it in the world
are willing to
go with the flow
sellout to the highest bidder
now i know
you think that’s wrong
but hell think ’bout
all those folks
we elected
promised to do what’s best for the country
and child
what did they do when they got there
started doing things like everybody else
the old doctor jeckel and hyde syndrome
but you can’t blame them
look at the mess the world’s in
they just want to keep their job
so they
give the voters what they don’t need
and probably shouldn’t have
shine shoes for some corporate bigwig
with your voting ballot
but let’s be honest
one has to lookout for their
own retirement benefits
so although it’s taken me awhile
i’ve learned my lesson well   


This poem is really a duel challenge one photo challenge from Toni Cross and a second written challenge from John Holmes.  With any luck at all I’ve managed to’ hit two birds with one stone’ as they say.  They are both friends…well they were right up to the time that I published this response to their challenges.

not by much…just enough…

antique timepieces
mantel clocks
his specialty
17th to 19th century
each place in a room
based on the year it was born
this facilitated standardized instructions
for buyers who peered into the rooms
like elementary school principals
looking for something to take notes on
and he with parental hands
would remove one special clock
twice a week
for fine tuning
and adjustment
for although
its body was perfect
not one flaw on its surface
tho it kept perfect time
its chimes
would ring just behind
the others in the room
not by much
but just enough
he tinkered with it
even tested it
but he could not find
its internal damage
so he continued to tinker
returning it to its room
hoping that one day
the puzzle would be solved
some in the shop complained
that time was money
and that the clock
should be placed somewhere else
not with those whose chimes
could ring in harmony
and so
when the old man died
his precision clock
was placed
in the room with broken clocks
clocks that could not run
or those that required major repairs
and without his gentle touch
and a caring environment
the clock began
to change
not by much
but just enough
to make it
just like those
around it