nine to five…

copyright cwmartin 2011

these things
that fill your day
are but
shadows
on the wall
you cannot
touch them
or
hold them close
nor
will they fill
your hand with joy
for they
are
but
shadows
on the wall

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

a winter’s wind…

 

by River Urke and Charles Wm. Martin

these things you hold so dear
cradled in your hands
as if a delicate bloom
are mere shadows of your past
you long to hold as it was
cradling a memory
framed in yesterday
unwilling to set him free
but he is not yours to hold
he belongs to a winter’s wind
flowing through these barren trees
like his fingers once in your long hair
combing the woven threads of knowledge
the tangled web of life’s intrinsic collective
delicately kissing a union of unattainable love
knowing he has to walk the paths not taken
your ache bears the weight of drowned tears
tears flowing from a thousand souls
abandoned by the gods of peace
and so each warrior must leave this place
and those he loves for one last futile battle
a battle of man against the natural world
a ludicrous yet crucial clash of power
he stands not with men ~horrified by
the hundreds of years of rap and pillage
leaving the earth a barren tract of sand
sand moving in the hour-glass of history
through this narrow passage way of fate
to where his death will be found
the mere moment you know, stabbed
your heart bleeds for you and your unborn
a wail of agony escapes through silent cries
the loss of your beloved, her father
the time is here to set him free
his soul flies with a winters wind

Once again River Urke and I have entered into a duel poetry challenge and this is the resulting poem.  Duel Poetry a prearranged poetry writing challenge  between two people to evolve a new poem where each writer must respond to the other writer’s lines  (4 -5 ) until both parties agree that the poem is complete.

dissociative entity …

Image Provide by Vlad

i am here
just below those
fragmented pieces of colored glass
an illusion
perhaps
just a
shadow
but
can you see my bones
a spirit without form
but with substance
not to be touched
or prayed to
an angel
a demon
choose
as you must
but i am here
and unlike your
windows of belief
i see what you do
i follow you through the day
and see how words in the glow of god
fade in the light of day
for years
those petrified saints of glass
have looked down upon you
watching you inside on your knees
proclaiming your faith
rendering your thirty pieces of silver
but i
i move in the shadows outside
beneath the lies you tell
i’m the reflected colored light
in a night’s bed of passion
winking at you
before you crawl home
to a cold dinner
of yesterday’s hope
i am the cold touch
as you fall asleep
and the sharp pain
that you feel
as you
awake

This is the fifth part of a series of poetry challenges between Jade (http://jadepaloma.wordpress.com/) and me. The whole idea behind it is to send a picture ( in this case by Vlad) to the other as inspiration (or visual muse, if you want to), and the other has to write a poem inspired by the image. Visit her site to see how she has responded to m third challenge photograph on her site.

 

depression…

 

he without form
void of all emotions
sat in the darkness
of his room
gasping for breath
praying to a god
he had long abandoned
or abandoned him
expecting little
receiving less
his mind a fertile ground for doubt
too many faceless fears
whispering in his ears
spiralling his fragile thoughts
into the darkest realms of self-pity
where his dreams
wither in the sun of expectation
easily crushed and blown away
faith is but a shadow of smoke upon the wall
sensed but never felt
here
tears are his only true companion
he is buried beneath daily routines
and each day he thinks
the morning
and evening
were the first day