daily routine…

copyright 2012 cwmartin

she gathers up
plastic bottles
along the roadside
no place for her pride
to hide
talks to herself
conversations
presented aloud
a voice in the crowd
so proud
she ignores stares
social judgments
rendered by the blind
who refuse to find
words kind
she’s all alone
on crowded streets
carting around bags
full of life’s old rags
hope sags
she turns quickly
her alleyway
finds a place to sleep
then begins to weep
fear’s weep

one-life stands…

nightfall
the last
call
for humanity
having
been served
a brew
of corporate greed
so
intoxicating
that men
and
women
were drawn
to
strange beds
only
to find
in morning’s light
stained sheets
stained
with the blood
of
the innocent
children
gasping
for
one breath
of
untainted
tomorrows
children
brought
into the fray
with a promise
of
a better world
now
given
only
discarded
passions

oneiroi…

it had been years
since he’d
shared a room
with a man
indeed
for 50 years
she had been
by his side
each night
how
clearly
he could still hear
her turning pages
as she read
late
into
the night
sometimes
dozing off
with the book
opened
and
propped upright
as if reading
with
closed eyelids
any attempt
at removing the book
garnered words
of denial
of sleeping
then
the shuffling of more pages
before the nightlight
was permitted
to sleep
however
his new roommate
preferred
old black and white movies
with
the sound set
to compensate
for the hearing aids
so neatly
stored in his desk
so as to save them
for
a special occasion
no doubt
his own funeral
so many changes
not only roommates
but
once great books
provided the escape
from life’s harshness
but now
it was
sleeping
more preciously
dreaming
for in dreams
you can be wherever
you wish
and
these constraints
of life
are
mere delusions
so
there’s no need
to
discern
night
from
day
except
when
she
comes
to
visit

thoughts before knocking…

some doors
are

always closed
no one
dare
enter
nor
seriously consider
what lies
just
beyond
the threshold
other doors
are
partially opened
to
let those
passing by
admired
what lies
just
out of reach
so as to
fill their dreams
at night
but
a few doors
are swung
wide-open
inviting
all travelers
of
this life
welcome
and
a place
to rest
one’s weary
soul

measuring…

the paint’s
worn off
where your fingers
carefully
calculated
what would be needed
to complete
the job
but
how many hours
were counted
as you made it
take shuffling steps
in and out
of its case
as you
sat
waiting
for
the union bosses
to
punch your card
granting
you
right of passage
to
the job site
and
to
moments of hope
hope
for a better life
for
those you love
better
than
yours
you
the poor
and
unwanted
immigrant seed
cast upon
this nation’s
desert sands
and
told
to grow
without water