while listening to penguins…

digital decoupage cwmartin 2012

a hundred
swirling in the breeze
wrapping around the moon
caressing it like a lover
sky aglow
a shooting star
from orion’s bow
pierces the night
the symphony
the coyote’s song
while frogs
sing bass
and i
in the beauty
of the night
bask in
the wonders

This poem was inspired by Gabrielle Bryden’s post on November 29, 2011 where she introduced me to the Penguin Cafe Orchesta (http://www.youtube.com/watchv=NPpRJoYISSQ&feature=player_embedded)  … Listening to the music engendered the above poem…please stop by her site (http://gabriellebryden.wordpress.com/)  to feel inspired too….cheers!



copyright cwmartin 2011

i had
just started
to tell
aunt bea
the nova program
i had just seen
how the world began
when she
with her usual
smiling interruption
you know
you’ve always
been a nerd
your first
grade-school moonbase design
the rocket
you sent
kitchen ceiling
to tell you
the truth
i really
don’t much care
about how
it all began
it’s going

when the moon is full…

night tides
of dreams
roll upon
yesterday’s shores
flinging small
memory shells
upon the beach
of today
making hollow
echoing sounds
like the empty
you made

when the night winds blow…

Years ago while I was wander through a European museum, I came across a poem that been jointly written by several artists.  It was quite fascinating to think about the possibility of writing a poem with another author and trying to conceive how that might work.  Well at the suggestion of River Urke, we have down just that…wrote a poem together over the  course of a week. She would write several lines and then I would write several lines…using each others lines as a prompt  for the next few lines.  This is our first attempt and I must admit it was fun and a very worthwhile experience for me.

laughter at the end of the road…

they are the children
of the night
seen and unseen
moon lit silhouettes
at the end of your road
moving as if
were the prey
their hateful words
flow easily through
the bars on your window
seeping into the lining
of your pious soul
that has protected you
all these years
but now
just below the superficial
crust of your existence
is  hot molten anger
flowing from those
who have nothing
but the empty promises
of a better life

suffering the vengeance eternal…

there was a man
i shall call him
since his name
is not important
nor shall i tell you
his religion
since all religions
would have led him
to the same fate
so it was that everyman
came to the sea of death
seeking the monster
that had destroyed
all that was sacred to him
the smell of rotting fish
and sulfur filled the air
and he could barely breathe
but his anger was so great
that he waded into the sea
seeking his revenge
his flesh burned
but he refused
to give up his quest
soon his skin became numb
like a heart that’s filled with hate
and he was able to dive
beneath the surface
into its depths
with each dive his skin
became more adapted
protected by an armor
that he felt was righteousness
and so it was
for years
and one day he came upon the beast
and slayed it without mercy
the waters around him filled with blood
and he swam towards
the shore
but as he approached
screams could be heard
that the beast had returned
and in the reflection of the moon
he could see
that he had

this dream…

is not your reality
but it is reality
i am a jaguar
moving through the jungle
of your consciousness
i am a shaman
healing the pain
within your heart
with herbs long forgot
by those
who cut the heart from the palm
and tossed it into the sky
creating the moon
the dust from its flight
formed the stars
in the night sky
my breath
created the night breeze
that gave flight
to the owl
that grasped within
its claws
the last fragment
of hope
that man
would save
this river
and the lives
along its shores
with the same mercy
shown to him
by the gods

moon weavers…


perhaps this is some foolish
childhood memory
within each memory
lies some strand of truth
i speak to you of moon weavers
few outside these walls
know of them
so you must listen carefully
and heed my words this night
at the edge of the forest
in the small meadow
where the fog crawls
along the ground
are the spirits of warriors
the ancient ones
they spin silver threads
into braids of tears
placed upon our doorsteps
as gifts and protection
for those of us
who should own the land
if you must walk at night
you must not let a moon weaver
pass through your body
for if you do
you will feel
the sorrow of a hundred years
ancestors will appear before you
their death will feel like your death
the slaughter and rape
of those who loved this place
bathed in fire while they slept
ran down by horses
branded with bayonets
such visions have driven some mad
so beware my friend
for what you see
may be
your own history

seeing off a child…

can you hear her voice now
as she whispers her thoughts
on this still night
breathing softly into the wind
words only a poet can hear
words written so long ago
that even the night has forgotten
its rhyme
lost somewhere in time
as the moon caresses the earth
with its frosty touch
as if placing a child in bed
a bed that shall hold her forever
without pain or fear
nor shall there be dreams
no moon shining brightly
just a lowered head
into the abyss

Poem inspired by http://wocview.wordpress.com/2010/04/07/mom-beats-girl-3-to-death-for-poem-failure/