bare feet on hot sand…

his  operational manual
for dealing with life
consisted of
recycled
sunday school stories
a series of rules
originally designed
to increase the profitability
of a subset
of religious clergy
something
which he
only discovered
by accident
so
for the longest time
he strictly followed
their teachings
but then
he found out
there were
other books
written by
other saints
claiming
the same
purity of thought
this was confusing
but
he accepted it
as a form
of heresy
until
he was ordered
to kill
kill the non-believers
which seemed strange
for a god
of mercy
so he
questioned it
and
was called
a heretic
imprisoned
and
stoned
which leaves
the story
with absolutely
no moral
at all

i was…

copyright cwmartin 2012

trying to count each
ocean remnant of high tide
like love’s promises
passionate moments
washed away so very soon
with the new day’s tide
promises once made
for eternity are but
the lines in the sand

the ring…

digital decoupage cwmartin 2011

an empty
shell casing
half buried
in the sand
a frozen hand
emptied of life
a band of gold
glittering
in the desert sun
as if recalling
the love
that placed
it
there

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.

the dance…

her serpentine dance
is as old
as time itself
sequinned moves
tracing my lines
in the sand
tempting all
who behold
just as i
tempted eve
casting a spell
of desire
for passion so deep
the soul aches
to its core
begging for more
the eyes
cannot turn away
the dance
like
my trance
can lead one
to a fever
cooled not even
by the words
of god
moses knew this
and lifted me up
in the desert
but even
he
could not
lift man up
so
my trance
prevails
and man
continues
to crawl

This poem represents my first 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.  This challenge was contrived by Jade so if you’re tired of our challenges…this one’s on her. 😉

son of the desert…

shoes off
he runs
through the sahara sands
a desert fox
free from the city’s cage
no longer dashing
between motor scooters
and cars
that wind their way through the medina
in this haven
he moves among the tall grass
ears tuned to the sounds of
wind
jackals
and calves
each one moving toward
a common goal
a desert pool
hidden within these dunes
the giver of life
this is his playground
where he belongs
gently caressed by the sand
like his mother’s touch
when he is ill
warm
as when she presses him to her breast
soothing away all fears
and when he returns to the city
the desert’s arms
with fingers of sand
reach for him
as if afraid
to let him go