sounds

by

repeat performances…

copyright cwmartin 2012

i
asked
aunt bea
if she believed
in
reincarnation
she stared
out the window
listening
to the city’s sounds
sighed
and said
i can’t believe
that there is a god
so cruel
as to make us
go through all
this
again

by

along this path….

Image by CWMartin

the sounds of the day
faded into footsteps
along a leaf covered path
each step marking
a memory to be forgotten
a love
  now gone
a child
  disowned
a death
  all too soon
a pain
  lingering too long
each step
weighing more
  than the last
somewhere
along this path
was buried a dream
a childhood fantasy
that love
could
and
would
cure all evil
but that died
long ago
now only
a poem
marks
its grave

by

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
forgotten
promises
you made

by

on the edge…

Challenge Photo II from Jade

the gray morning
air presses hard
against me
holding back
the sounds
of my footsteps
that were so clear
and distinct
as i began
this journey
but now
all i can hear
are my labored breaths
in and out
and
my throbbing heart
a heart seeking
to escape
these city walls
to leave behind
this street
where laughter
and joy
have fled
where only
your memory resides
shrouded in betrayal
wearing a cross
of lies
to conceal
the truth
of who
and what
you are
and what
you’ve done

 

This poem represents my second response to  the second challenge series between Jade and I.  As you may recall, each poet provides the other with a series of photos, visual prompts,  from which the poet is to write a poem.  Jade has written her response which can be found here. 

by

from my window…

from my window
i see a world
you do not see
i see madmen
in the street
selling candy-coated nightmares
on corporate auction blocks
for the mere price of your soul
and hear the sounds
streaming from city streets
that go unheard
when children cry
in the night
with parental fright
praying for morning’s light
to embrace the sight
of an unlocked door
into a world most fear
you did not hear
the shallow breaths of fear
throughout the night
reverberating
like waves of tears
an unwanted
endowment
nor did you feel
the touch of love
that a poet knows
sometimes in dreams
sometimes savored
on passion’s bed
in a candle lit room
a love
you
have always
sought
and
have not
found

 

My friend Toni Cross has presented another challenge photograph for me, but his one is very special since it is a photograph of her…how does one poet begin to capture even a fragment of another poet’s spirit within the lines of a poem?  Not sure that I have an answer…but here is my attempt to convey a some small portion of the spirit that I have seen in her writing.  I hope that she will approve of what I have attempted.

by

breathe deep my love…

Image provided by Vlad

fingers move
gliding through
extended time
floating on skin
tracing passion’s contour
no lines of separation
the glow of  morning
no other sounds
but
heartbeats
and
slow breaths
deep
as each kiss shared
words fade into gentle touches
and soft kisses
rippling down the spine
there is nothing called time
again
lips meet
part
sharing even
the air they breathe

This is the fourth 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.

by

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