Pp

P r a i r i e

P r e s s

Also by S.J. Martin Ive Always Been Here An American Essay Vol. 1 A Mans Life American Poet Series (SheldonJamesMartin.Com)

But Isnt That The Way It Goes?

C o l l e c t e d P o e m s

SJ Martin
1 9 9 8 - 2 0 0 7

Pp Prairie Press

The Prairie Press Selected poems in this book were first published in the US by American Poet Series and American Poet Press Publishing Company USA. Copyright 2007 SJ Martin. All rights reserved. Individual poems may be performed, reproduced or copied without permission for education, research and critical usage provided they are attributed to their author. Scanning, uploading, and/or distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the written consent of the publisher are punishable by law. All inquiries can be emailed to: Editors@PrairiePress.org.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2007937144 Martin, Sheldon James (1945) But isnt that the way it goes? /SJ Martin First Edition p. cm. ISBN: 978-0-6151-6757-2 PoemsPoetry 1. Title Printed in the United Sates of America 1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

All Prairie Press titles are available at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com and bookstores everywhere.

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For all who blossom in sand

CONTENTS Introduction 1. The Road Home Someday The Road Home Riding in cars My Dinner with Thomas Tell them about Jackie God is on your side In praise of small patches Pretty sure My Daughter, President of Malawi First 2. The State of Things In my thinking Sentiments Zoom The Proper use of filters Night and Day Into the wilderness Dancing in Moonlight Going Down? Easter Coffee Son of Walter Mitty The Lesser of Two Caf Gourmet A Little Night Music ix 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 31 32 33 35 36 37

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Cool Dark Places The State of Things The Silent Ones Thread Small Acts 3. I See You Never A Nights Prayer Going Unnoticed Loves Dilemma The Quiet Hour Belonging-Longing On Our Last Night Tell Me What Its Like My Mourning Bench Let me go The truth of the matter 4. The Second Time Close your eyes Fear not this mystery of your loving In praise of a lost friend Isolation April Craigslist MadLoveTrilogy Found in Translation The Second Time Our Pink Roses The Solipsist Obscure Places

38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

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When we talk on the phone 5. Song of Life Philosophers & Poets A Crossing A Christmas Poem A New Year A Private Matter O Fate Loose Ends Time Traveler Evolution The Soul of Good Intent Song of Life Ghosts Perchance About the author

67 68 69 70 71 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83

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Introduction

I believe that love, loss, longingand the hope for renewal take up much of our thinking, speaking and writing energy over the years because they are basic to our common humanity. We are either falling in or out of love (or hanging on for dear life), mourning the loss of what was and is now irreplaceableor, when fortunate, experiencing a new beginning, a rebirth of sorts and the chance to do it all again (although differently)at least for a while. Renewal may be the greatest of these gifts because it is so hard earned and unexpected. Individual timelines for each of these four seasons may not all be the same because the fates do not treat us equallybut you have to believe, on balance, we are never too far away from the center of the storm--or each other. The people and events of our life and the seasons they occupy play over and over again before they and we eventually fade like an ever-weakening signal moving toward a distant black space. But in the meantime, the ones we loved and shared our life with remain in a dimension words never fully expressor should. So it is the responsibility of each of us to make sense of all this in the best way we know how. A contradictory energy mass is required to retrace

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a crooked path should we choose to open our eyes once more to what once was. Going backwards is not where we want to end upand it is never easy to revisit what we left behind or avoided. Nine yearsand this is what I have to show for my writing time. But I will have to make do for as long as possible in hopes these lines serve me with some value regardless of their simplicity and brevity. Any value they might have in the readers life, I cant imagine. Possibly, you will find in them woven threads of a common tapestry each of us has worn along the way. That would be my great hope. Be that as it may, written language takes on a life of its own at times, especially as a major ingredient in the process of reflection, although it is never able to accurately mirror the substance of the people and places as they were or are now. If only it could. But there are so many limitations to overcomethe least of which is the eye of the beholder. But isnt that the way it goes?

1.

The road Home

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Someday I will fly with Sky King and Penny over blue-black skies of New Mexico, Sit in Howdy Doodys Peanut Gallery and listen to Buffalo Bobs: What time is it kids? Learn the secret to leaping tall buildings in a single bound from Superman, Meet-up with the Lone Ranger and his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, somewhere deep in Death Valleywhere together we will clean up The Old West once and for all. At days end, I will ride happily into the sunset, the Cisco Kid and Poncho by my side. Oh Poncho! Oh Cisco!

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The Road Home This long, rambling adventure exhausted and thrilled the four of us as we drove through nights sacred, silent mountains, crawling south by southwest, often recklessly sober on black two-lane county roads, fearless in faith we came through dew-morning pastures laced in drowsy cows, praising each threshold safely crossed, shrewd navigators unscathed and unharmed, a single cinder pathway lay before us so clear this scene I have relived it all my dayswhere all rush out with open arms to greet us and always first is Emma-Kay.

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Riding in Cars "What do-you know Joe?, my Dad would casually say, light a filtered Marlboro cigarette, flip down his clip-on sunglasses and head north on Rt. 7 on late summer afternoons in Martins Ferry, OH headed for the Boat Club hugging the banks of the Ohio River, we would watch runabouts and Chris Craft cabin cruisers glide by coal-carrying barges from Pittsburgh heading south to feed hungry energy plants and distant municipalities. Sitting side-by-side, often silently, we waited for the sun to go down, his car engine racing quietly, we watched swelled waters swirl around us and wondered how strong the current was that day and how far down river it would take us if we were lying on our backs without life jackets.

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My Dinner with Thomas Thomas asks me if I remember pouring orange slush from the second deck of Old Municipal Stadium deep into the bowels of its first, a perfect strike on a single baldhead at a Cleveland Indians doubleheader with our dads, Harry and Shell, where we were stunned by the miracle of all baseball miracles, Bobby Avila's bases loaded in-the-park homerun. Later that evening I quietly reveal to Thomas that I am still the 9-year-old in the photo next to my bed. He admits laughter is the key to survival as the dinner crowd begins to thin out and the lights are turned up for the last time.

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Tell them about Jackie She was raised on a farm in WVA by her grandmother who did the same for at least four others as well as her own eight children She came to OH, went to business school in Wheeling, married, and began buying little homes, then little apartmentsrenting them out. She sang often and in tune to Doris Day, Peggy Lee and Frank Sinatra. In defiance and surrender she held the fabric of our family together. When I was very young she would sing to me: "Good-bye little darling I'm leaving, give me one tender kiss goodbye, I dont know when or where but darling Ill be there, Good-by little darling good-bye, And I would break into tears every time, certain she would be gone by the end of the day.

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God is on your side Thats what I told the boys no matter they peed down the drain in the cat room or made obscene phone calls (once to their mother), the three boys created heaps of mischief but never evil; Sometimes they would be grounded and sometimes they would go to jail only to escape and hide out at our house, presumably to continue their long history of crimes and misdemeanors with the third accomplice, my son. Every night the two of them dashed next door for home like a bat out of hell, eventually demolishing all plant life in their pathbut not before I assured them they had friends in high places. --Goodnight boys.

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In praise of small patches Ive surrounded this house with the simple tools for repair and trim, in spaces I puttied smooth tiny cracks till they were soft and white again. Brushed porcelain tub chips as though enameled art; snipped steel wool then shined rust to a sparkled grin; no hole went un-patched or undone in light or dark, no stains not bleached to white no carpet stains not scrubbed clean, obliterating mites; I mended ceiling plaster down to the faintest tint, and vinegar became a second ode to tossed salad and commode. The high house trim stroked to last with four-inch brush where my reach of things always did exceed its grasp.

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Pretty sure It is Easter tomorrow maybe I should call my kids who are grown and gone a long time now After all, they are busy with their own lives; but maybe they will call me. Or else Ill wash clothes today; they've been piling up more than usual lately. Then Ill walk to the Sub Shop down the street, the one next to the Gas Mart. Soon it will be time to place my clothes in the dryer then fold neatly and tuck away for a few days at least. When all that is done, there's not much left, is there? I could workout for 10 minutes, but i won't turn on the TV today. Pretty sure.

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My Daughter, President of Malawi From her home office behind a gigantic desk and credenza while holding her two-week-old daughter and chasing her 2 1/2 year-old daughter and banishing me to the front porch to smoke my cigar at winter's end, Telling me how to get on with my life in bold and lucid proclamations without exception or limitation while ordering barbecue pizza with ham, bacon and French-fried onions then making lists and dreaming of new window treatments, Certain she will wear size 8-10 soon enough wondering aloud about a third child while staying up all night attending to one, My daughter is still the boss of the applesauce My daughter is President of Malawi

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First She would say: the first bite is always the best, the taste of a good steak, chocolate cake or champagne, Like a first love, and upon first making love, the first marriage of stranger-souls, a first child, the loss of one parent then the other, the first child moves out and the known world begins to implode as the home is put up for sale only to become a house once more. Then the day arrived when I looked around and no one was there but me. But even thats a first.

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2.

The state
o f t h i n g s

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In my thinking I am right each time about who or what is valuable or useless to himself and others, who has suffered enough or never enough and who deserves more than he can offer himself and who should live and who is better off dead than alive and who was just lucky and who could never get it right no matter how hard working or sincere, and who is lazy and insincere and who lives on foolish courage and who hid out for years before going postal and who likes kids and dogs and who took care of the old and new and changed the diapers of each; I point my finger here and there and know the reasons why and live in my own world and wonder if anyone is out there but me.

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Sentiments are lovely things, passed along so easily and cleverly chosen with grave intent on flowering purple embossed cards wrapped pristine in white tiny lace, timeless masterpieces it seems, written by paid interpreters of Jesus Christ and Oscar Wilde, they tell you what you dream to hear from others pens, but only a few others, because you know they mean every word someone else wrote so perfectly stated you hardly ever throw these cards away because that would destroy such kind words as though they were never meant for you at all.

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Zoom They are the same call letters of the twin-engine turbojet whose left engine sputtered out three days ago on the tarmac during its run-up in St. Louis But today the instrumental version of Patsy Kline's "I Fall to Pieces" is playing as I begin to board the same plane, grateful someone will greet me when I land, Someone to share my mundane moments and groundhog days, acknowledge often-told stories, obscure histories and fits of confusion, together with slight hopes for tomorrow briefly extended into this hour, we begin our roll down the runway.

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The Proper Use of Filters I stayed up the night and kept the TV running which is not unusual or unsound, The Pope from the Catholic Church was dying and being reported on live and long into the night and through morning by almost everyone; that made his dying neither unusual nor unsound, And all who spoke, spoke kind words about his faith, righteousness, heavenly aspirations and love for his fellow man and hopefully animals A noble and benevolent thing to speak well of the dying or near-dead by strangers and others, I thought I fell back to sleep and dreamt of kindness, soft words and dedication to the well-being of all creatures large and small and spent much of the following day thinking how that it is not unusual or unsound.

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Night & Day A good night's sleep is a blessing when it removes the profound sense of loss at the end of the day when everyone waits for something or someone who hardly ever appears, when two Tylenol PM hurries a drowning in the middle of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, I linger and listen to the BBC to learn that China is not above attacking Taiwan someday. Then, an interview with a lovely woman once married to Earnest Hemmingway's son who tells us her ex-husband was a transvestite who later received a sex changeThats the last thing I remember until late the morning unwittingly is reborn, But a new dawning brings new hope as it should, and everyone is forgiven for not loving the other enough or not at all, though Soon the conversation turned to an ex-in-law drinking two-dozen beers a day after a quadruple bypass in an apparent attempt to kill himself. Its 9:30 amthe promise of a new day awaits.

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Into the Wilderness Should I go into the woods I will turn and walk away I belong to the concrete starless nights hazed over in stone, stucco and aluminum cramming themselves into another wilderness forever seeking freedom. I belong to the streets, the late nights; the little boxes in disappearing plots, villages, and towns, the edgy highway exits leading nowhere, Anywhere, but not the lone prairies, grasslands, steep lands and ice flows or the sacred sky of wild wings. I belong to the concrete nature of things.

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Dancing in Moonlight I am certain Pigs hum Youre Innocent When You Dream in perfect harmony while eating fresh trough slop at 6 am, while the Cows slow dance to Nothing Takes the Place of You in their barns near midnight, The Chickens, who are apparently quite close, chant elegantly in the afternoon from the Metta Sutta, the discourse on loving kindness, while straining their tiny ears and listening to Kentucky Thoroughbreds make 100-1 odds, the date and day they will all run wild and free again, It has recently come to my attention Dogs and Cats rehearse their cat and mouse games a week before the performance simply for our amusement, Snakes hold annual meet-ups to discuss why they earned their slithering reputations thanks to the New Testament, while the Birds certainly must nod to the Bees thanking them for their breeze,

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Giraffes debate ancient history with Wolves and together they roar with laughter remembering all the stories passed down to them about how crowded the Ark had become at the last moment while waiting for the Lions and Elephants to finish their naps, But everyone agreed: the Alligators would eat us all alive if given half a chance, whereby the Red-bellied Turtle Lobby made sure they were never issued passes to board; not that it mattered much to them, And no one even mentioned the Crocodiles, which may explain why they have become an endangered species for now after 100 million years.

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Going Down? If I tumble into Hell, perhaps they play Pachelbel or Gymnopdies from a fallen Angel's harp would be nice to burn to, even twice But in this venue neither song can stay, Ill ask they push me up a ways where I will learn to play it for myself or simply hum along.

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Easter Coffee I came alone before the rest of me arrived to consider transformation at the Rocky Gap Lodge, From a table too near my own between sips and window gazing, crass conversation was hurled, then pelted me with booming whispers of incest, battering, and the judge decreed. Picking clean their bones each waddled to the restroom as the other stirred alone. Long the morning air sucked by thieves who stole the resurrection day. Too bad So sad Home me But as my gaze fell hard upon their eyes, I spoke to cleanse my loss: How perfect if the two of you were hanging from the cross.

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Son of Walter Mitty Seems only yesterday Bob Dylan invited me to sing It Aint Me Babe with him. We stunned the audience and I stayed on to finished the last 16 cities of his tour as his back up. Together, we discovered eternal youth while performing my biggest hit: Dream World, (Carl Perkins meets Carl Jung on 4th St) Later that year I established The Free University, persuading every US citizen to donate 25 dollars, enabling 100,000 new graduates every year to compete with each other for finite job openings, inflated mortgages, lots by the square foot in suburbia and tons of gifted children. As founder of The First Humanitarian Church, I made sure every one was saved just in time for the Second Coming because the First One didn't count for some reason--wherein, I am awarded a Nobel Peace Prize after nominating myself for the honor.

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On the way home from Sweden, the British 747 Airways pilots passed out from lavatory gas leaks and I took the controls, landing at JFK, runway 13R, with 416 on board and 100 feet of runway to spare, based on my 75 hours of single engine flying time. By mixing delicate portions of Clorox, vinegar and milk, I patent painless eye drops to dissolve cataracts for one dollar and no one wears dark green, bug-eye sunglasses again. As you may have heard, I recently concocted a healthy day long cigar by fermenting spearmint leaves and brown rice, which was openly purchased then sold by the millions in Cuba, forcing the US to dissolve its trade embargoCuba becomes our 51st state and everyone, everywhere goes on vacation for a month, except me. Email from The Dalai Llamamarked: Urgent. China is at it again.

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The Lesser of Two Hunters take it upon themselves to snuff the lives of creatures because there are too many of them, while golfers display a sense of purpose, pride and accomplishment hitting a little white ball into a small, dark hole in hushed silence. I can prove to hunters that the over populated, diseased, lame, and dying of human populations are not hunted then destroyed for their vulnerabilities, sloth, and bad luck. Not yet anyway. And it would be great if golfers took to the woods during hunting season in search of their lost balls, but Im certain they would never find them there.

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Caf Gourmet A 60ish chap with a white beard was telling a young Hispanic kid he was always welcome back to have coffee with him at Caf Gourmet, where a 3-cent cup of coffee costs $2.75. Baggy-boy listened to his ex-boss with a near-English accent tell him how things like this happen all the time and that none of it reflected on the kid's value as a man or future breadwinner. But The Kid stared into space, silent and expressionless all the while. After his ex-boss walked away, Kid called for a final 'farewell' to his amigos, then later walked from Caf Gourmet, presumably forever. Wherein a minute or two, the bearded man could be observed wiping coffee rings from table #4 with his favorite dishrag, whistling God Save the Queen.

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A Little Night Music What moves me at the speed of light at day's end and on first sight, though I praise the classics and each master, indeed a grateful fellow. But the Ode to Joy I treasure most is Martha, and her Vandellas

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Cool dark places I, prisoner of my own making lock me down in cool, dark places, far from maddening faces where voices seep pass minor cracks that speak to me in shadows glimmer hidden from the sun where solitude is the healing spaces, here with me in cool dark places no mortals come or go to bother me save a silky Siamese who weaves indifferently twice at least around my knees. These Earthy 66 degrees I praise while bitsy spiders hang with me, and shards of whispers now and then that isolation binds but I don't mind. Ghosts come and go on their own I greet their welcome faces we chat openly for a while, then say farewell till we meet again in cool dark places.

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The Sate of Things I am no longer worried about the state of my affairs. I moved from OH to WI, but those states are not where I live All things considered, I am somewhat concerned about the state of the nation and the world, now and for the future There are so many children being born into a welfare state no longer able to support them Soon enough I will not be in a conscious state to watch these transformations take place, but Now and then I am satisfied to live in the states of bewilderment and awe. I never did locate the state of grace.

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The Silent Things (the curious recalls) Why have the silent things stayed silent for so long? Not a whisper or a murmur Though they have been the subject of our art and how we measure beauty by degrees, Yet never a word is spoken that requires the best in them be mentioned or recalled, where Time has worn the search but not the wonder, why silent things remain silent for this long

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Thread A single feeble thread holds us to this life and when it unravels almost no one ever notices except the one who tells you its your problem and most likely you brought it on yourself and that it wont get any better until you do something about it and soon. But that's not what we need to hear since no one remains helpless save to their own fates, and when a single strand gets tangled up all over again, the one and only one that you could ever count on to pull you through that dark tunnel this time is gone for good; and Now its late and long into the night as your body begins to loosen from its bones and you look around and all that remains is that same feeble, thin thread with no name or identity to speak of.

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Small Acts Small acts of kindness go squandered then forgotten Good deeds buried in haste Gentle promises heaped on the trash Subtle acts of courage unnoticed or ignored Still, love is writ patiently on the faintest sonic star purposefully or in hopeless jest. Quiet nights turn years, bodies swirl and burn the heavens cling to a finite universe or none at all.

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3.

I see you
Never

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A Night's Prayer I wish upon a star that all things gone or lost are all right where they are. I hope they're better off than me for now, My heart breaks so easily somehow for puppy dogs, Parents and friends, wives and husbands and even sons. If mere sobbing could signal my intent I think that even Gods relent that I might peek beyond this veil of clotted earth, Just once.

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Going Unnoticed Dying is hidden comfortably almost going unnoticed. Look at Me, You, Us Too late, we're gone But we were warm once, and comforted you on your lost nights, held you close when you despaired. When our time came you turned away a last loving embrace. Can you tell me why is it in death we become more alive to you than ever?

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Love's dilemma If I did not always treat you as I should, hold me not so deeply in contempt my dear for I too ran a gauntlet those many years where inside the two of us the thing we were and how much we gave away to be part of us, I do not dare or try to say. Yet there is more to what we left behind than what we gave up to stay. But lets save that for another day.

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The Quiet Hour The quiet hour has arrived to separate the two Shallow breaths go breathing Time is fixed and never ceasing What once appeared is disappearing The steady hand grown weary The first of us has slipped away We are oblivion on this day

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Belonging To be needed is the warm embrace. In small sacrifices the reward, Our mutual energies to guide us always, forever in the days. Longing To be needed was the warm embrace. In small sacrifices, the reward; we were mutual energies once; thats so very hard to explain.

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On our last night I placed her hand in mine and held on to it for dear life in ever-darkening silence. Everyone was gone. No words had passed between us for five days. The contents of my thoughts emptied. There was nothing to think about any longer as morning fell away to early afternoon. But in the last hour, our last hour, I realized we would never have another argument, and wondered if she could be thinking that too.

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Tell me what it's like Finding right words make all the difference you know. But the thought of a thing lingers until words make them impure. Nonetheless, they are ours and will always roam free for the taking: As I drove home that August-clear night I stopped at the red light and searched each star for a while but grew weary. It had been such a long day. I gazed briefly for the last time to the lost sky I tell them how her image filled the heavens just as she looked down on me in perfect silence and peace. But as time and circumstance would have it, the light turned green again, and I tell them how I had to drive away this time leaving her there forever.

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My Mourning Bench Sit with me a while silently near by, I can hear your voice so fresh again to blossom in my heart where no words speak or need spoken to. But should I sit alone these hours to fall away as abandoned petals often do, one wish I ask be writ: He remained faithful to his mourning bench and you.

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Let me go To play among the stars with all who have come and gone I join them at last those beautiful, contagious, lost and longed-for creatures once of this earth are my people now. Fixed stars found We, the forgotten ones, the lonely and confused await I will miss the beauty that lives in the energy of all things, this one brief light. Let each find his own way home.

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The Truth of the matter One day my wife just died. Her immune system turned against her. So I got a dog. Then my dog died on me too. Seems most things just die eventually. And that's it. I don't know which to mourn more or miss most. One stayed by my side for 31 years, the other, maybe a couple of years. One was independent and wise, the other, needy and dependent. Each was loveable and held in high esteem. I was there when both my wife and my dog took their last breath, and I can tell you up front, I wish it were me. I can't tell you why, but I am telling you the truth. If I got a new wife, maybe I would die on her, then she would be left empty handed. If I died on another dog, what would the dog do? Sooner or later the thing you love just dies. Thats the truth of the matter.

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4.

The Second
Time

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Close your eyes

Imagine you. Not born to exist; A seed not planted or sowed in a field of 6 billion seedlings Plowed in spring Scattered by swift winds of fate to Earth, somehow missing you, Your drama avoided No joy, no heartbreak, no blooming passion, Fits of desperation, false hopes, inspired thought, interrupted nights, days and lost years. Never a dwindling down, Floating away. No beginning. No end.

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Fear Not This Mystery of Your Loving You are in good company in a Universe exploding and contracting, plowing through the crust to the core of things in search of its very self; the same self you and I seek in morning and long into the night, Fear not, that what has gone before you will come after you as where you are right now. Tremble and shake in this energy you possess so beautifully with a will that cannot be discouraged or destroyed, now or ever. You are the earth, the moon and the stars, take your place among them: burn, burn, burn! until all that is left of you explodes inward upon the very nature that calls you home. Be scattered as hot ash soaring an unknown universe You, the visible one, as everlasting hope sprung from a star-stuff field that desperately longs for your embrace that it too shall be fixed to scatter with you among the heavens now and forever, Together at last.

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In praise of a lost friend I make every effort to forget the glorious and sad things because I dont know what comes next; they are in a holding pattern from my so-called sub-conscious mind, but unfortunately that's not where I live now. Old friends and lost loved ones are hiding there too, where I can't reach for them anymore, Maybe that's how it is meant to be since nothing lasts forever even when forever is today, which I subtract from yesterday to stay in the place I am now: somewhere between the past and passing moment.

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Isolation Is this what its like when no one is watching me cease to serve value or purpose to another other than myself? But listening to self is somehow not the same as hunting down someone to listen who doesn't know me too well, and therefore, Because listening to myself too clearly and too often casts a vague shadow of suspicion on my own inept inability to be alone, I much prefer that stranger over there for now. It seems I can't fool me but maybe I could deceive a few others; why not meet new people? Then I can be anyone I want.

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April From this beginning again I shall uproot my roots to trod barefoot at daybreak on Earths steamy slick grass, like forgotten promises revisited only to be trampled easily once more, crushed new and lovely to behold, I wake to a blossom so sweet I can barely lift my head from its pillow.

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Craigslist
Woman Wanted

For long-term relationship who likes to laugh, dance and sing and place the other first. We will be best friends and lovers. Timeless and ageless. We are the stuff of stars. Please write before the Sun explodes.

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Found In Translation You may not know who is walking next to you or behind you, because you and they are in obscurity; yet, you allow yourself the briefest glimpse of their image only to become stunned by the presence of that individual, Who is also alone in the worldthe very world you are opening up to at this moment; so you look hard but not too long. There may even be conversation at a dinner with friends or the friend of a friend, where you become transfixed without understanding why, Not for physical purpose or romantic intent, but more often, because you recognize the whole compelling, mysterious history of their life is before you and you will not or cannot turn away. Sometimes, you think the person you have just met or noticed so briefly then let go of for the last time is the one you have been waiting for all these yearsand for all time. But the encounter ends abruptly and everyone drifts from the roomand the one who walked out on you is lost, never to be seen or heard from again.

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MadLove Trilogy Let these days madness bring I close my eyes to dream the dreamer's end The hollow waking ground has slipped away And in its place new earth begins As longing for its lover. _________________________________ I shall love you as you are As in the distant eye beheld Where only God is fixed. _________________________________ You as sweetness of life perceived That in the soulful language of your dream I dreamt you first that you dream me. ___________________________________

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The Second Time There are other friends, children and places, lies, cover-ups and good intentions, strange histories and dark secrets. Truth be known Ive had my own Should you begin anew, let ancient history as ritual burn a night-scorched cleansing earth to all who see the light; what visible ash remains a strong foundation sow, where lies, cover-ups, good intentions, strange histories and dark secrets alas, become your own.

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Our Pink Roses Because she liked pink roses and I the color of pink roses we watched them blossom in silent dignity for five days and acknowledged their loveliness each time we entered the room. On Saturday they began to lay low their sweet heads as sorrow-to-come. I clipped their ends, changed the water and placed our pink roses on a ledge near the open window filling them with sun, light, and fresh air as their heads rose proudly for several hours. By evening, our pink roses sat beneath a warming lamp where I again watched over them and waited, as single petals began to fall in a casual cadence and accepting unity. Come Sunday evening, I removed the withering bouquet quietly but with a subtle reverence for a conscious dignity I can only hope to understand.

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The Solipsist Sometimes the best of luck is random or by any name be known, where the idler in search of time and himself holds on for one more day to confront his lonely self-longing of all things past and yet to come, Where hope may yield in time and distance a certainty that even gods concur: Our search for self begins and ends with us, never to be known the heart of one other To what resides within, Yet in this longing one glorious hope gives breath both first and last: to be loved for who we think we are, and in return, to love the other best.

*A Solipsist (Latin- solus, alone + ipse, self) is one who believes in the philosophical idea that "My mind is the only thing that I know exists".

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Obscure Places Come away with me to this retreat, our place in cotton-quiet and to sleep where we prolong the night when night is good enough to last all that is legitimate of the light; and should we sense the other passing into sleep, let one gentle-meaning kiss embrace this small island we have made, that you remember one safe place in unruffled floating spaces be; where no one comes in loss to mourn, and we are always twenty-three.

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When we talk on the phone We say how fast time in our lives has come and gone and how when it is their turn they will say it toothough we believe they will be even more bewildered. I remind her again there is no love without sacrifice, everything else: phone visits, brief visits, casual friendship and relationshipsall go the way of benign pretense, feel-good patronizing or obligation, but not love as we have experienced it. We agree, only to sigh deeply--then discuss our gaming strategy for the slot machines at the casino, where no one will ever know how much we have won. We just laugh. Together, on the phone, we watch the American Justice reality show and compare notes, adding: men seem to get away with murdering their wives more than the wives who murder their husbands. Too bad about that considering equal rights and justice for all. I ask her how to cook frozen chicken again and she gives me the recipe one more time. Then we talk about going to the grocery store but agree, nothing sounds good today. Before we hang up, we thank the other for being there. Remember to keep your feet up, she says.

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5.

Song of
Life

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Poets & Philosophers All philosophers are fools. They spend much of their Life arguing, speculating Or debating propositions, Fallacies, dualities, and Consciousness, When all most of us really Want to know is if we are Living a decent life Or not. And poets make you believe They can cut into the heart Of all matters then extract Their essences by merely Arranging words just so; But when I am in Walgreens Pharmacy at midnight Paying for 99-cent gumdrops, I want to tell the lone cashier Working the 11-7 shift, Never knowing when the Next loose canon will walk Through the door at midnight: Your life is the poetry here. Thats why all poets are fools.

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A Crossing We are moving with time, You and Ior else against it, across a bridge where some have arrived but do not send their regards, so we live in doubt about what to expect, most of us anyway. Secretly or not all these years we have been searching for another dimension other than the one we have found where no one desires to be alone, where no one wants to die alone. But we all do. One at a time. We are making that crossing as we speak; should one of us reach out, fear not, this bridge sways terribly at times.

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A Christmas Poem Here we are again, the season has found its way to Christmas, the cycle of another year nearly complete, and we are with it. Throughout our lifetime we will play many rolessome designated, others simply legal: infant, child, adolescent, adult, couple, parent, grandparentthen the drift towards the unknown and unknowable. My advice to each of you is not to get too attached to any of these roles. Participate in them, but realize your own sacred identity is what stays with you forever. Find some way to demonstrate to your self what you believe innot just what you must compromise with to exist. We are like a cloud passing. Nothing is static or lasts forever. Children become adults, Marriages end. Love manages to escape quietly. And we grow old. Everything must pass like the slow-moving cloud of which we are a part. Yet there is joy everywhere. Everywhere someone is listening and laughing to the Christmas Vacation Themeand there is hope and promise whenever you see people together enjoying the others company. Nothing has changed.

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You cannot separate beauty, joy, loss, and sorrow. They are one thing. Do not be afraid to call on your sense of love and compassion for the people you do not understand. That seems to be the message all religion brings us: that of compassion, and yes, compassion for the lonely self. At Christmas, more than any time of the year, its time to let go of the rigor and routine of daily life to experience the potential of renewal. To sense warmth and energy in each life that surrounds us. The harsh requirements of survival can wait. The role of a good host is to make the guest genuinely welcome, and that of the guest is to respect the life of the host. But for guest and host, it should not be business as usual. Each should focus on the other and not abandon the relationship during that time. To do so is a violation of the love and compassion that goes with the season and all time. Whenever you think of being a guest or a host, think about what it means to see empty chairs at the feast, and what it would mean if those vacant places could be filled.
(Based on a letter by the author to his adult children at Christmas)

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A New Year This year it will be different. There is promise in it yet. More good than not. Time to heal from loss. To be loved, to be needed. And if that's not possible, let it always be a good day to die. Look around the room and look in your heart or soul; call it what you like. Every one, every thing you have ever known is still there or somewhere. Call on them. We are the conscious things of the fragment moment now and always, where the past has overcome itself, the present dances wildly and flickers through to the future when you allow it to. Be fearless in thought, in tear, in torment in tragedy. One heaps itself upon the other. Let it all happen. There's nothing we can do about it anyway.

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A Private Matter You would think we already know who to love and who to forgive by now Not that forgiveness or compassion know their own limits or boundaries And who to hold in high esteem and why; and ultimately who we love and who we respect And why we live together after our life has come apart or evolved to open then close at the same moment in time Still, late at night, before falling into oblivion, do some things finally and secretly become clear: Like who we can trust, who we must tolerate, who we hope to believe in some day, and who we never will, and why we cling so desperately to what we have, and why we participate in the lives of others, and why we cannot. Ultimately, but half consciously, our eyes roll back into our skull; there, the truth is known and why we love at all.

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O Fate Judge not harshly this forgotten soul, the conquered will no longer blended earth Needy the driven nature of a life, make no mistake, where desperation lives alone out of reach and often out of sight May some be forgiven though terribly late, while others too well known, for hell.

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Loose Ends Most things will never get resolved or be half understood or made even equal to what they were before. They linger and pile up in the closet of bad dreams. Some limitations, fears and poor judgments could have been avoided just in time to make everyone happy for a while, But we forgot how the story could end and its hopeless now. Just too late. Thats always the way it is. Someone is accused of being immature, selfish or lazy and now there are more loose ends than people to untangle them, and no one forgets to carry his own list of indictments at all times.

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Time Traveler Travel light upon this Earth Leave not a thing behind to follow you Hold nothing so close save compassions smile See the details in things that you may absorb Their working parts Take joy in the process of tinkering and cleaning up Maintenance is 95% of all effort after the object of your desire is in your possession Walk through weeds and clutter to recognize the Value of self-respect finds its natural order Do not fret when you gamble--what you gain Is a finite piece of your infinite identity Should you fail--so what; look at your Contemporaries shuddering and stammering In constant fear of failingor worse Never attempting to pursue their hearts desire Be glad you are not among them Keep your bags packed Say what needs to be said Be remembered for who you are It's great to be forgotten

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Evolution I am one with the trees blown and destroyed by the strongest March winds skimming the oily grass where red worms and dandelion await the quick-jump squirrel and its predators while raccoon road kill is drug away by winters starving roughnecks A celebration that endures beyond its own exuberance brought forth as fresh seeds scattered as solitude in the hanging storm to come. That too am I

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The Soul of Good Intent Are you searching where are you looking what have you found is it at home where you wait for eternity to find you have you talked to the dead do they listen do you listen to yourself you are partners after all your body houses organs, blood, tissues: the tangibles. But somewhere circling or just landed is the Soul of Good Intent, praying that it matters to the internal and external worlds it touches. Will you be the one to tell the Soul of Good Intent who is listening

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Song of life With your two eyes Gaze long and swift for I no longer mortal Or ever quite would be Permission to cut these Pocketfuls of grit Tear cartilage tenderly then Slice the vein of it Penetrate this fleshy mass Unloose a ruby river mine Be not in haste to ferment In vinegar then wine Carve tiny bits and pieces Till rotted morsels find Let what remains be for feed And grist ground by the grind Not even then what cuts on me Steals what is mine, for I will rise again beyond this breath and hang alone as energy not death.

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Ghosts Unsettled, and transient, transferred then transported over time and millennium, Morphing and evaporating into the ages in full view we lie and wait unwittingly and unknowingly to take our place in time.

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Perchance At times hope exceeds all reason and we are left with neither We can only live to hope again it makes little difference the price of hope be reason but that hope will reappear and we can live another day No great purpose have we but to dream a while.

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About

the

author

Sheldon James Martin was born in 1945 along the Ohio River in Martins Ferry, OH and grew up in a newspaper environment. He studied English, journalism, business and later philosophy of mind. Martin owned and published newspapers in Ohio before establishing a merger and acquisition practice specializing in media and technology, JamesMartinLLC.Com. He lives in Madison, WI.

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