Robert L. Martin

My intellectual me,
my boosted ego,
my acceptance among
the highbrows,
my relevant voice,
my manufactured intelligence,
my shortcut to wisdom,
my dexterous fingers that push
the right buttons,
my knowledge of their functions,
the new me that grew out of my self,
the mechanical man that surfaced,
that left his heart on the way,
that made discoveries from
pushing the right buttons,
bypassing the love of finding things
as they reveal themselves
before my eyes and sink into my heart,
the joy of a new revelation,
an accumulated wisdom
that clings to my understanding
and enters my silent depth,
the treasure chest in my soul,
my intelligence that breathes;
for I know that they
will never abandon me.

My cyborg self, the new me,
made of plastic and intelligence
with a mechanical brain
and metal heart,
who lost his passion for learning,
who relies on technology to breathe,
look at my new world
with an empty heart,
who knows how high
the highest mountain is, but not
the path leading to the summit.

Quietude yearning for mobile air churning
as the stillness takes root in the soupy skies,
mountain tops wreathed by a bluish haze,
the tepid clouds growing tired and sleeping,
days and nights beset by the same quiet air,
the sagging sun thirsting for a drink of water,
a plunge into the glassy, invigorating seas,
a paradise in the cool from the balmy air
where the angels sing the same old song of yore,
where the stillness lays in the lazy skies,
the dawn of the days in its old familiar mood,
going through its routine in a halfhearted way,
Mother Nature dancing the same old dance again,
looking for the mobile air to break loose
and dance with the wind around the hilltops.

Alas, a stirring in the upward skies,
a breath of air to make the barley dance,
a sympathetic churning prescribed
through the mercy of the Gods,
an assemblage of the hot and cold,
a westbound air rolling with the flow,
a new sky of vigor and life and mobility,
the brewing of the wizards from aloft,
a gentle stirring of a compassionate nature,
the tears of the invisible sky born giants
with their sob stories and gentle crying,
their newfound happiness in their home,
the answer to their supplications,
the restoration of the air, the invigorating air,
the return to life as it was in the beginning,
the spirit moving across the waters,
the winds across the glades,
the breath of the gentle giants,
the mercy of the Gods,
and the mobility of the air,
thanks be to Mother Nature
and the way she moves.

The mystery of the deep down inside,
Where probing is a futile venture,
A search curtailed by fear above all,
A witch’s asylum inside the complex mind,
The darkness ne’er to see the light,
Reachable, eerie, dangerous, enigmatic,
Where angels and demons commune,
Where the laws are written on a whim,
Where goodness is a nebulous mood,
Where evil plants its heavy feet
Deep in the ground but sometimes not,
Sometimes in the fire but not always,
Where goblins wear priestly robes,
Where nuptials are devil’s pacts,
Where albs are woven by witch’s cloth
With yarn that winds around the neck,
A hangman’s noose or an angel’s halo,
A language echoing the voice of evil,
Of angels cursing and wavering in peace,
With one foot in chains and the other free,
With hands stained by the devil’s spume,
In houses of horror with saintly rooms,
Letting the spirit run freely through the halls,
Exercising the good with evil intentions,
Living in the balance of good and evil,
Or the irresolution of the two,
The favorable one that fits the mood,
The contentment of the indecisiveness,
Or the volatile mood of the impulse,
Or the mysterious resident that lives inside,
Waving his magic wand
And making up new rules to live by,
The priest clothed in the devil’s apparel,
The one too dangerous to be approached,
Or the one they call the enigma.

After plunging into the cold, cold sea
From his merciful mission across the sky,
The man called the Sun all tired and worn,
Laboring with each mile upon his journey,
Setting his sights upon the angry waters,
Smiling but not smiling down to the depths,
Down into the mystery of the deep,
The hell or heaven that lives down under,
The brotherhood of the Macabre
Or the fellowship of the Saints,
Each one awake when all else are asleep,
Each one with arms outstretched,
One with plastic tears and
The other with loving eyes,
Each one with a baptismal font on hand,
Standing proud at the altar,
Baptizing him with holy or unholy waters,
Anointing him with scented oils,
Sending him upon his journey back home
To ascend to the surface just like yesterday,
To become a morning like it was before,
To peek through the veil of darkness,
To shed a light upon the mysterious night,
To reveal its deep dark secrets,
To unite the morn with the day,
To show his love or anger at the earth,
To lie still or become restless,
To summon the lofted currents
To reach out and grab the clouds,
To congregate them into a body,
To kiss them or rile them up,
To blend them into a witch’s brew
And wreak havoc upon the quiet earth,
Or to smile down at the sleeping meadows
And lift up the flowers with loving hands,
To become an angel or a beast,
To rule the skies with his scepter,
‘Tis the mission of the sun in transit.

Traveling at a high rate of speed
Like the wings of a humming bird,
From fruitful melodies
And higher cliffs,
Where music reached into the clouds
And mingled with the
Voices of the rain,
It followed me into the darkness
And touched my silent wits,
Myself without substance or worth,
A pebble washed up upon the shore,
And illuminated my soul
With a liquid flame
And drew open the
Curtains of the universe
As I peeked into its pulsating heart
And saw the alpha and the omega,
The gardens of pure thought,
Voices not of this world
But of a sound that touched my spine.

As I wrote the first word
I could sense that my hand
Didn’t belong to me.
It was part of another planet,
A sphere of dreams and higher thought.
I was a genius who knew nothing.
I could feel the words
Flowing into my body,
My prison, my inhibitions, my world,
Hammering them into my mind,
My child of seasoned thought,
Looking into the world with big eyes.

I, of inherited thought,
A manufactured genius,
A child still lost in the wilderness,
Tried to understand what I wrote
As I stood amazed at
What the music did to me.

Out in the wild where danger lurks,
She curses and stomps her unholy feet.
She moves ahead at a speed unmatched,
Without warning, striking like a viper,
As she devours everything in her path.
She sings to the Sultan of the wicked wind,
To the glory of Mother Nature’s strength,
To the power beyond all earthly power,
And whistles from her colossal pipes,
A song to the devil, her romantic fling,
Her love affair with the macabre,
An ode to disaster and what it brings,
A digging into the bowels of the earth,
And dragging out the life once lived,
Stuffing it through her fat salivating lips,
Swallowing it like the hungry seas,
Laughing at the way it goes down and down,
Like a dying ship on the way to its fate.

She is a lady with no love nor tears.
Her perilous beauty is in her vortex.
She plays with life as if it were a toy.
She hides high up in the skies,
Then strikes without warning,
And sweeps up everything in her way.

She’s that wild twisted wind,
That impenitent tornado,
That unwelcome guest,
That devil’s whistle,
That hungry child,
That bestial one,
She is, she is.

editors note: We can only hunker down, till she passes; clean up after. – mh clay

That force that came in search of me,
From the city streets and from the sea,

From heated passion and raging fires,
From solemn melodies and melted lyres.

It came into my house, my frozen palace.
It slipped through the guards, the hallway past.

It took me prisoner with its own silent words.
It flavored my breath with its exotic herbs.

It threw me into the ocean and set me adrift.
It hovered over me then gave me a lift.

It dug into my heart with its gilded shovels.
It dragged me thru’ stately mansions and hovels.

It took life and hung it over my rusty eyes.
That I may see the silent words of the wise.

It dressed up the rhetoric in flamboyant suits,
And marched it in front with drums and flutes.

It swirled with the tempest and played roulette.
It climbed in my dream and brought the sunset.

It broke into my house in the name of poetry,
That power that came and left me be,

As my feet were implanted in the ground therein,
My heart broke loose and danced with the wind.

Where homes are houses
And shoes are anchors,
Bound to the earth that
Sings out of tune,
The flight of music is a wounded bird
And dancers all have weighted wings.
Poetry is the hub of assorted data
And stories are lists of vital instructions.
Sleep is a refuge for all the rebels
And dreams are for the disenchanted.
Sound is an obstacle to the flow of music
And the passion is for heated lovers only.

Air dancers leave the earth while they dance.
They roll with the sound of the silent clouds.
They twist their bodies to the mood of the rain.
They fly into stories of space and beyond.
They kiss the angels and jump into heaven.
They sing with their feet in the mystical air,
As they dance with the poetry
Of their playful minds,
And laugh with the wind
As they sail into forever,
While disconnected to that rocky sphere,
That planet of various
Weights and measures,
That earth that touches the dancers’ feet.

You with your dark knights in the wings
Dancing to the rites of the macabre
Your sweet arsenals on the alert
Your honeyed poison on your lips

Your sensual arrows pierce my stone heart
Touching my blood with their blazing torches
Watching it boil with their scheming eyes
While my nervous breath races with the unfamiliar

You climb inside of me with your perilous charm
Your devious smiles that quicken my spirit
You sing love songs to the dark side of me
In the shadows of my forbidden dreams

My adrenalin is a river of rage and romance
It sings with dark angels on lofted grounds
Of crimson sunsets falling through black holes
And nervous palms raised toward the sky

You lead me into dark forests with your smiles
Your beautiful hands that scorch my blood
Danger is a love poem from the lips of the departed
Eternal stories sent down from perilous cliffs

Beautiful danger, you smell of sweet perfume
You grasp my heart with your silky fingers
And cast it into raging rivers and quiet interludes
You are a love story written by restless hands

Beautiful danger, take me with you
You make my spirit rise to your heights

Oh sweet music with thy soft fingers
Come and knead me as heaven lingers
Run up my spine on angel trails
Roll with the waves and burrowed swales

Bring thy melodies to love’s holy feast
Riding on the sun and rising from the east
Prepare me for the sacred fire where love goes
Into an exotic world as heaven only knows

Move inside as tempests flow and flowers sing
As love takes up residence and residues cling
Command my limbs to dance with the sound
Release my tired feet from their earthly bound

Thank you music from your heavenly depths
My spinal kneading followed its dreamy steps
The language of the spirits took form inside
From this day forth I shall abide

Music, sweet music, oh sweet music!