ROBERT MARTIN - POEMS

Mr. Martin's writings have appeared in; "Universal Oneness" and "Taj Mahal Review," two anthology books from India, "Alive Now," 'Mature Years, "Poets'Espresso," among others. 
He won two "Faith and Hope" poetry awards and published two chapbooks.
He is also a pianist and the organist at First UMC of Wind Gap, PA for the past 27 years.
His main writing influences are Kahlil Gibran and Pablo Neruda; Kahlil for his wisdom and prose, and Pablo for his wildness.

​Wings of Inspiration

​Transitory wings of white and gold,
beauty in flight and rivers in motion,
doors swinging open for the pure air,
clarity speaking in a familiar tongue,. divinity opening up its heart,
sending secrets through the skies,
the birth of the planets,
the texture of the rings of Saturn,
how it feels against the skin,
writing them down and
attaching them to the wings of the doves,
circling above with their eyes wide open,
purifying the air above the chimneys,
breathing in the aroma of the Jasmine,
keeping love pure on its earthly journey,
the knowledge of its divine source,
how it flows through winding rivers,
why it ends up in certain places
answering spiritual needs
or landing upon insensitive surfaces,
how it materializes in certain objects,
how it invigorates the spirit
of some but not in all,
how it gives life to a song, a poem,
or speaks through a rainbow or
the eyes of a woman,
how it teases the mind and
rides up and down the electric spine,
taking the spirit on a merry romp,
smiling, laughing, playing, crying,
riding to the ends of passion,
the flying back to that
wonderful place where it came from
too soon, too fast, too impatiently,
too abrupt, too detached,
but with its taste still in our hearts.

House of the Tempest

​Beneath the floors of the earth,
down below Davy Jones's locker
where inferno fires rage,
stoked by the hands of the beast
in the house of the tempest,
the catacombs of the dead,
the temple of the unholy,
Satan attired in a black hooded alb
with scull and crossbones
engraved in blood,
assembles and anoints
his disciples with oils extracted
from the fields of Sodom,
showing the way up to the rafters,
up through the unholy ground,
into the tranquil seas
and up to the fragile skies.

Armored warriors ride
on iron clad Pegasus
dressed in black capes,
brandishing their bloody spears,
galloping along the firmament,
assembling the clouds together
with their booming megaphones.

"Hear ye, hear ye,
clouds in your homes,
children of the skies,
serpents above the seas,
unleash thy wicked side.
Let your wind and rains wreak
havoc upon the seafarers below.
Do not lighten up until
the last man has succumbed
to the deadly waters
and hath visited the
glorious temple of the unholy
and has become forever a
disciple of our beloved Lucifer."

Museum

​Museum of lofted elegance in space
Formed by the sun and clouds in haste

Paintings hung on the walls of the firmament
Filling the skies as a sacred enlightenment

Works assembled for the poetic eyes
Of beauty portrayed as beauty lies

Morning's brightness peeking through
Skies of black and pink and blue

A canvas suspended above the mighty earth
Erected by mystic hands to now from birth

Colors arrayed in a dreamy sequence
From a mind beyond artistic excellence

A poetic drifting of the mind and body
An exotic feeling of joy and melancholy

An intensive pleasure in the heart and soul
A feeling of the inner self in control

A truth that beauty has an influential voice
That speaks in the spirit as the heavens rejoice

Museums of the skies in thy poetic splendor
Come forth to my eyes I to thee surrender

Myself of skin and bones and earthly mind
To thy face and everything that lies behind

Trumpets of Passion

​Embryonic sound budding
in the melodic heart
and lovely mind,
primal voices under
the direction of divine grace,
harps of heaven,
angelic trumpets,
melted violins, crimson sunsets,
glassy seas, shooting stars
out in deep space,
nature's mystic land,
heaven's breath traveling
through the walls of time,
home of the melodic heart,
a garden of the Jasmine
blowing the sweet scent
that rises into the fragile air
and rides with the zephyrs,
compiling airy thoughts,
of mellifluous portrayals of heaven,
the blending of the poetic heart,
wolves of the wild and quiet lambs,
the passion and 
the running of passion,
of whispered melodies
and dexterous fingers
caressing the valves, the slaves
of the trumpet,
carrying the sound to open places,
sweeter than the sound that entered,
converting the beautiful
into the extraordinary,

the trumpet and the man
and the conversion of
heavenly thoughts.
Oh sweet sound,
oh that sweet sound.

Bestial Cannon Balls

​Invisible ammunition,
bestial cannon balls,
virions of the devil's army
of microscopic proportions,
fired from the battlefields
from unholy
CoronaVirus cannons,
invisible warfare,
breaking the rules of war,
hideous looking globes
of an ashen colored body
that reeks of rotted flesh
with bloody red flowery spikes
on the opposite ends
of the penetrating nibs
that are stuck in the
heart of the devil's oleander,
scattered throughout the
fields of protein lumps,
sucking up the venom inside,
the tongue of the beast
lapping up his diabolic juice,
his deadly ammunition,

the works of the
devil's advocates
sewn on demonic looms
in the house of evil
with rose colored
bushes protruding
like patterned dresses
of the whores,
the unholy angels
who flutter through the
pure air made impure,
the microscopic
cannon balls that land
in the lungs and steal the air
until man's final breath passes
through the mortal gates.