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.

​The Surfacing

​The far beneath and far inside,
a million fathoms and a million miles,
the home of the abyss,
the nothing seen 
but everything valued,
treasures hidden in the depths,
eternal engines kicking their feet,
birds of mystery flapping their wings,
Magus lighting up the dark,
internal secrets clawing at the walls,
the heart of the substance
pulsating at a fever pitch,
the mystery of the deep out of view,
curiosity building with each thought,
the arms of intrigue grabbing
a hold of the mind, the body,
the heart, the spirit, the soul,
the beauty inside in 
a seductive mood
coming outside of its shell
with its eyes of deeps oceans,
its rose gardens permeating the air,
its blood surging through the veins,
its music filled with intensity,
its many fathoms taking form,
its engines running at full capacity,
lighting up the 
callous chasms of the soul
with their fiery torches,
prose running at full speed,
the pulse of the music
coming to the surface
as the many fathoms
come into view
revealing their internal secrets,
their touch with infinity,
and their travels in the divine.

Iron Air

​Higher up than the 
gangly Sunflowers
that oversee the
well-being of the roses,
up higher than the top
of the white picket fence,
o'er the roof tops, the rocky cliffs;
we look up higher toward the
floor of that fat lazy cloud,
somewhere in the nigh
where wars are waged
over disputed boundaries marked
our by barbed wire fences,
where the cold air
battles the warm,
fighting for dominance
over the other, the eternal clash
between armies of the hot and cold,
war horses galloping in the wind,
warriors with war clubs and spears,
grenades and missiles and bombs,
louder than the loudest
clap of thunder that maims
the brittle ears of the earth
and awakens the lazy clouds
that lay around the mountain
peaks from a deep sleep,

A war-zone below the heavens,
the tyrannical ruler of the winds,
a cold spirit rising up from the dust,
a smoldering corpse laying at its feet,
a headless specter clasping a scroll
with the secrets of the mystic skies,
the skies unseen with the naked eye,
a space beneath a deeper space,
where eternal wars are waged
as the iron air fights for dominance
in the unsettled skies,
the mightiest over the weaker.

Muse on the Loose

​Thalia, Euterpe, and Terpsishore,
three naughty mythical muses,
conspiring at liberty,
having fun with my mind,
making me dance at funerals,
laugh during solemn prayers,
whistle in the 
passion of the sermon,
dance during the National Anthem,
sing in movie theaters,
disrupt all solemn moods
with mocking gestures,

leaving me alone at my desk
of poetic wood constructed,
my inspirational habitat,
my Utopian sanctuary,
the home that lives in my heart,
the landing platform
for all muses for the moment
at the height of my dependency,
my reliance upon their assistance,

flying around in my frustration,
laughing at my stupidity,
flitting about above my mind,
flapping their polka-dot wings,
clowns of the serious skies
in an inspirational caper,
teasing me with their whimsical minds.

Damn you, you pompous muses.
Come down from your high places.
Have mercy for my incompetence.
Come into my home, my desk.
Spill your juices into my heart.
Fill my mind with your words,
you damn muses on the loose,
clowns of the segacious skies,
mockers of everything vital,
Come down to me.

Missiles in the Breath

​Missiles of microscopic dimensions,
of iron, skin, blood, and sand,
half human and half beast,
half steel and half flesh,
like gargoyles jumping 
off their mounts
in armored bodies with seven heads,
with razor sharp talons of steel,
dipped in the blood of the oleander,
the perfume of the macabre,
the venom of the flying beast
with talons outstretched,
poised to fly through porous channels
down through dark corridors,
eyeing its way to the
heart and lungs,
ripping through the flesh
and spreading its venom
to targeted places of vulnerability,

launched from random platforms,
from demonic plantations,
sown by the slaves of the beast,
nurtured by the heat of the nadir sun
shining up from the pits of hell
and reaped by the hands of the devil.

Out into the dark night it flies,
out into the light made dark,
into the pure air made impure,
into the holy air made unholy,
the virginal air made contaminate,
the good made evil,
the flight of the missile,
half human half steel
with its talons dipped in venom,
then the beating of its fists
against its proud brass aegis.
The victory of the evil germs,
of the missiles in the breath.

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