Weavers of the Clay
Fatherly fathers,
potters of the clay,
ambassadors of morality
and knowledge,
inheritors of obligations,
relinquishing their
self fulfilling desires,
giving up their selfish dreams,
molding their sons and daughters
on the potter’s wheel
with sagacious hands
and careful fingers,
defining and representing
moral integrity and providence,
planting seeds in their minds,
overseeing their development
while not interfering
with their decisions,
encouraging them to be
what they want to be
and not what you are.
You are only the potter
and not the pottery.
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
Museum 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.
Heaven on Strings
The slender fingers of Astria,
Star-maiden and teary-eyed,
and angels suffused in melodies,
stroking lovely strings of the harp,
sending vibrations hitherward,
massaging nervous nerves,
melting castles and cathedrals,
wood and stone into air,
into voices of the divine,
heaven breaking
through the sky, the clouds,
riding on the wind and rain,
landing on thorns and thickets,
stroking them with soft hands
until they become pliant
then into liquid flowing
through the pores, along the spine,
into the ears of the heart,
bringing heaven into the eyes,
showing life after death
before the death of life,
the face of the divine,
the oceans in his eyes
in the melodies of his soul,
the voice of his heart
speaking through the angels,
the ethereal strings of the harp,
drifting in vibrating streams,
petrichor of the rain,
tears of the Star-maiden,
daughter of the soul of love,
ocean of mercy
and sea of tenderness,
prose of heaven
in vibrations of sound
of the strings of the harp
flowing outward and beyond.
Oh sweet music thou art.
Scrumptious Leather
“Waiter, I can’t eat this steak. It’s too tough,” said the customer.
“I’ll get you a hammer and chisel to soften it up,” said the waiter.
“Bang, bang, bang,” went the sound of the hammer.
“I still can’t eat it.” I’ll get you a saw,” said the waiter. “R-r-r-rip, rip,” went the saw.
“It’s still too hard,” said the customer.
“Then I’ll get you a jack hammer,” said the waiter.
After ten minutes of banging away,
it broke, and the steak
was still too tough.
Then he got the bill for the meal.
The steak dinner was $50.00.
The rental of the hammer was $25.00.
The rental of the saw was $25.00.
The cost to replace the
broken jack hammer was $1,200.00.
The bill came to $1,300.00
plus the 15% tip that was $195.00.
So the total bill came to $1,495.00.
After the customer paid the bill, he said,
“Thank you for the scrumptious
steak dinner. Thank you for renting me
all those wonderful tools of yours. I’m
so sorry for breaking your jack hammer.
Here is another $100.00 for the trouble
I caused you and for the wonderful food.
My compliments to the chef.
By the way, your water
tasted wonderful. Good-bye.”
Then he rode away on his
broken down old bicycle.
Robert L. Martin’s writings have appeared in Inkling Magazine, Universal Oneness anthology book from New Delhi, India, Mature Years magazine, 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. His main writing influences are Kahlil Gibran and Pablo Neruda.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s