February 2021 – novamartinpoetry.com

Yes, Different Places Together

Make us separate at dawn,
again your skin tone has turned
to the sunset’s wheat.
We are dried goods on different ships
… I’ll admit
my crew would trade me for you.

Fall with the sea-spray
on the sand of your back.
My mud has hardened
for the tractors to crush underneath
the chores
of a construction worker’s morning.
They are building another
award-winning hotel
for you to sleep in —
your affairs with the sundown.

You, in a grown woman’s body,
have forgotten the nursery rhymes
of your father,
but an older father blessed you
with lips of grapes and beliefs of vine,
so I watch you
give foliage to rocks,
to un-named planets,
so these stars above lose their names
in the death of naive civilizations.

Cassiopeia spilled her secrets
to the bureaucrats of God and the
scientists at Bell Labs
… so as they did in another galaxy,
they will do us in.

Poems

Brahmin Way

Have you ever noticed
if you watch testicles closely,
they move like anything
on the tops of waves
in high seas,
like the chests of living persons
breathing in and out?

Doctors in ancient India called this
the unfolding of each man’s universe.

Poems

Into The Town

If I go down into the town,
where the Wal-Mart and Taco Bell await,
let me buy
what others have bought.
I want to have what others have.
Let me follow.
Be a follower.
Be an American.
A Republican or Democrat.
Be a man, always look like one.
Drive a truck.
But if they talk,
if they come to talk to me,
I am me, I have my shotgun,
get out of my way, leave me be.
I am tough.
But, what are they up to?
The collection of cells, organs,
and the latest trends from the internet.
Fight for your life,
fight for your family.
Leave me alone.

Poems

Training With Koolaen, Part 6 (fantasy nonfiction travel writing)

More of my fantasy soccer travel writing for your evening, end of week reading…

KyrumFoot

By W.T. tuqMairtin, an excerpt from the novel “Povs In Kyrum”

As Kældurn and I were winding down with our stretching a trainer came up and introduced herself to me as Lo’o’toag. She knelt down by Kældurn as he bent my feet back and held my knees. “Is it ok if I touch you? I’d like to check out your muscle and tendon tension.”

“Sure.” I replied. She had a very calm presence about her. Her head was large and broad, her forehead especially. Her hair was dreaded, but short. A headband pushed the short dreads up, but it wasn’t the yellow and black headband. It was white with outlines of blue flowers and yellow stars in their center. She smelled like fresh cedar.

Lo’o’toag pressed behind my right knee with two fingers. She motioned to Kældurn to continue stretching me. “You’ve had this knee replaced, haven’t you?”

“Wow,” I…

View original post 1,923 more words

Poems

Become Blues Singer

God asked me
one day when Peter was off in the fields
enduring mosquito bites,
“Why don’t you fall in love with men?”
And I answered,
“Because, men are not made in your image.

Women are.”

I taught God a lesson.
Now he brings wedding gifts,
turtledoves,
to the lesbian weddings.
I bring silk and tongue in the failure
of my appearance.
And then I walk off, continue to walk with
a head of brown hair and
brown facial hair
and brown pubic hair.

Now, God has taught me a lesson.
I must become blues singer,

love my guitar.

Poems

Consciousness Misunderstood

Consciousness comes in
and it pours into us

Like the surf rolling in

And it ripples and riptides

Crustaceans and sunshine fumble

Pebbles mix and carbon replaces

And that consciousness never dries up

It wades and bays

Then it withdraws
leaving
an imprint
that lasts a billion years
and
is then replaced with something infinite

holistic, continuous,
individual when needed
and squarely incomprehensible

I mean, everlasting

You are
I was
We now

I love you Leslie

Poems

Some Pass, Some Pass Away

Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
People talked about the skin,
associated it with this friend
when its vision was requited in their memories.

Eventually, most fell out of touch
with the owner of Plate,
but never did they forget the blooming gore
of that Georgia O’Keeffe-like still life.
In fact,
many are reminded daily,
when they eat tortillas dipped in chili,
when chili is poured atop a hot dog,
when they go to sleep at the end of such days.

… “Folds of skin
sat on a plate in a friend’s kitchen.
Who was that? Whose plate was that?”

Poems

The Kepler Torrents

“I want to know the Kepler torrents with you.”

“The Kepler torrents?”

“The ones between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.”

“The ones in the starmap on the back of your
neck?”

“No. The ones further in … and much further out.”

“The way the lifeforms are formed?”

“Yeah, the way the lifeforms are formed.

Well hold on, yes — I guess. Kind of. Sort of.”

“Ah, so the force between objects.”

“Yes, that’s it, but I mean the unaccounted force
between objects.

I guess — the as of yet, unaccounted force
between objects.”

“Oh, so then I think you mean — love,
or the love that is greater than the chronicles of
humans.”

“Ok then, you’ve made my point — come with me
to the points between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.

Come inside of there. Come for the dead. Come
for the living.”

Poems

Winter Won’t Kill You

But the winter won’t kill you.
Winter is life.
You’re dead.

Your crystalline face
buried deep in the soil of my soul.

What is the soul,
but everything remembering everything?
Hark here old druids.
Hark here, let it be known.

I kissed you under a street lamp
in the Upper East Side
around midnight,
got busy with my hands
in your tight hot pink panties.

The aristocrats dreamed.

We kissed in a field in Texas.
Always passionate kisses in the throws of sex.

I was 26 years old when I ran down
the streets of New York City
in my hiking boots
at a six-minute mile pace
with her by my side,
months before
you and I would meet each other.

Who is she?
Who are you?
What is this?

It’s in the soil.

I don’t think you’re in the City anymore.

You may be in Vermont, or that could be
our ghost.

But the winter won’t kill you.
Nothing will.
Hark here old druids,
let it be known.