She sees I’m looking
for love.
And she’s scared.
Scared that someone could
look for love that bad,
that the world could make
someone so hopeful,
though so needy,
held on this cosmic ocean,
a sand grain
whirled before infinity and
annihilation.
She sees the annihilation
that my heart beats
every time she looks at me,
into my eyes,
and she sees all that’s been
lost and all that will be lost.
She’s scared, so she stops
looking and forgets in time.
But then time forgets her
and everything else.
Tag: depression
When you were sick
you didn’t like doing the stuff
you used to do.
Our children grated on your nerves
and you needed to be away
from them regularly.
You also pushed me away a lot.
You snapped at me, others,
even yourself.
You focused mostly on what was wrong in our lives.
And there were days where you
just had to stay in bed.
Your body hurt constantly.
The disease appeared to take over
your soul,
but there were moments where
your soul sprung up
in defiance and joy.
I sat quietly, meditative in those times,
sometimes smiled gently,
but inside I rejoiced.
I would go into another room
and cry golden tears of happiness
and tell some unknown entity; thank you.
I prayed a lot for you to be healed
and I am not much of a prayer.
But at some point I had to ask myself;
could I still love you
if you never got better.
And the answer surprised me
and brought me
new understanding of myself.
The answer was; yes, I could.
I was now loving you
in ways I’d never been able to love
anyone else, even myself.
I am now loving myself and others
more than I ever could before.
I am grateful for you.
We never walk at sundown.
We could live better on this planet.
You hold your dark eyes
and I hold mine too.
If everyone stays inside their house
and guards their possessions
then we’ll call this planet “Earth”.
You have a forehead made of stone.
I remember the scent of stone.
A solar star burns
and
mortals go capturing its light,
but we could live better on this planet
so I guess
you’ll have your possessions
and I’ll have mine.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
The civil clerk is a good person
and usually is anyways
good
left up to others
to take care of tasks
would nothing become
someone else’s job is for Sunday
or some day of learning
does until done
what is needed on a morning
all parents die
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
while i was taking apart the pot of coffee
the hipsters looked in
then came the yuppies and suburbanites later.
dude
what are you doing they said
that thing ain’t a model of the universe
it’s not on tv
you’ll never survive like this.
looking up at the beige walls
i continued to take apart the pot of coffee
many many many winters passed
until i had a beautiful beach at my feet
many many many winters i must stress.
you can collect your paycheck for 30 years
watch tv
have a career
get clothes, money, houses, gadgets, cars
or you can take apart a pot of coffee for infinitum.
be forewarned
if you take apart a pot of coffee
people will heckle and belittle you
they’ll grow old in front of your eyes
if you’re good you’ll be sent to a state home
for doing so
if you do things right though
you’ll be happy regardless of your income or location
while taking apart this pot of coffee
in fact i don’t believe income or location will matter
in the long run while doing things as such.
you can take apart a pot of coffee
in a bathroom
on a spaceship
on a mountain top or while waiting on a table
for an mri.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
“I’m
gonna sit here
and
drink
my canned soda
until
my liver
makes me
bored.”
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
from:
Lovers Of The Century (poetry book)
There was one long ago
a human who lived as one
but now the one of the collectively
none
had done the undone
that returns the silence of the era.
The ones and twos stand with shoulders and skin
and worry which is which, who will see
who will see me
do the things I do
standing as such in a way that others may be
looking at me.
I posture and fix my hair, set out,
go to the shopping center, greet, handshake
look out for life as American Idol on TV.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
When I was impoverished
in the multiple different ways
did you mean
what it is to eat
in the restaurant chains
the role playing tourists
the people who have aunts and uncles
the specialized drinks
the unnaturalized offspring
the séances walked backwards
to be holding the dead
in the waiting area spilled fajita meat
was picked up
by
a person
with
back
problems
now, the séances walk forward
the superchurches are peopled
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
A world without elasticity
builds long memories in my dreams.
The world of having a job,
riding a train,
dreaming of retirement.
As I come in and see the
tall buildings.
Every second in time, I see,
this gets more and more
attuned.
The manner in which this is
all
broken into
perfectly controlled sectors
I cannot count.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
The door to my room
looks like it goes somewhere,
to a land of opportunity maybe,
to a corridor leading into outer space?
The light of my room
is a day
under which
isolated men lay scattered on islands and beaches.
Their skin and my skin,
it is more different here than the planet the women live on,
the all-exuding sun! the all-exuding sun!
it is more different here than the planet the women live on.
There are 50,000 islands between me and the next man,
languages as vast as the stars
that we mutter to the mercantile winds,
tears that no other civilization will know.
We beat our heads with rocks
as we stand on our islands looking out to sea.
The light of my room is a solitary place I dwell.
Would you call this existing in an atmosphere
of phosphorescent glowing
. . . a body of penis and beard and prison?
It is appearance.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 