And the Poet Sleeps (poetry)

The poet writes in the middle of the night
When everyone else is sleeping.
Words continue to flood his mind without relent.
Only absurd tiredness will overcome the torrent
That seemingly never ends.
By the brain turning off, going numb for a while,
The words have no receptors to receive them,
Nowhere to go, and the poet sleeps.

Fingers stop moving, pen stops flowing,
Ideas die on the vine.
Once in a while
It will have to be okay for the words to die,
The mind cannot process all of them all the time.
Rest comes, and the poet sleeps.

Words fall to the ground,
They bounce off the floor,
They charge into oblivion
Uncaptured by receptive mind.
Tiredness overcomes.
A smile crosses the face,
Eyelids close, and the poet sleeps.

Books by Marty


In the Midst of Everyday Things

To see the face of eternity
And know that you belong in its arms
Will help you to see each coming day
As a thing of beauty.
And as you walk through these days
Adding glory and power to them,
You will become part
Of the very thing you seek.
Glory lies before you
In the midst of everyday things.
Sure, it’s hard to find sometimes,
But it’s still there.
One of the most amazing things
Is realizing that the temporality of this life
Is not the most important thing
But that eternity in the presence of Jesus is.

Books by Marty

Furnace Blasts Hot

The furnace blasts hot on tempest’s land
And throws him into hell
He’ll walk through shadeless valleys yet
And counter none with show.

There are but few who can survive
The ripping of the soul
But in the end he will stand forth
As one who can forego.

The test before him lies as such:
He must last through it all
And then come out the other side
No lasting of the blows.

Years later in ordeal begun
Its testing to endure
The tempest gives a final test
He gains o’er all his foes.

Books by Marty

Morning Has Broken

The snow crunches beneath my feet
Cold surrounds my face
And tries to reach inside my coat
To tickle my skin.

Looking out across the water
Of the small lake
I am greeted by the breaking
Of morning.

Now that it has broken,
I look around and see
The other person standing
Next to me.

I realize that I am standing next to
One of God’s greatest creations:

She smiles back at me
Wondering what I’m thinking.
Not much –
I am just amazed.

Books by Marty

Causing of the Day

The causing of the day to seek
A sustance on the main
It calls unto the daily pass
And brings within its frame

The passing from the day and night
Is stuck within the fold
There is no greater lasting love
That lies within a hold

True breaking makes a lasting stance
It likens unto heart
But nowhere else will writers write
Than outside of the dark

A hearkened bid of love’s true call
Will force upon the ears
A delicately placed forlorn
Of placid, seated dears

There is but one of chosen kind
That will but hold on here
And cause within a greater draw
A mind that will not sear

To place a likened bit in hand
To have it show the love
Will give to other’s getting heart
And wrap the two in one.

Published online

Books by Marty

Departed’s Guests

Blasted fury, waking sleep,
It’s maker cannot stand
But in the furnace of its hell
Will all but not command

Of minstrel’s house the luscious speak
They know not lies within
Yet wanting to continue forth
They blindly rushed on in

In muted tones, in deafened words,
With every waking breath
They screamed to open up the grave
And free themselves from death

“Look there!”  They stopped and gazed in front
A chance lay just ahead
They grasped in hopes to leave the crypt
But stayed departed’s guests.

Published online

Books by Marty

Arrangements of Lines

The passage of the snow, my friend,
The passage to and fro
Is what all people seek to see
To sense what lies below

Now in the darkness we shall look
And we shall ever see
All that stands before us now
Between Thee and me

It’s on the cusp of wanton bread
That circus acts do play,
Stirring up all sorts of looks
And granting tardy stays

They’ll leave once light upon them lands
Shining brightly forth
And causes unto Naugum’s hands
A slightly blemished wart.

The war’s not over; charges go,
They stand upon the few
And disappear in classic dance
Between the wooden pews.

It is his leg, the wooden one,
That has a knotty hole
And fills with winded, windy, wind
Whenever on a stroll.

It ‘tis the last, ‘tis not the first
Of lines within this write,
But evermore the thoughts thereof
Find friendship to enlight’.

Published online

Books by Marty

Little Awe

The waking of the day
The breaking of the night
What rides upon the distant shores
Will shake us all with fright

It brings with it a thunderous clap
Destroying those in wake
It shatters rooftops with one pass
And drowns all those it takes

The standing still will last but naught
There is but little awe
For hatred reigning down in lust
And rattles here, us all.

“Fear not” they say in gentle voice
To those who hear inside
“And know that it will leave us now”
With that, the wind subsides.

Destruction came, it did not last
We shall rise again
To show the world and ourselves
Through all we still will win.

Published online

Books by Marty