Writer, Author, Synesthete
Words may appear upon the page
And dream in wary days,
But the worlds that stand on Eustace’s land
Are but a dream away.
Through time and thoughts and dreams alike,
The passing has its joy
And in the after morning bliss
The trials shall bear no more.
There is a truth that hides itself
There is but one and more
They lie within the mind and heart
And stand upon the door.
They lie within the mind and heart
And stand upon the door.
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Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
Down goes the beat
Of the heart that stands
In time before the end
Down goes the beat
Of the very heart
That beats within my hand
And softens me
Down goes the stirring
Of the head that turns the beat
That ends the strife and ends
The winding down.
Up goes the beat
The beat that turns the head
That causes hope to flourish
And waltzes into heaven
With a smile upon its face.
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Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
A candle stands against
The impending storm
And raises its flickering light in contrast
To the coming darkness.
It is through the leaping flame
That the light gains its brilliance
And casts out its power
For miles around.
Almost imperceptible to the rest of humanity,
The candle gives an abundance of reassurance
To those nearest it.
When standings come to be
A wayward fashion of hope,
The light will shine forth even
In the darkest of nights.
Its light will go forth
Reminding people of better times
And never lessen,
Even in the seemingly final days.
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Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
The roundness of a person’s face,
Caused by the roundness of a smile,
Reaches far back into the heart of my mind
And touches that part of humanity
That needs reminding of its purpose.
From that viewpoint
Does the rest of the world
Look well again.
###
Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
Riling down upon the ground
Of golden trespass leaves
The weighted down of yellow hosts
Flurry in their fall
They reach the bottom of their flight
And land upon the dew
It’s there they’ll rest in gathered wait
Until their time is through.
###
Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
The noises that become a song are the same as the words that become a poem. They start out as chunky bits of effervescence and turn into something beautiful. The hard starts become smooth finishes, just as splinters are taken off by the sander.
Grit rubs across the top parts and grinds them down to join the rest of the fragrant pieces below. As sand grains turn to dust, the roughness becomes smooth and gives way to the eloquent patterns inside. Stains draw out the natural colors and let them shine through the overall faceplate of wood.
Tunes sharpen, soften, blend together making melody and harmony – reaching deeply into the soul to bring forth the deadened parts of humanity and put life back into that which needed reviving.
And words have levied the day against darkness.
What will be written
When my headstone is set?
What will be written
When I am gone?
What will be pushed into grains of the granite,
Written in stone?
Who will write the thousands of stories
That still occupy my mind?
Who will put them onto the paper
When I am no more and cannot write?
Who will gather them together again
And force them to go in straight lines,
Holding hands so they make sense,
Or let them run around nilly-willy
And enjoy the free-flow form that results?
What will become of my brain,
That gray mass of creative pumping power
After it ceases to press forth wonder in words
About the world that surrounds?
And all of the ideas that flow at night,
Will they stop in the morning
Because they have found a resting place?
Fiery minds call for the snow
And hope for all to see
The cooling notion that occurs
When one touches the other.
Again – what will be written, more-or-less?
More?
Or
Less?
Or all three?
###
Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
I write every day.
Sometimes I put the words on paper
And some of those times, they’re actually good.
I mean so good that they get printed
Or go in a book
Or posted online
And remembered by thousands of people
Around the world.
That’s the part that makes me smile
And realize once again
The ironies of life:
That an idea that started in the mind
Of one in one part of the world
Winds up in the minds of millions
In all the other parts of the world.
Amazing.
###
Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
The passing of the night
Breathes into the world
An elated amount of love
That is only measured
In the meting out of the heart.
When more happens
Than the soul can absorb,
It responds
By blocking out
The overabundance
Of reactions and thoughts.
###
Books by Marty
www.amazon.com/author/reep
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
www.amazon.com/author/reep
Marty Reep 