How many walk among us
that we don’t even know?
The reclusive Picassos
and downtrodden Van Goghs,
The sequestered savants
and homeless heroes,
hiding in plain sight
while thinkin’ they’re zeroes.
The Robin Williams that never was,
The Vaclev Pavel afraid to write,
The Michaelangelo of the street and
Da Vinci of the Night?
How many walk this planet
Pretending they’re not on it?
Please enrich our world
with brush, with song, and sonnet.
You were the only sane person in the room that day in Earl’s basement in November of that year. You were the one I clung to as my savior because even Janet, his wife and sole witness, rejected the truth before her eyes that Ron committed against my nine year old body.
I escaped through the portal into the apartment that Mork shared with Mindy. I thought of you, Robin Williams, the way you brought that alien to life. You sheltered me from the horrors that happened to me that day. You allowed me a place to recluse myself so that I witnessed what happened to me from a distance. That the pain was unfettered was too much to bear and you, without knowing it, were there with me. You stood by me in rainbow colored be-pinned suspenders and danced around the Colorado apartment. You protected me. Mindy didn’t matter as much as you did, dear Mork. She wasn’t strong enough of a personality to shield me from personal tragedy like you even though she was there too.
I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me that day in the basement unbeknownst to you. If it hadn’t been for the character you brought to life, ironically, I would have emotionally shattered. I only wish that I could have returned the favor to you. I only wish I could have eased the hurt, sadness, and tragedy that haunted your life.
My beloved friend, that I didn’t know in person, I will treasure your gift to the world as if you made it just for me, because that day…that one day, you did.
The day we met, I knew, that from that day forward
The sky would have to embrace a truer blue,
The stars couldn’t sparkle except from your eyes,
The sun would shy from your radiance,
The moon would hide its face in shame,
The oceans would flow from your fingertips
Bending to your whim and desires,
The earth, itself, would long to capture your attention
And when you smiled
There was my Happy Ever After staring back at me
It was then that I realized that I’d move any obstacle
To bask in your heart
In your love
Forever
When I was younger,
You chose,
For some reason,
To give me support when I was broken
Offered kindness when I acted stupid
Gifted patience when I didn’t understand.
You stood by me when it felt
The whole world was laughing,
Not with me, but at me.
Because of these things
You’ve given so freely to my spirit
I’m taking the time to tell you
How very much you’re loved.
Thank you for being my friend.
The dust has barely settled.
My cup is empty again.
The protests of the floor above
isn’t you. It’s them.
I sit at my table wanting
to be left alone
I have no need for antics
knowing you are gone
I’m not really sad
I’m not really upset
I’m not really happy
Wishing to forget.
Sheba the cat never smelled that good again.
She went unnoticed, unimportant, just another face to greet and forget. Politely enough she smiled, laughed a bit, joked a bit then faded quickly.
In the freezing cold of a February winter on the mountain’s edge overlooking the valley, the sun came out and shined from her face. She forced a double take from me.
The snow melted away as if July had suddenly sprung a leak before it was supposed to and stole the frigid air right from our lungs.
I stood there and looked at her and she at me. Our eyes blinked like newborns at the sudden bright light that ignited in between us like a bonfire.
As the snow drifted on the winds that tickled the pine needles down from the branches to land on the pristine white, we became believers in faith and one another.
We picked up our brooms, our mops and our feather dusters and buckled into mundane work while we wove our foundation with light and shadowed ghost stories.
Our hands took away the dirt that accumulated on surfaces long ignored, like she’d been, like I was. The intricate loom swish-clack-swished our lives together into a southwestern design.
The colors were rusted sand, Ponderosa pine, snow white, gravel gray, sunset pink, sunrise yellow, and broken sky blue. We wrapped within each stitch making it our fortress.
When the work of the night was completed, the cleaning utensils put back where they belonged, we remained. We stayed bonding our bindings with tomorrows that have yet finished their tasks.
A Love Note
Goddess
Her hair flows like cool rivers around her shoulders
brushing softly at my cheeks
she leans in to touch my arm
whispering thoughts that caress my ears like a song
Her scent is musky rain with a hint of sandalwood
It cloaks my breath with its subtle incense
My heart shudders, bounces, tossed as if on a rolling sea
Her soul floats openly in her kaleidoscope eyes
Her tranquil gracefulness is haunted
with echos of vulnerability and pain
She glows like an oil lamp, flickering, heated,
fueled by a passion for life…and love
She pulls away and with a simple gesture of her hand
she proves herself to be exquisite, delicate, powerful
Her gentleness sweeps against my skin like a searing hot fire
Her giggled words, like cannons,
firing…exploding
encompassing me.
One kiss would damn me
One intimate touch would be my downfall
The consequences harsh and brutal
The risk too great
I hover, instead, around her light in hopes
that perhaps she might shine on me again.
This poem was inspired by Alison Nappi’s poem: An Open Love Letter to Your Inner Child
( http://www.writewithspirit.com/letters-of-love–madness/an-open-love-letter-to-your-inner-child )
Mare Martell, aged 6
Your story took my age away and I became six again.
It sucked the breath out of my lungs
Replacing it with looks of befuddlement
That I got from grown-ups when I tried to explain
how I saw things or
what I saw and when.
An adult would often correct me
Explaining how it appeared in their world,
but magic existed before I knew it
before it claimed the runes of mystical auras.
I want to write this love letter to my six year old self
but not like this,
similar but with different color crayons
and different paper,
maybe bark or finger paints.
As I look through the eyes of my youth
I see what I saw then clearly
That crack in the sidewalk didn’t exist
as much as it was the seaside beach
where fairies lived and robins played.
I was taught that my visions were faulty
So I quit trusting them, I quit believing I understood things
I doubted what my spirit knew as absolute
I thought I was wrong for thinking in shapes or
pictures that had words labeled on them, but did not define them.
I heard you.
I’m so glad you remembered me
Way back then when mud pies were important and dolls drove matchbox cars.
I don’t feel like a phoenix anymore
I feel overthrown and solitary
In my dreams and nightmares
I hear his cries, his pleas
I am as defenseless as he
I can’t save him from living death
Any more than I can save myself
In my meandering daydreams
I cuddle him closely to my skin
But the sun snows clouds of fog
and I become confused in the ashes.
And I can’t feel his hair
I can’t smell his skin
My body aches to hug him tightly
To tell him everything will be okay
I wander around in darkness without him
I don’t feel like a phoenix anymore
Participation Ribbons
The ribbons that bound me to you
with generous abandon,
tied up in knots of
“I want you and need you”
have unraveled into muddied rainbows
puddled on the ground
I can no longer cherish them
because they serve no purpose
when my heart looked forward
instead of tick-tocking back
into the mess we created together
with scissors flashing
through the complicated maze
we’d woven together
then destroyed with guilty hearts &
shameless blame
of who was actually at fault
for our conjoined festivities.
An Independent Nondiscriminatory Platform With No Religious, Political, Financial, or Social Affiliations - FOUNDED 2014
Life is a patchwork of moments — laughter, solitude, everyday joys, and quiet aches. Through scribbled stories, I explore travels both far and inward, from sunrise over unfamiliar streets to the comfort of home. This is life as I see it, captured in ink and memory. Stick around; let's wander together.
Hosanna High Community Burial Project
True wealth is the wealth of the soul
Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Life as an American poet of excellence
Epic fantasy & military sci-fi author.
Love Letters to the Tar Pit
Making Space for Dreams
binge thinking and other things in life
Mare Martell 