Long Vipers Poems
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Unquenching thirst in scorching sands
With doleful steps as if once banned,
From mother home, lost paradise
While wandering wayward days and nights.
As scorpions sting and vipers’ hiss
With broken bones and loneliness,
Filled with weeping, creeping, seeking
More, crawling ‘long the desert floor.
While raining rockets fill the skies
Smoke and ashes blind the eyes,
Hoping all the hellishness will end
Praying silently to ascend.
As dreams no longer ease the mind
And all the saints you once thought kind,
Have left you here to drift, bereft
A solitary soul, misfit.
In search of that lost pot of gold
The one they say is Mighty old,
And glistens with the light of love
Ubiquitous mystery, soaring dove.
Still stumbling, tumbling, moving on
Faith shattered, battered, nearly gone,
Yet mercifully a dimly lit discerning,
Incessant, quiescent,
Great yearning.
© Terrell Martin, 02/10/2025
You can never be free of old love.
It'll always be caged in your heart and head.
At any time, the ghost of old love can hijack your brain.
Turn it into a forest of monkeys.
Shaking the branches of your memory.
Pelting the present with fruit of the past.
Both rotten and sweet.
You're really living a double life.
One in the tangible-one in your monkey mind.
One household brimming with the old love.
Shuddered and blistered with peeling paint.
Its rooms filled with wild cherry pits.
A nickel bag of cheap Mexican gold.
Copper pots filled with vipers and laughter.
A carousel of house cats and fire ants.
Zigzagging along suburban rapids.
The big fall just around the bend of night.
Where everything was deadly but very alive,
It was all about accumulating the scars of living.
Your new house is freshly painted.
Everything is uncomfortably perfect.
Just like you see on a movie set.
Perfect lines under perfect face and hair,
Perfect lipstick that never smears.
Where's the real living-
The grime in the corner.
The clownish tangle of underwear at the foot of the bed.
Your conversations have become a stepping stone.
To get through dinner.
This house can never burn down because it lacks fire.
There are only oatmeal and Epsom salt.
Where nothing is deadly but everything's dead
The only scar is from not living,
You miss the imperfections of the old love.
Imperfections are the soil of life.
Where serpents wrap around sunflowers.
Spitting fiery pearls and manic thorns.
The manic carnival ride and the crash that follows
You didn't know it then, but you know it now.
That it was all worth it.
Where you live now, there are no serpents or sunflowers.
No tornadoes or pinwheels or fear.
Dialogue is just a sparkless interview in gray.
And what if the quiet moments are uncomfortable
or are they filled with monkeys swinging from your brain stem?
Screaming ya shoulda picked me!
ya shoulda picked me!!
They never change
These vassals of venom
If only their cups could hold love
Instead of water
Then gardens could bloom in valleys and deserts
As the seeds of love traverse the oceans
Yet they chose to poison the wine
That spreads humanities love
Old men set in their ways
Lost, like fishermen at sea
Floundering for redemption
One day
We shall remove their masks
And rejoice
Love at long last
Notes:
Recently being in the hospital and not knowing if I would get out, I had dreams of both gardens and nightmares, I guess the best way to sum it up, is the garden of good and evil.
Romans 3:13
13Their throats are open graves; their tongues practice deceit; the venom of vipers is on their lips; 14their mouths are full of cursing and of bitterness;…
Panagiota is a whirling Galaxie.
With her blue thunder words.
A spirit like black diamond lightning.
She bruises the clueless and ignorant.
Not out of hate but of love.
Not with a brass-knuckled fist but with pearled wisdom
Layered around grains of life's relentless grit.
Her words are not fanciful or minty...
They're always stained with the talon of truth.
She crushes the weak-minded and the oblivious.
With her Olympian soul and rose-scented boots.
She fears nothing and never spares the rod of truth.
While weaving a spirited ink to her parchment heart.
Atop enchanted moonbeams, she lances pit vipers and tangos with God.
—Tale of a wanderer who goes with a piece of myth—
The wanderer drifting in the wilderness searching for a long absent
darling leans against the moonlight at times. Wet with dew, is there any chance; you will one day, lay your exhausted body on a cold bed to slumber? But instead of a sweet dream: you will hang on a sharp edged axe; while crying and moaning, hunted by a nightmare. You will, then, wake up in a cold sweat, swept by surging waves.
Then: as a bright star appears in the sky; along with
the gleam of daybreak; light driving moonlight away;
the crystallized water drops; the star brought in the window,
will become the deadly poison of a viper and bite into your flesh,
in the blink of an eye.
It’s neither Eden nor Eurydice’s heel. It’s the calamity
upon yourself. You didn’t decline, but laid your weary body,
one night, on the bed offered by Procrustes. Bleeding from the ankles, both feet chopped off by Procrustes’ axe, with no way to turn your misfortune or to blame but yourself.
Although it’s blood, it’s really not blood,
they are a line of brood of vipers forming like
a stream advancing to the woods of the delta searching for
an underground tunnel; a dirge, the tongue-less Philomela’s
piercing shriek. It’s Philomela’s agonizing shudder, disgusted
from the conception of the seed of death.
Itys’ head on a tray: reflecting in the daybreak glow; will ask.
“Why are you lodged in such a terrible inn of all inns? Though
I won’t ask you, but still, want to know
why are you. The fool Tereus? Did you do such terrible thing?
Though you have a virtuous beautiful wife at home,
why then, o thoughtless wanderer, did you walk on a path
just like Tereus’? As a consequence: you must cry; beating your breast; listening to the sound of lyre; that even stops to roll the wheel of fire; for a while, with its mournful tune.”
1. Eurydice 2. Procrustes 3. Philomela 4. Itys
5. Tereus 6. Ixion 7. Orpheus’ lyre
Don’t repeat the things I’ve said –
They might be taken out of context
In this pit of rats and vipers,
We’re all guilty of what’s said next
The gag is placed – silence follows
There are some things
I will never swallow
Don’t read into things I’ve said
Don’t insert things in these lines
In the era of designer-frustration,
One steps lightly for fear of mines
It’s a good season
For severing tongues
And don’t pretend to be holy or pious
Out of fixation on your pride
Evil judgment when your soul is your Pilate –
Ergo the swords piercing your side
The gag is placed – silence follows
There are some things
I would never swallow
It’s a good season
For severing tongues
(1998, 2017)
I wish to thank the skies for having allowed me to live this whole year
I wish to thank the skies for everything that was bestowed to me
I have the full faith that I was brought to God, one step closer
And of course I did take full advantage of this awesome opportunity
I did go through life's obstacles
I did, with life's demons, wage battles
Only to emerge victorious,
Only to exclaim at how the skies do be glorious
I did walk among vipers
I did think that I would be among the sinners
But the skies strengthened my faith
Why, only divine love could have me holding on to my belief
I did walk among enemies
Only to realize that I held for them, loads of amnesties
For the Great Man did say it
That we should see both the friend and the enemy as an equal treat
I did grow in faith
Yes, indeed, such gives me solace
The world does be so mistaken
As to it being one place so golden
I did live great moments with my close ones
Moments to be kept cherished and warm
Moments worthy to be as beautiful as a dream
Moments which drew me out of my inner gloom
I did grow in matters of poetic creativity
Yes, indeed, in such matters have I attained some mastery
Why, my muse does be a celestial being
Maybe even the Supreme One Himself
It has been a wonderful year
Even if I did shed more than one tear
It was mainly because life gives some and takes some
Yes indeed, Earthly life does be a mere dual tale to be lived as a poem
It has been a wonderful year because the skies remained close to me
They kept on me a close watch
Yes, to life am I attached
But to the skies, am I bound for eternity
Thank you say I thus to the last year
Thank you for being so special
I wish for more of such to come
Yes, indeed, I am sure such shall be!
Dec 2015
UNCANNY
A poem arises firmly from my thoughts.
I can see it reflected in my adversary's mind as well.
Mine is undeniably poetic, but theirs had an unsettling quality,
Mindful individuals with unusual liabilities!
Those two or three long lines on the forehead are simply lines of expression. (not)
I do remember their names: Errol, Wayne, and Manny
Those suiters were born deceivers implementing a series of strange plots.
It took women like me years to correct their mistakes.
Where are they now, lost men without the love of a woman?
I had made it my mission to look into their eyes.
The lines on their foreheads have aged with their bodies.
An embrace or a touch from them disgusts me.
They can see the hate as I slowly reject their touch.
I have rewritten those names through the years.
As Errol transformed into Mr. Uncanny,
Wayne became the manipulator,
while Manny took on the role of Pied Piper.
Today, I observed a slight trait with Gen Z.
They seem overly enthusiastic about catering to the desires of their suitors.
Leaving so many of them with suicidal thoughts,
Words to the youth of today,
Protect your emotions carefully.
Getting a real love reaction is tricky.
The offspring of those vipers carry their father's DNA.
He once thanked Jesus for his fame when he was interviewed with his best friend Keanue Reeves.
In the end, i think, that's what finally clocked him out
As it was a den of vipers. A dark occultic industry.
Maybe in the end the sun really did set
Just in a different way.
River Phoenix always said he hated the industry
And could care less about the fame
But the me now still needs to find a way to release all these thoughts
Purge my brain.
Funny how my favorite number has always been 93
Year of his death and how many miles the sun is far away.
The me now, as i am, grew up better i think.
I look at the life he lived and the family he had
Its no wonder he burnt out early
The way his family thought seemed lost
And his environment poisonous
Choking out the seed with thorns before its maturity.
A rebirth because of his faith is the only thing
That brought his soul out that grave.
They even desecrated his private funeral viewing and took
A picture of his empty husk
Something that may come back to haunt them
As they sold it for just over 4k
That life he\ I had has been wiped clean
Its only now, that im trying to find purpose in a world filled with such division and crushing pain.
I pray to God that he heals us all and delivers us from evil
And all the world's wicked schemes.
Amen.
Great thoughts once kissed my lobes
Before blank despair her flags raised;
And brimless hope reigned as globes
Of full-shining stars in glowing cased.
Now see what dismal desolate shells
Melancholy sulk where dreams stood;
Wherein arid future's unavailing wells
Barren gape amongst vipers’ broods.
Kind heaven upon my oblations smiled
Many long years dead when luck shone,
And winds favorably blew like lilacs wild;
Erst when juvenility lit bright hours gone.
Present times repugnant drown in bile
Hastily milked from some putrid reptile,
Their galling pungency outlasts high grit
Cowards laud in bold battles’ heroic writ.
If fair fortune's rotations should bring
A morsel of past’s elusive sweetness,
I’ll one dozen more grateful carols sing
Than did my lips under boyish harness.