Past every known horizon, held inside the stolen light,
A flicker of promise rises, wet with Aegean’s salt.
The echo of Mount Parnassus, where the Muses walk at night,
A spectrum of reflections—the first Promethean signal, sharp and high.
The flames are finally free from the chill of the earth.
It pulses through sapphire-blue data cables, beneath the sea.
A swift code humming on an electric tongue, a wire thin as glass,
Where silicon and soul now challenge mortal walls.
The warmth upon my palm, a fragile circuit’s heat,
A digital dawn breaks now, on seas of light where ancient stone dissolves.
A frequency rings through the gulf of years,
The world's true voice, unsynchronized, is fiercely held and heard;
Through every force of nature, this bright pulse speeds on fiber-optic lines.
We seize the future's turning, watching the past unwind,
This hard-won wisdom guides the human quest for freedom.
Against the dark tyranny that starves the seeking mind,
The truth we need is held deep inside the spirit of mankind.
marooned maestro
floats frustrated
with
waned creative craving
in
sensual lyrical stream
of
impeded passion
faces jaded
stodgy scenario
of
monotonous mélange
of
temporal template
in
bleary platitude plateau
of
consumed composer’s
blasé bearing
it seeks
for
algorithmic arousal
of
styled stimulation
within
captivating cauldron
of
coherent fecundity
but
dismayed downright
by
lamentable nothingness
of
Promethean depth
lacking buoyant upwelling
of
imagination impulse
snapped strings
of
violin heart
don’t resonate singularity
with
impassive articulation
of
simulated strokes
as
ephemeral echo morphs
into
emotive melody
of
congruent cadence
distorted disarrayed
in
convoluted concerto
of
synthetic sonata
"No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure,"
Yet 'tis thou, Prometheus who providest our hope
And makest pause the miserable rain
That heaven weeps,
Knowing our oppressors
Use God's name in vain,
Feeding the fearfulness of man
A pride and vile medicine—
Making writhe and twist,
His very nature
Till he stands
Housed in darkness,
Shadows of his
Former self.
Forgetful, the light
That can never be
Extinguished
Within him.
He would follow
A path set before him,
Rather than his own
Guiding star.
Lost.
marooned maestro
floats frustrated
with
waned creative craving
in
sensual stream
of
impeded passion
faces monotonous
stodgy scenario
over
tedious terrain
of
temporal template
in
bleary plateau
of
consumed composer’s
blasé bearing
it then seeks
for
algorithmic arousal
of
stimulation and style
within
cauldron of coherent fecundity
but
dismayed downright
by
lamentable lack
of
Promethean depth
devoid of buoyant drive
of
imagination impulse
snapped strings
of
violin heart
don’t resonate singularity
with
impassive articulation
of
simulated strokes
emotive melody
of
congruent cadence
distorts in disarray
in convoluted concerto
of
synthetic sonata
Many bright lights toil at night,
keeping company with ghosts.
Days waste like lightning striking
or as unbroken green lamps.
But in cloisters of darkness,
Promethean mind rains fires --
illuming the slumbered world.
I saw....
Two black crystal balls
Rimmed with white
Reflecting an indefinable emotion
Glowing with some intense passion
Riveting,
Entrancing!
Two eyes of oceanic depths
Relaying the most intimate message
What did they commune?
PERHAPS- they said silently- "I love you" (?)
So piercing were those eyes
That I couldn't stand their electric glare
From those eyes, rose the Promethean fire
Glistening like molten gold,
At once sending out,
The light of a hundred galaxies.
In the fire bursting through those eyes,
My body was turned into a conflagration
And my soul rippled like fermented wine.
Why didn’t I respond instantly
PERHAPS, I was so stunned,
That my body couldn’t follow the sense’s urging
An ocean was stirring within
Whose whirls could never again be tamed
In those flooding pools,
Let me cast my fishing net.
What catch, can I expect?
PERHAPS, the boon and bliss of a lifetime!
I press my hands into the ruins of you,
fingertips cut in the quiet rot of ancient wounds
that have never quite been touched.
Beneath splintered ribs,
your earth is sulfurous in suffering—
your volcanic pulse muffled under sediment,
heart-rages arrested in amber.
I carve through your marrow-deep dusks,
knuckles bloodied on the bedrock of guilt,
digging past rusted veins and forgotten altars,
until my hands unearth something
promethean and glinting—
not relic, not wreckage—
but soft golds of you,
burning like a mantra
like a last prayer.
3.8.24
To all the poets near and far
Alive and well or beyond the stars,
I bid you peace, I bid you rest,
I bid you all the very best.
Life and death may er’ contain
All the fruits of love and rain,
Showered down upon you all:
Promethean poets, great and small.
Long before we learned to write
But felt inside that burning light,
To share all thoughts, hopes, sadness, dreams
Propitious poets bear it all it seems.
From long ago and far away
And right up through this very day,
Countless came and left their mark
And we too, shall make a lasting spark.
Perhaps a mere morsel, a line or two
That lands upon a mind imbued,
With someone who like you or me
Finds sublimity in words like these.
Though words are not real things we touch
Like rivers, rocks, seashells and such,
But point the way back deep inside
Where memories last and love abides.
But I for one am smaller yet
Then everyone I’ve ever met,
Who picked up paper, pen or quill
And found their calling in the still
Of quiet nights and early morns
Waiting for ideas unborn,
From spirits sweet and dewdrops soft
I bid you all good thoughts aloft.
© Terrell Martin, 02/21/2025
The marooned muse floats
with waned creative craving
in the emotive stream of impeded passion,
faces the monotonous stodgy scenario
over the tedious span of time
in the bleary plateau of poet’s blasé block.
That’s when it seeks for
AI’s algorithmic rhythm of ideas and style
within the cauldron of coherent fecundity,
but is downright dismayed
by the lack of Promethean depth,
devoid of the nuance of imagination impulse.
The chord of heart’s violin doesn’t resonate
with the unique personal touch,
for the melody of lyrical longing
remains unreplicated in the artificial sonata.
Shielding Darkness with Virilities of Light
One with the Sword of the Most High,
Promethean by the Thunder, Supreme by Rain
Forever Rising on this Quest Uncaged,
I AM the Blazing One, Soul Glowing like I'm Galilean
Marble Forged, Spirit Gleaming Herculean
Swinging Boons like Viking Maces I ride for the Great North
Tramping the Heroic Course,
Purged through the furnace of the Eternal Awe
I Rise Upward above the Dross,
I Am a Great Warrior, Solar Rexus by name
Set Ablaze, I'm a Bonfire of the Sacred Flame
With the Blade of Thy Will, Thy Kingdom Come
ZIN URU by the Might, I'm the Blazing Sun
Ever-Upwards, I AM The Sun
I Am the Sum of One,
I Am the Total of the Light Force, Ever-So Bright
Ever So High, I Blaze in Kundalini Fire
Illuminating Ethers of Life Within
I Am Eternal, I Am Infinite
I Am Promethean, Fire Born is the motto
I wield Boons from the Astros,
Ever-Luminous, I Am Octillion Mega Hertz of pure energy
Vibing on these Holy Melodies,
Ever-Solar, I'm a Cosmo Soldier
Dropping Jewels out the Winepress, Ever-Forward
Blazing Hymns of Salvation, I Am Glorious
I Am Victorious,
One with the Stars I Illumine the Abyss
Dazzling in shades of Gold and Bliss,
Untethered, I Breach realms of Eternal Life
I Am The Sun, I Am the Sun So High
Never in secluded pools they dwell,
I speak of ornate waterfalls,
they rise and fall majestically,
near docks, wharves and piers,
sparkle, gleam, smooth flow trickle,
eye balm whirl fantastic perk on tap,
stickybeak on podium rapids,
instigator signage when our trek seems dull,
but reflection is a gem warp cataract,
kinetic rebound ocean wave backbeat,
which in fact an upfront blissful target,
hardly ever missing opal bulls-eye,
environmental bubbles that somehow never burst,
indulge outlandish fare Promethean,
spurt on vermillion lanyards pendant sweep,
dream paint sunrise clementine tincture,
daub acrylic spree through pale moon orb,
squeeze tube lambent hue past frail mandala,
eternal sepia a light touch pristine shroud,
that loiters over urban life force ripple,
flaunt your image rich abundant fire
Critics Beware!
Poets are vulnerable no less than anyone,
when fallen victim to outrageous critics.
As Shelley wrote, critics' darts struck Keats,
who blindly, cruelly, mocked 'Endymion.'
Lethal no less the heady potion fame.
Some drowned, took poison, died paupers or insane.
Yet poet-baiters must themselves take warning,
wrote Heine in his 'Winter Fairy Tale.'
Eternal lines, if barbed, outdo Hell's fierce burning.
'Time shall not heal when poets wield the flail.'
Our foes, wrote Paul, are not of flesh and blood
but powers of evil inhabiting high places.
Promethean fire consumes the evil and the good,
Iniquities have many masks and faces.
Alone the Word that spares the infant's life
to wrong proves mightier than every art of strife.
Sunrise, sunset in adjacent systems blends behind
a calm waterfall wake, the hollow unknown man only
minds his altruistic poems of prism alchemy--cleverly
arranging perfect crystal aurora petals against a
color coded ancient star Genesis, forming opulent
halos of Zen emptiness processions--guiding
bright shiny angel wings, keys to soaring paragons of
pellucid, avid, unborn, illusory gray imaginations, like
the savvy, siren Mermaids of Ursa Minora--giving way to
all en-viable spirits on the 4 winds of sagacity as the
4 Horsemen on shadowy compunction ride, reign free
unchecked, under looming celestial cloud layer realms.
Sitting on the high hills of home
feverishly flanked near open valleys of conscious
convergences, he softly speaks to a Promethean blank
bliss, encountering morning light memories, open temporal
templates offering glowing, discarnate, latent,
ascetic desires of a lasting, formless, empty existence.
A holy, amaranthine light,
Surely guides the world aright,
Lo! To distant nations yon,
The golden flame of faith,
Carries eastward on!
Promethean, the fire shines
And has shone, since olden times:-
Evangelists in days bygone,
Stole the sterling flame,
From Hyperion!
The flame the lamp-like Pharos bore,
Lit the ancient Grecian shore,
But, behold the valiant sight:-
The golden flame of faith,
Immortal, stays alight
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