Conch shell sea gem and sea snail
Horn held tone gyrates the tritonis trumpet
Note blown ending battles on a splinted scale
Epitome depictions make cameo’s regret
Emergent higher seas, onward this ship shall sail
Tidal wave warnings of an uprising onset
Cute Little Sea Snail
From this cute little shell,
you made your home.
You take it with you,
wherever you roam.
So lovely as it is,
it is also so sad.
There is only room for one,
No husband, no wife, no mother, nor dad.
And when your children come to sup
Where shall the Hors d’Oeuvres go?
There’s no room to dine,
And no hanging place for photos to show.
“Are you lonely,” is my question to you.
Because when visiting hours are over without a clock that chimes
You take your welcome mat and leave
And you leave nothing behind.
by Martin Braun
January 5, 2024
I feel translucent
a man of marble skin
as if dreaming my motions
every step a tread in water
each reach of my hand
a ghost grip touches
but nothing holds and yet
I clutch these stones and
iron spear barricades
as a sea-snail would the bedrock
for this is my folly
to hug close the masonry of charity
I feel nothing
no remorse runs down my arms
to my useless wrists
no rage
twists my mouth into rabid snarl
no pleasure lifts my face
from the footfalls
of those celestial beings
bustling above
not even a soaked black wall
on which I am a shadow
penetrates my deadened hide
I feel grotesque
I am a gargoyle of flesh and bone
sown into the fabric of these
towers with closed doorways
that form broken arch homes
for broken things
but
no longer am I broken
I have embraced
the cold and hunger
of my mouth and my soul
I am free of this place
Yet
here I am still
here for you to see
if you can stomach
to see me
From The Pagan Field (print 1996, eBook 2013) available FREE until 15 Nov. at
http://www.amazon.com/The-Pagan-Field-extended-E-ebook/dp/B00F395DAU
I feel translucent
a man of marble skin
as if dreaming my motions
every step a tread in water
each reach of my hand
a ghost grip touches
but nothing holds and yet
I clutch these stones and
iron spear barricades
as a sea-snail would the bedrock
for this is my folly
to hug close the masonry of charity
I feel nothing
no remorse runs down my arms
to my useless wrists
no rage
twists my mouth into rabid snarl
no pleasure lifts my face
from the footfalls
of those celestial beings
bustling above
not even a soaked black wall
on which I am a shadow
penetrates my deadened hide
I feel grotesque
I am a gargoyle of flesh and bone
sown into the fabric of these
towers with closed doorways
that form broken arch homes
for broken things
but
no longer am I broken
I have embraced
the cold and hunger
of my mouth and my soul
I am free of this place
Yet
here I am still
here for you to see
if you can stomach
to see me
AS FAR AS YOU CAN GO ON FOOT
At journey’s end you find a barren shore.
By staff, seven hundred miles and more –
and here’s no living trace, no monument.
No legendary table, eight chairs meant
to quell a family squabble. Those who swore
to peace are gone – to graves, if not to war.
What words of peace withstand the ocean’s bore?
The sea racks up on rock, its tidings spent.
At journey’s end
you fill your pockets – what, with shells? a store
of spiraled hope some living creature wore.
It’s dead – the sea-snail, not the hope. Content
to stand and gaze beyond man’s failed intent –
what might you make now of a rope, an oar
at journey’s end?
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