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Poetry

The Return of the Prodigal

after Henri Nouwen’s studyof Rembrandt’s paintingof Christ’s parable I look at the handsembracing            clutching               caressing                 the hands I can only seebecause Rembrandt saw them for me  the hands as seenin the light            Nouwen shone on themhis power of suggestion  & insightmaking me wonder how I’d viewthem on my own The younger son in meabsorbs their reassuring firmness the elder                only considers my place & the father I am                though a faintimitation               is dancing
D.S. Martin
April 29, 2019
Poetry

Crevices & Crannies

for the Sons of Korah (Psalm 84) Swallows swoop across the courtyard well above the notice of those alonefacing stone robed in black They flit & fly & loop back disappearing into gaps in the wall well above the reach or concern of those pushing paper prayers into every crack Before Mohamed’s people built their domebefore his Jerusalem dream Rome had destroyed the temple not one stone left upon anotherBefore Herod built on the rubble Nebuchadnezzar had knocked the temple…
D.S. Martin
April 12, 2019
Poetry

Silver moon

You have my heart which is similar to the moon’s grip on this night Dark branches reach high to embrace the sky waters bulge       in the curve of an eye   She slips from behind clouds      & then slides out of sight    The chapel on the corner stands secure     stained glass glowing in moonlight   An unseen violin plays in the dark I want to love you       like its strings love to sing    like Christ loves the church      like those…
D.S. Martin
February 28, 2018
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On the Brink of Niagara

MARCH 2012: POETRY by D. S. Martin You & I have stood on the brink of Niagara many times & so we know  like Coleridge  a waterfall can be sublime not merely pretty & of all the waterfalls on earth some are more majestic  more picturesque & grand  more worth the praise  more deserving of the description  We've worn raincoats within reach of the descending water's spray  & on the boat Maid of the Mist  & kissed  as if to…
D.S. Martin
October 30, 2014
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Poems by D.S. Martin

The Pump at the End of the Lane I remember the sound of the pump at the end of our cottage lane braying like a donkey singing like an old man who knows only two notes We would pump & pump until rewarded with the gush we knew would come because it always did four kids taking turns cupping hands while another worked the lever filling our throats with icy pangs of pleasure splashing each other & running from getting…
D.S. Martin
August 1, 2006