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Martin Hunter
Martin Hunter
Mar 2, 2013

I am here and it is the day after.
I lift a pile of unread mail off of a chair and open the blinds,
And watch the sun boil the dust in the air. I set and I take it in.

The room smells of old corsets and perfumed talcum powder.
An antique Lady Schick Consolette hair dryer
Hides partly obscured under the heavy frame of the carved mahogany bed
Along with stacks of magazines and catalogs and…………
God knows what else lurks there.

And I realize that I am the only one now lurking,
Looking into a room that had been forbidden to me
The soul domain of the lady of the house.

But she in not here to make things tidy for this impromptu visit.
She would be so shamed by my eyes taking this all in,
Her secrets, her pills, her special candies, her oils, her perfumes -
All of the alchemical accruements of femininity in jars and tiny boxes.

And the symbols of her wizardry, her diamond encrusted Eastern Star ring,
Pendants, broaches, earrings, necklaces, bobbles, bracelets, clasps, loose pearls-
From a strand I broke long ago during happier days.

The sun dust boils from this cauldron now,
This stuffy, over stuffed chamber of perfume and chocolate,
Of daybeds and special treatments, laxatives, gels, powered and pills.
I dream…..a can of gas and a match would be a fitting end

And then I see it on the dresser, an old photo of a family, a pretend family
And a face is cut out of it, his face…….and so I feel, for a moment
Her pain and see the world has she may have seen it. So be it.  It is done.

Martin Hunter
Martin Hunter
Aug 18, 2012

If you fall, I bruise.
If you’re cut, I bleed.
If you want, I shan’t refuse.
If you follow, I will lead.
And if you lead, I will follow you
No matter where you go.
No valley is too far to pursue
My blue wild indigo.

Martin Hunter
Martin Hunter
Jul 14, 2012

In one smooth motion
she sheathed me
complete.
her vise like legs
tightly wrapped,
her nails dug deep.
passion pain overlapped
with heat.
there would be no
retreat.

Martin Hunter
Martin Hunter
Jun 21, 2012

Old men that stink of gin
with brown stains of chew
oozing at the corners of their
unshaven smile
Raise their twinkling eyes to you
As you saunter slowly by.
And suddenly they are
Twenty now with winks
And nods and memories
Of the by and by.

Martin Hunter

Martin Hunter
Martin Hunter
Jun 20, 2012

Lightning strikes a jagged path
through the sky and it leaves
no scar behind.

Seas parts a fleet of ships
Then seals itself as if they were
never there.

But the earth keeps a history of old wounds
Cut by rivers,
scared by ice.

Passions stored at its core erupt
and tensions at the edge
crack and shake.

The mountain holds the sky,
the harbor holds the sea,
what holds all is me.

Martin Hunter
Martin Hunter
Jun 2, 2012

Pollywogs and dragonflies
Salamander slime
Some are dreamt and summer schemes.

Mud Daubers on the cattails
Catfish on the hook
Crawl daddy in the cranny.

Crickets with backward knees
Buzzing honey bees
Poets of a summer dream.

Martin Hunter

Martin Hunter
Martin Hunter
May 15, 2012

It is an old dream
I am passing slowly down a sidewalk looking across
A long green lawn.
There is a gathering crowd, some sounds of alarm.
An old man lies on the ground
His face in shadow from of those that stand around.
But he does not move.
He has come to this quiet place and decided to move no more.
But he is moved.
They come and not in any hurry.  No urgency.
He is lifted to the gurney
As limp as a rag doll. They cover him and strap him secure
And walk back
Toward the house that stands dark and tall
At the end of this dream
At the end of that long green lawn.
Martin Hunter
5/14/2012

 
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