Fire the candle
Crack the day
Light of life
Lift and sway

Up step up steep
Up there lit
Up to where
Archangels sit

Make ready song
Septets and airs
A vital throng
To catch our cares

Make ready step
Make ready light
Make peace within
Give love with might

Call an angel
One then two,
Call to bring
The world anew

Fire the candle
Crack the day
Bring love alive
Make love the way



Martinos © 2017

1...2...3...4
I don't want to be underweight anymore.
My intention was never to go this far you see
But overactive self criticism got the best of me.
Determined to gain life back.
But sometimes put off track
by the illusion of control from my perfectionist mind
I sometimes find myself in a bind
My mind at war
What for?
The voice is not a choice
But recovery is
Constantly resisting the urge to restrict
So I will no longer look sick
Life is tough.
Life is rough.
But if a group of small people can change how I see
I can learn to accept just being me.

I put in the time,
I passed the state test,
Everyone is so proud,
Still, I can care less.

It's time to move forward,
Build up that resume,
Time to start that career,
Instead of sleeping all day.

I can't take the next step,
I'm terrified of change,
I've become paralyzed,
This feeling is strange.

Shouldn't I be happy?
Joyfully motivated in a way?
Excited about tomorrow,
And Seizing the day?

They're expecting great things,
But I just can't persist,
Everyone else is happy,
Except this "pessimist."

once you know something it's hard not to notice it
how his gaze seems to linger
how he hugs her as if he never wants to let go
how he stares just a little too long

how behind his smile
and in his eyes
for a fleeting moment
hopelessness
is all
you
see

There are few things I hate more than watercolor,
I muse to myself
As I sit watching
A rigid man
With the perfect posture, really,
Casually watercolor the coffee shop around him

As if we all are just the backdrop
To a life of routine normality
Succumbing to the occasional confrontation
With hot beats of caffeine--

A subject to be posthumously entombed
Executed marginally
Flattened and kept in a sketchbook
That will,
Most likely,
Be a dust collector given one year's breadth.

The cynic in me
Hopes he mistakes the water cup
For his coffee cup
In his feverish efforts,
Sitting slack and unaware
Right next door.

But unintentionally,
It's the bias
Creeping in.
Secretly,
I've never really been
That *good
at watercolor.

There's a quiet murmuration
Of figments of my imagination
Dreams and broken notions
Feelings and emotions
Swirling and rearranging
Into ever-changing shapes in my mind

There are absent gods and howling dogs
And the broken backs of the poor
While jugglers perform tricks with wealth
As nobody seems to care anymore
Amidst marching boots as children shoot
And hope lies dead on the floor

There seems to be a ghost somewhere
Wandering high in purple mountains
And low in deep green valleys
And this roaming soul may well be
A kind of long lost truth
Inside my hidden mind

                               By Phil Roberts