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Martin Hunter Jul 2011
Welcome to the world of the quiet mind.

Though chaos reigns in every province

He that resists not the intrusion

Can be at peace.

This is not a “shutting off” or “shutting out”,

Not an inner room guarded by a maze of walled battlements,

A coveted refuge where one can hid.

This is a world that exist in plain sight

Even as horns and shouts and cries collide

In cacophonous furry all around.

Clinging to nothing, resisting nothing, threatened by nothing,

Opposing nothing, advocating nothing,

But witnessing everything as it is -

The world of the quiet mind.
Martin Hunter Aug 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 Jun 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 Jul 2011
There is just the two of us in this nest.
The world beyond is a fog, a dimly lit apparition.
It cannot intrude, though the threat is always present.
We, locked in embrace, hear the agony of the world
Filtered though the sounds of our hearts.
It is a distant music that mingles the cry of a baby,
A radio from the flat above, and the sounds of the street below.
We may hear it but we do not care to know it.

There is just the two of us in this nest.
Although small and contained, within us it spreads,
Like a blanket of stars on the night sky,
A universe of bliss that is greater than anything we can know.
We, locked in embrace, feel this inner universe expand
Filling every void in our lives, soothing every nerve ending
Within our trembling bodies. Someone might hear our moans
But, for us, absorbed within this moment, the world is deaf.

There is just the two of us in this nest.
The outside world will, soon enough, break this spell.
There will be a knock on the door, a phone will ring,
A debt collector will post a bill and stomp off.
Someone will throw a rock against the window pane.
We will, soon enough, relinquish this peaceful union
And join the chaos of the world we have tried to forget.
But for now, to hell with them all.  There is only the two of us.
Martin Hunter Jun 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 Jul 2011
What deep spring feeds these tears that flood my eyes?
What well of emotion have I tapped that surges up
And leaves me chasing for my breath?
What unspeakable thing have I done
That has brought me to my knees?
This place, what is it called?
Where is the path back;
The path forward?
Am I lost
Or not?
Oleander
Stands ahead
Looking back at me,
A love sick creature destined
For the protection of her menagerie.
Oh, all creatures great and small, that suffer
From the insults of a world that has no time for love
Have in her home a sanctuary. I am just the latest refugee.
Martin Hunter Jul 2011
Picasso stood at the window looking at the shape of things to come.
A rage was building is his belly. Sharp remarks he made to his lover
Were eating at his gut.  She was useless to him now.
Stained by tears, she could not see him now. She would never understand him.
He was doing her a favor by leaving her.
Tomorrow her mother would come to collect her.
It would be a good day to visit his printer, he thought.
One woman crying and another screaming at him would be too much.

Late that night he came to her door and stood outside listening.
He felt like walking in and wordlessly taking her.
He knew she would submit.  But then, the act would make him soft.
Could he have her and still throw her out the next day?
He stood listening and thought.
Picasso, yes.  Picasso could do this and would do this.

But the moment passed.
The image of a bull folded on the arena floor bleeding out.
His face was that bull’s face.
In celebration of this tragedy he would stay
Locked away in his studio painting his sins
Without remorse and in willful defiance.

The next day the mother came.
He met her in the driveway.  He kissed her
And pressed her to him.
“You sent me a child” he said.
“Take her away and then return alone.”
Martin Hunter Jun 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 Jul 2011
A single bloom opened up
Too soon, at the early edge of spring
Too close to winter’s end.
I knew it would not last the night
A killing frost was on the way.
I could pick it now and seal its fate
Or leave it for the frost to take.
To die from plucking,
Or die by frost…..
Pluck it.
Martin Hunter Mar 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 May 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
Martin Hunter Jul 2011
The 15th Day of the Seventh Moon**

In the court of the Jade King, on the day of the ghost moon
The general of the northern region was taking tea with the King.
Before them was a large map of the realm.

They talked in hushed tones.
Green tea was poured from a golden ***.
Bowls of rice and fish were spread before them.

Just before dawn the general of the western region arrived.
He removed his armor with pain.
A court physician attended to his wounds.

He was escorted into the great hall
Past the guarded rooms of the inner chamber
Into the war room.

He knelt on left side of the King.  He spoke,
“The armies of mountain kingdoms will not come to our  aid.”
“We can not wait for a change of heart.” The King relied.

“How did you come by your wounds?”  The King inquired.
“I crossed the great river at the summer camp
And was set upon by a Han scouting party”.  He replied.

The sun was starting to rising in the east.
And a western breeze
Carried the hint of burning pine.
Martin Hunter Jul 2011
The Abby Well**

Rahu, old sage of Wu Tai Shan,
Stood by the Great Doors of the Abby.
His dog slept at his feet.

The wood gatherers were descending from the mountain
Their carts piled high with kindling.
They stopped to draw water from the Abby well.

One woodsman spoke up.
“Hey old man, why is the armies of the north
Encamped on the west wall?”

“I have not been so informed until now” Rauh replied.
“Let me ask my dog Ketv.”
The dog arose and stretched its back.

“My dog is also ill informed.” he said.
“I thought you were the sage, old man.”
The woodsmen laughed.

“Is it your dog that speaks to you?
Let me hear his wise advice”.
“He will not speak except to me.” replied Rauh.

“The old monk’s dog barks at the moon. What does it mean?”
A woodsman mocked.
Refreshed the woodsmen left laughing and barking like dogs.

Soon thereafter Ketv began to sniff the air becoming very excited
“Go fetch the wandering monk of Wu Tai Shan,” Rayh implored,
“And I will stoke the fire and prepare tea.”

Soon the wanderer came into sight, thin, clad in rags,
With weathered skin and shining eyes.
“ You need not have sent Ketv to lead me back” he shouted from the Abby gate.

“I can not deny a dog his duty,
I can not lead those that will not follow.
Come here and bless this shrine with your wisdom” thus spoke Rayh.
Martin Hunter Aug 2011
The wall is not a wall at all.
It’s the farmer’s labor
To **** the land of stone,
To stack at the edges
Out of the way of plow and hoof.

It is not to be alone
That he has labored so.
He is not aloof.
He hath not airs and graces.
No man is more soiled than he.

So let him be. At the end of his days
He stands with weary limbs
Bent by toil and wrought by strain
As clouds roll into view black
And swollen with a summer’s rain.
Martin Hunter Jul 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 Aug 2011
You and I go way back before time was invented,
Before the before.
You and I go deep into the smallest of the small,
The very parts of the ALL.

And we are beyond the beyond,
Over the edge, over the top
Gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha

We are here and we are now
And we always was and always will be.

We are that which remains
After all else is destroyed.

We are before the beginning and after the end.
There is no place where we are not.

We are at the center
Of the vast emptiness of space
As it resides in the heart, on the end of pin.
We are without and we are within.

You look in the mirror and you see me.
I look in the mirror and I see you.
There is no space between us
Because the “us” is the grand illusion
That resolves into one.

And so, shall we play?

Martin Hunter 8/14/2011

— The End —