by Richard Martin

A Poem for Dr. Blossom
In Memoriam Peter Kidd

There’s a time when the mind grows silent,
finds metaphysics in birds chirping in trees,
light dancing on leaves in a gentle breeze.
Years ago, you put me on your plant crew,
in your words, because I handled them
like they were alive as I unloaded lilacs
from your truck.  That was a start.

I needed to dig into the earth, smell it,
get bit by black flies —
only the earth could heal my mind.
The flowers and bees, the blossoms
all around us had for centuries perfected
the best therapeutic techniques.
The mind had to get dirty, sweat /swear
to become visible to itself.

Cancer found your body four years ago.
Your fight to beat it was fierce
and full of grace.
Two times in the Texas heat,
we sat on your porch, considered
your prized roses.  A damselfly
found the tip of one of your
fingers, resting briefly.
Life in the visible world is brief.

You spoke of two other worlds
you inhabited besides the visible one.
Everybody who loved you knew
you were a triple threat.
You said that your spirit was an acrobat
in the second world, a high-flying soul

that came to earth many times before.
Death did not intrude on the eternal
or the communion among souls.

We probably shared some poems;
I know you rolled a joint.
The sun packed its gear
as stars dropped into sight.
A chill called for a blanket on your knees.
Nothing could stop you.
You tugged at your beard and smiled.

The third world was neither visible
nor spiritual.  It was not binary.
The polar tension between matter and spirit
did not apply.  That gig was up.
This world contained all worlds,
all matter, all souls, entering
the body via breath, one inhalation
and one exhalation at a time.

You toked heavy on the joint;
I watched the smoke exhaled from your lungs,
curl into the air and vanish.
Something like that, you said.
It was time to retire — an 8-hour treatment
scheduled for tomorrow.
“There may be a fourth world,” you said,
opening the screen door.  “But for now,
walk under the stars, my friend.”

by Peter Kidd

odd how the lower ego
can’t function
with even an average ant’s share
of suffering

and yet those born
feeling everyone’s feelings
seem to have an unending threshold
forever

on potential
imagine if Microsoft
let an actual writer
be on the design board
of its next version of Word

the soul is that magical invisible organ
that gives us individuality
even in states of Oneness

the Waltz of becoming the Father

with so many baby souls being born
all around us
crackling with cosmos

as a reward
we freeze “our generation”
as reality

shall I bring in Shakespeare’s clowns

I love Kim Kardashian
for sharing with me
her image
the brand I can do without
have I spoken to you
about the glorious songs
of the Winter birds
while sitting on the porch
or, how the neighborhood dogs
add the baseline
when they are quiet

a long time ago
I gave up silence
the closest I could get
was a faint ringing
in my ears
yes dead science
even has a name for that

though once
I heard
Joshua blow his horn

behind door one
is 7 years in the desert

behind door two
a thorn in your side

behind door three
an allergy to olives

why does my heresey
tickle me
so damn much

that
and the fact that
“I am your Huckleberry”

On will:
when used to help is okay
when used to manipulate will bring
grave consequences
so think first
in an indelible fashion

there can be only so many bulls
in the arena
so, of course nut cutting makes sense

I came to dance
but
no one showed
could it have been the wrong night
but it felt so succinct

I found a tidbit of peace
once I got it
we are all uniquely wired

making even the simplest of truth
like love
extremely difficult to navigate

was there ever
an historical time
when neurosis
and arrogance
didn’t run the show

and of course good art
breaks the mold
of everyday life
if only by capturing it
with a keener eye

not to mention
the power of imagination
as gateway to children.

1/8/14, Canyon, TX
From upcoming The Human Condition (Spuyten Duyvil Publishing)