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Lydia Martin Poems
What the eye can see, is it really there? Where are the clouds on sunny days When dew buds glisten wet with haze? Is there really a lark in the clear air?
Dusty lanes like roads once travelled Hold lasting lines of seamless dreams. Paths of hope and future fancies Twist and wind like rivers and streams.
Wipe Away My Tears
Wipe away my tears with your words of old, Dry eyes closed and alone will never fill; As statues breathing cannot warm stone cold.
Forever the truth Of one who is never lost Shall live within you.
Shifting tunnels of facelessness Curve through mottled landscapes. Discolouration of winter Brings shape to smiles of grey.
March To The Scaffold
Chimes again the executioners bell. Toll of longing, call from hell. Chimes again the voice of passion. Words of fire, inflamed desire.
Black star bolt Clap of light Trigger of day Paling with night.
Where is the stare of the lidless eye? Why is the moon beneath the sky? Watery lights of deep entrenchment, Give way to crystal foundations,
Streets Of Lust
Keys of depravity chime within Like earths eternal sin. Painted masks of unloved dolls Share the street with men of honour.
City In Motion
Wheels of motion Flirt through streets of lust, Denying direction and thrusting forth. Uncharted senses taking hold of metallic shards.
One lost tenor is all it takes. Last laughter of a key once missed. Chimes again the last vestige.
Steel bonds unravel their tangled twists. Lost book of ages flung open wide. Velvet curtain of masked destruction, Lies shredded,
The Demise Of Feeling
Inert. Slowly still. Empty. Slowly draining.
A Quick Finale
Shaft of rain. Split instant wept. Crash of tears. Lies alone,
Comments about Lydia Martin
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
What the eye can see, is it really there?
Where are the clouds on sunny days
When dew buds glisten wet with haze?
Is there really a lark in the clear air?
Where does the sky become the sea,
When shards of glass set wild waves free?
Are there thoughts behind a reflected stare?
What do they see within the glass
When shadows watch you bold as brass?
How can the eye see in the sun's harsh glare?
Whilst dust whips the wind through your mind
And sands of time stand totally blind.