Category: Poetry

Big Trucks

When I enter big trucks
& I look at My students
I am proud

I don’t want to leave them
I don’t want to admit
That my Ego is stroked
When they learn something from Me
But I know why I help them
It feels good to be in demand
It feels great to chisel
At a problem like a sculptor
Seeing the end result
Before it manifests
In My students

I want to continue, but the pay sucks
It sucks at my Ego
Because I am being taken advantage of
Because my Employers know
That I like teaching
They use my desire like a pen
They write My ticket
And underpay me
Because I am transparent

They see the buzz I get
From My students’ success
And they plug the top hole with a cork
But now, I am fizzing
I’ve hidden my agenda in subtle notes
But I’ve been jostling Myself
On endless possibilities &
I’m ready to push upward
I’m ready to be poured into glass
That is not beveled at the top.

SJM, February 20th, 2023

Waiting for an apple to fall up

I eat the round raisins
     like dipped chocolates
     inside a capsized shovel
[spilling softly the meat
                of the streets
                left hanging branches]

A ball gown designed
     inside the spotty periods
     between a & z—
a cutlered set of pie petals
reapportioned amongst the digital
inevitable.

So softly the weeping...
[kept inside waiting
                  golden &
solemn      &     chaste
like a special puppy]

Understand the concept
Of liberty
Without boxes
Rulers
Pops...

Instead a dangerous civility
Where transgressions meet brute force
& the certainty of what is right
[plus the time
future time
all the time
waiting for an apple to fall up]

Stephen Martin, 6/10/2021

Or Today

The paltry eyes of loons with spoons
  attached to the whimble of sight
   O night, the sighted beast–
   Your shores of darkness
speak endlessly.

And, misrepresented all, we seek to
  whither and waste our youth on
  schemes and things;
  underscoring our simplicities
  while we bask, slack jawed &
  undiscovered, in the mismatched
sock drawer of our lives.

But we, never giving up—
  grab the cup, again & again
  hoping to hold our breaths for long
  enough, to wake from a sleeping grip;
  for the lives we sell ourselves–
Short sales all.

O we, young in blood, innocent to harm,
  drifting, ever drifting toward the fumes
  of our demise;
  how we despise our circling backs
  bent after rigid courses we do not set!
How much longer? How much longer–
  are the hours we flush?

And, the dreams are growing still
  after every passing lawnmower,
  after every new week of growth–
And what for? What for?
The children? The children?
  they are grown into their castes before
  their first diapers are changed;
  their hope is a golden chain
unraveled like umbilical cords at their
mothers’ feet.

O we the wretched few–
What are we to do with tomorrow,
Or today?

Stephen Martin, 5/31/2021

sisyphus no more

the grieving winds
  slow the pace
  of progress;
lighted bends
slick with your spittle
caresses of the wilderness

broken bodies
scarlet past
smoking my worries
in a manufactured liquid
uh! the seepage is disparaging
  clues of newness
  bisect tears
held at bay with bewilderment;
so slow the progress
so unorganized
so blue

the words are soft
like spoken kisses
drubbing at my staleness
prodding at my inertia
  making a lull
  tying a knot

pushing the boulder
is kind of exhausting
  maybe i’ll let it roll...
  watching passively
expecting nothing
just watching

and then i will pick my eyes up.

Image Source

energy bed

electrons sizzle and crackle
  in the spent out beds of my pockets
dynamos of pottables
decisions, decisions

and nighttime
when the moon is my friend
  i back my guitar into a
  softened kiss

speaking, but not singing
feeling all the while

and outside
on my street
a quiet repeat

Stephen Martin, 4/15/2021

Image Source

The Long Man

The long man can not follow me
I’ve led him off the path.
He’s busy guiding fools
To humbly wear a mask
He’s using all his tools
Formulating tasks
But the long man can not follow me
I don’t rely on “facts”.

The long man’s lost my scent again
He had it for a while.
His tapestry had tempted me
So I marked it at the mile
He piped a tune I found quite nice
As I listened in the meadow
But the long man lost my scent again
When he picked up on my fellow.

The long man is a busy guy
He’s got a lot of cattle.
He laughs a lot and scoffs a lot
At all the mindless prattle
He’s busy sorting fools in groups
It is a constant battle
So the long man’s lost my scent again
He’ll wait for sheep to tattle
Yes, the long man’s lost my scent again
But he hears the faintest rattle.


Stephen Martin, 4/4/2021
Source

Daffodils And Children: Poem By Stephen Martin

Image by congerdesign from Pixabay

Daffodils And Children

The end of all the chatter starts
With lines of daffodils.
And breaks upon a patterned step
Beneath the window sills.
The light of spring brings yellow bloom
To wake palatial spread.
The melancholy winter has been
Firmly laid to bed.

Bikes and things are dusted off
And taken into view.
Children with their wild mops
Are sprouting legs of blue.
Play time sings her song again
As the world awakes to cheer.
Eyes are popping at the seams
With every brightened spear.

Moms and dads remember when
They were small and new.
Boys and girls with apetites
Unfettered through and through.
Life is there for all to touch
And kiss the lips so cherry.
Each soul feels the stirring such
That each soul will be merry!

Stephen Martin, 3/2/2021

The Hesitation

If I stop to wonder
  at the light flowing cat
  peeking corners
star stabbed with anticipation,

then I must refuse;
over powered by soft banes
  cloistered in ineptitude.

Instead I will dream
candelabras of jellyfish
  jars of delight
shining orange in the night

And you—
the cyclical killer of fun
  can lambaste my jargon
  ripping shreds
  puncturing
miracles
making me weep my dreams
                        into pillows of smoke.

Stephen Martin, 3/31/2021