Home » Poems » Best » Jill Martin » Best Jill Martin Poems

Best Poems Written by Jill Martin

Below are the all-time best Jill Martin poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Jill Martin Poem

Sea Songs

His heart is with the winds
that set his spirit free,
enduring breeze that sets the sails
and guides him out to sea.

Sea rover fair with eyes as blue
as ocean’s deepest depth,
he hails the morning mist
and keenly sets about his quest.

The sea songs call his name again,
and he cannot resist
the feel of sea spray on his face
gentle as a fair maiden’s kiss.

For wanderlust has this young lad,
no port to claim his own,
he stands upon a galleon’s bow
forever meant to roam.

Oh noble buccaneer,
with a poet’s heart to feed,
he leaves behind fair lassie
with eyes of Erin green.

For pieces of eight
and gold doubloons to spare,
he sails into the early fog,
hungry for adventure is our gallant corsair.

So she waits upon the rocks
of far and distant shore,
with faithful heart and purity
sure he’ll sail to her once more.

She keeps a lantern in the window,
it’s flame burning bright,
a lighthouse in the darkness
to guide him on foggy night.

He fancies himself a pirate
sailing under blackened flag,
the skull and cross bones waves above,
a sailor’s nightmare, a soiled rag.

But our mariner sails the briny deep
with dreams of tales to forever pass,
and perhaps a shiny nugget
to bring home to his fair lass.

But oh, the days are salty
with ne’er a puff of breeze to slake
the raging thirst befallen those
with sweet water naught to take.

In the ensuing days ~

the crew went mad,
the captain slain,
and the scuppers ran with blood.
Our handsome sea farer lay face down
in the awful flood.

The boat rocked listless in gentle swells,
the sails lay flat against the main.
The bounteous treasure long forgotten,
glittering heap of ill gotten gains.

As weeks and months and years passed by,
and winters turned to springs,
our once fair lassie, wiser now,
no longer dreams such things

as bonnie lads that set sail home
and take a faithful wife,
as he learned there’s naught to gain
from such a roguish way of life.

Her pretty face is creased now,
lined from worry and age,
her shiny locks tinted
with silver and gray,

She walks along the shoreline
on a bright summer’s day,
shiny rocks and seashells
she gathers from the bay.

The pretty tinkling of glass
on the rocks draws her near
as a bottle lies bobbing
in the shallows so clear.

The cork it is swollen
and waterlogged there,
but what lies inside
she can hardly bear.

A ruby as red as the blood of life,
and a note that simply read . . .

“Lassie, may I take you for my wife.”

Details | Jill Martin Poem

Debts Paid

Pieced together thin slices
like a slivered moon
mosaic
cobbled snapshots of splendor and pain

Fractured glints of crashed boundaries
uncollected past dues
mingled souls’ shredded fabric
a patchwork insane

shimmered moonglow does knock on
your window each night
poke your nose through the fog
and unlock the safety chain

Details | Jill Martin Poem

Consider This

Have you considered the one at your side?

He who holds your hand in a dark theater
shares his popcorn
pushes the cart in the grocery store
changes the oil

snores when exhausted
plans for retirement
does the dishes when you cook
loves it when you invite him to shower
with you

hugs you when you don’t understand
why you’re crying
He doesn’t know either, but knows
from experience, that it works
and that he needs to just shut up and rub
your head

The one who warms your side of
the bed
when you arrive at a running leap
sans panties

The one who vacuums, not to your standards,
but in an effort to help out
so he can spend some time with you

Consider life without.

Is that what you want?
Because there are others who would
treasure him.

Details | Jill Martin Poem

Chemo Fun

Sitting in the backseat ~ yackety
she drives like
    crackers ~ wackedy
speeding to the movies?
we can’t be late?
Driver ahead asleep at the
    light
panic stop she makes ~ 5 seatbelts lock
But the 
backlash! ........... flying wig
plops smack in my lap . . . .
Screaming fits of laughter all around.
Late to the movies after all,
    not nearly as good.




Dedicated to my friend, Kate.
Breast cancer survivor.

Details | Jill Martin Poem

In Defense of Poetry

How else to tell you
	of the movement of
the universe that sets my world to tilt?

Where spatial acuity and intuitive thinking fall down
and weep
at the feet of blank spaces and odd numbers begging
direction

I scratch for description of the structure of blue ink
on pulp paper . . .
the humidity of black seas on windless nights,
	the way my lips sometimes speak
in dry dust

For the latitude of line and length, the way I like
how they intersect, conjoin,
tear apart . . . forever changed
yet spent
of further locution

And still I dream
I can hear the world
running out of time and tolerance for
small words
. . .  for small minds ~

The measure of meter and moments
sit in whimpering, drying ink
falling off the edge of sense and
sensibility

How else to tell
you
       who cannot hear?

Details | Jill Martin Poem

To Snow and Angel Dust

She bounced right off the inkling
                             . . . . . . . . .   golden rings and tinker bells winking
                                                                on tiny toes zzzzzzzzinging
                through the galaxies spinning
                             . . . . . . . . .  aglitter aflicker ~ her heart
                                                                atwist amidst anticipating ...
                on Halley’s comet tail she flew
                             . . . . . . . . .  in the genius of a snowflake parade
                                                                 in search ... in search
                                                       . . . . . of something he once said
                to the atmosphere on a cloudy
                             . . . . . . . . .  day
                                                      over rooftops flurried in December snow
                in a glance of her cosmic smile, 
                             . . . . . . . . .  she ... perched on the cusp of an eighth of a moon
                                                                 sang songs of fields of poppies soon
                budding beneath the snow,
                             . . . . . . . . .  and she opened her tiny fists and let go her angel dust
                                                                  upon the world
                and the earth shimmered in many colors
                                                                  and gave praise
                             . . . . . . . . .  and the angels came and fetched her up ~
                                                                  and He smiled.
                x

Details | Jill Martin Poem

Because . . . I Can

Either side of the bed is mine
at my whim
and
Fancy

Coffee cups left in the sink
until there are
no
more
Clean

vacuum in the middle of the
floor
for a Week

remote - Mine
precisely.where.I.left.it.

Stink
of steamed broccoli and cauliflower
Welcome.

planting gardenias by the moon
music LOUD and interminable

unstructured.
Untethered.

Because.
I finally.
Can.

Details | Jill Martin Poem

Concentric Circles

I’m here.
Holding up the sky

It will not fall on you
Not again
In these days once more
When you tell me you canna do it
Not again

Stuttering intakes of breathless oceans apart
Yet so close as to tingle fingertips
Gasping at familiar melodies of desert songbirds

The smell of earth after a rainstorm
Two thousand miles of trust
Between us

And the origin of this collaboration
Of souls
Back to the beginning
Of recognition of you of me and
Me of you and
      There is no end

Not this day
Nor tomorrows ever will I
Leave you

For I would cease to breathe.

For my Devin

Details | Jill Martin Poem

Monday Sans Him

Sometimes ... there is no reason
     for morning tears.

Distracted me
     tangled in the debris
     of a raging sea.
So very small
the moment
     meant
nothing at all.

And what of that day ....
dismade bed
dirty sock left on the kitchen floor
       I was going to scrub a week ago
left me crying and
cursing
       falling to pieces
where is my other shoe
       my toes are cold
speed bump on shaky knees
spills my morning tea.

Sometimes there is no reason ....

Details | Jill Martin Poem

Upon the Sand

A small and delicate seashell
tossed upon the shore
tumbled by the tide
ne’er as lovely as before

her long and restless journey
on riotous tides and drift
has cast her here in quiet cove
on a gentle, stray windshift

sharp edges worn by time
smoothed and softened by nature’s hand
her belly turned up to the sun
she settles in the sand

the little broken seashell
now finds her final rest
and at the closing of the day
she finally greets the stars above,
and sighs a solitary settling breath