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Monika Martyn Poem
Candle
indiscreet
we meet
across the table
clandestine love affair forbid
Romance
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
World Wide Web
What is this thing the world wide web?
with experts raking, racking, stacking
-- fields of unknown wonder.
It’s bursting with bloggers with opinions a dozen
and hackers I curse their sly probing.
They’re selling me stuff,
and when I am sleeping
they’re ripping me off.
What is this thing the world wide web?
Why aren’t I skinny like on that first page?
And wrinkles and bulges the cure for them too,
ensnared in the hype and outright fibs.
They’re selling me stuff
and when I’m not looking
they’re ripping me off.
What happened to books and to people who knew,
that to get what you need
you need to work too.
And then I remember the quacks
that once were and knocked on the door
and sold you the cure.
What is it that I’m supposed to with this stuff?
Or should I become part of this travelling act.
I’ve got much to say: but it shames me so much,
to read the bad comments on you tube you know.
Why can’t you be nice
or keep your mouth shut.
What happened to manners and consequences rue?
Did they get caught up in the web with them too.
I’m frightened and worried ‘bout the world as it is,
I can’t seem to fix and look to replace.
I scroll through the pages convinced that it’s there:
the answer I’m certain is nowhere in there.
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
Spring — a life anew
Prodding rays of warming glow,
sunshine.
Crusted ice and snow
slowly melting into trickling drops.
First to bloom
a crocus blue, a tulip tries to rise.
How long the wait
and freezing rain
chilled the weary bones.
Heat up and boil you spring sunshine
the blue bell waits no more.
A snowdrop jingles — a bird builds a twiggy nest
Green grass fingers through the dirt
so tender shoots they are.
A blanket freshly sewn
tickling worms in undergrowth.
Kentucky, blue and weed.
Blossoms on the cherry tree
crown in glory tender flush.
A petal pure; a hue of pink.
Thank God you’re here to see the glow
of apple pear and lilac tree.
Summer — winter’s spouse she leaves
Stop kissing my skin with such heat.
Stop wetting my brow with such sweat.
Stop cursing the sky with such blue.
Stop scenting the air with such lush.
How long have I waited for you to return
by window and doorway I stood.
Through autumn at dusk and cold winter at night.
In spring you tormented my mind.
Stop burning my skin deadly long rays.
Stop wilting my hair with your heat.
Stop making the nights so unbearably hot.
Stop keeping the breeze for yourself.
What joy was it when you left so quick?
That chill rode in on a prickling frost.
You tease me again on September days
with reds and brown and yellows.
Stop and come back quick! you hear.
Stop leaving every year.
Stop and kiss my skin again with freckles on your lip.
Stop spinning round the earth and give it all to me.
Autumn — death makes things regrow
A leaf it flutters to the ground
still green but given way.
To something knocks but once a year
the frost that kills each fall.
The crunch of feet on frozen ground
of eyes drink up the beauty.
Of orange leaves and reds and browns
and yellows in a mound.
The rake comes out and gathers all
heaps and giggles — hot cocoa.
The scent of rotted wet and mould
breathe deep and bottle up.
Autumn is the death you see
once green and grown above.
We dread it knocking on the door
yet rush to play without.
Once Autumn leaves the doors we lock
to keep the cold at bay.
At night we light a light inside,
strike match to hearth and hob.
Winter
Gosh it’s cold — my breath it speaks
and frost clings to my lashes.
I blink the snow is blinding me
Yet out I go to see.
My boots are cozy warm to tread, my toque, my scarf and mitts.
I trample over ice and snow; my prints I leave behind.
Cold finds a crack and shivers me.
My spine it bends my neck down low.
Gosh it’s beauty dazzles me — a snowflake tumbles down.
so dainty — pretty — cut from glass made up in clouds and sky.
I kiss it softly with my lip .
It melts on skin and is just for me.
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
When my dog does that thing
and she stares far off in space.
I wonder what she sees just then;
a ghost? a friend or foe.
Then she rolls her eyes that way
looks deep into my own.
I wonder if she reads my thoughts;
my soul, and what she sees.
Sometimes when she’s sleeping fast,
she yips and yelps and runs.
Her little feet they patter quick, tread softly on the air.
I wonder what she’s dreaming of — and what it is she sees.
A friend met in another life, a ghost, a mutt or me?
A rabbit? hen? or God.
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
Heroes in November
Once a year we roll them out,
dust them off and line them up.
The must, the odour lingers on,
to be expected when you lock them up.
They sort of stumble, wobble on,
so we prop and wheel them to the spot.
A bugles blow we honour them,
before their hours wean.
Those are heroes… old and frail?
It’s hard to comprehend.
I pictured men in muscled shirts,
who kick and punch real hard.
Of course they’d be so handsome too,
and full of charm and swagger.
Not bald and freckled paper skin
and hands that shake and rattle.
Once a year we roll them out,
the men who saved our lives.
The soldiers who without a qualm
fought for you and I.
I guess they are the fortunate
to be remembered by us all.
For what they did to serve for us:
a price we’d never could repay.
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
Who Am I?
Who am I when a I take a broom
squash spiders, gnats and flea?
I like them not,
they creep me out.
I gently cup the butterfly, the bee and beetle bug,
I send them off and rescue them
a choice I make each day.
Oh who am I when I squish
a fly, roach, wasp or slug?
They do but what they’re meant to do,
but still I can’t abide.
I like them not
they bother me.
I wipe them out and when I do,
Who am I when I do?
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
What you don’t see: I do
A derelict house lumbered down the street
— it had enough of sitting still.
The prickly weeds and spiderwebs spawned ghosts and shards of glass.
People stared and pointed out; aghast they turned away
— don’t let that thing come near to me.
Its dirty rot and history — we don’t have time to hear.
A writer sat on a lonely stoop leaned back against the grade
— she watched the house as it stumbled on.
The stories one, two, three.
The house it stopped where the writer sat and asked in misery
— can I rest my tender bones with you here on this here stoop?
The house looked downcast clapboard bare.
The writer shifted over some and patted the spare seat
— come sit and rest with me a while and tell me what you’ve seen.
The smile was meant to be a gift to the lonely house.
The house slunk down and grateful pleased and breathed a sigh of dust
— thank God to heaven here on earth that you are here to hear.
It’s hard you know for a house to walk — alone — no people left.
The writer draped her arm about the house and said: there there
— now tell me mate where have you been and is there much to say?
Of children laughing, mothers loving and fathers ploughing fields.
The house let forth a bellow then and opened every door
— of laughter, love and misery it cried a tale of woe.
Its paint and windows glowed right then and showed what used to be.
The writer licked her pencil stub and noted down the notes
— the pages of her paper pile she smoothed as she penned down.
With that she set to write for years of lives gone into dust.
The house it tumbled to the ground and grew weeds where it once stood
— the lives go on in words you see.
The people are no more.
The writer packed her note book up
— she penned the lives of those — what’s missing is the laughter loud.
The mother, child and Pa.
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
Tiger in a Cage
It paces roars and gnashes teeth,
a tiger has its stripes.
Red and white and black and brown,
and paws so big with claws.
But most of all I wish I was
our God as he’s above — below.
To kiss the critter on the mouth,
his meaty breath — I gag.
And snuggle tender into him and stroke his tiger fur.
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
Faith
I came to God the long way round
in choices that I’ve made.
I heard His voice throughout the years;
whispers in my ear.
She did not scold nor reprimand
shout brimstone — bellow hell.
Instead He laid his gentle love
one seed of thought to sprinkle on
in moments when in doubt.
As I grew old, I thought I knew
but still I searched for more.
She waited there with open arms
and never judged me wrong.
His rules are written in my heart
were placed with tender love
by mother — father guiding me
to find my purpose here.
Her whispers kept on calling me
so many years have gone.
I know the map I journey on
with God I walk in peace.
His rules are simple;
She cursed me not:
Don’t hurt another being.
He gave me Will
I chose to do
Her bidding here on earth.
His love is not confined within,
in words writ long ago.
Her wisdom is in everything
my will is to chose right.
I push you not to bend to me,
you’re free and here to chose.
He’ll guide you if you listen to,
Her voice is in your heart.
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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Monika Martyn Poem
Lovers Truth:
If truth
could but explain to youth,
the joy of midnight flesh,
is nothing
when compared next to
the bend
of old bones
spooning.
Copyright © Monika Martyn | Year Posted 2016
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