I’ve heard it said that poetry is dead
But I don’t believe that’s true.
It runs in our veins like water to rain
Somewhere inside me and you.
It’s up in the air, in circles and squares
And oceans, rivers and tides,
In cats and dogs, bayous and bogs,
In taverns and tall rocket rides.
For life is an ocean of poetry in motion
Though we can’t always hear its rhyme,
As it twists and turns, beckons and yearns
Throughout our lives and minds.
Poetry lives in the love we give
One another from day to day,
Intrinsic in nature like Ursa Major
And all the music we hear and play.
While tilling a garden
Or gazing at stars,
Poetry is in motion
Wherever we are.
In photography, paintings
And all manner of the arts,
That move our minds
And stir our hearts.
And while some may deny
The plain simple truth…
This life is a poem
That needs no proof.
© Terrell Martin
09/08/2024
Travel taught me one precious thing,
There is always better Elsewhere,
You love your village, visit the Tyrol,
You love Cathy, Sue has more beautiful blue eyes,
My travels taught me to change buses often,
You’ve seen Paris, go see the bayous of New Orleans,
You have gently cultivated your garden, go help the little children
From Burkina Faso,
My travels taught me something,
There is always better elsewhere,
You read James Joyce, go discover Jack London in San Francisco,
You enjoyed Chenonceau, go discover Schönbrunn Palace,
You saw the Big Dipper, go see Cassiopeia, travel again,
You reread Rimbaud, go see the Grand Canyon,
My travels taught me this precious thing,
There is always better elsewhere,
It is since travelling far away, that I learnt what really matters.
Title: Southern Grace
In the land where magnolias bloom,
Beneath the southern sun's warm embrace,
There lies a region filled with tales,
A tapestry woven with Southern grace.
Amidst the fields of cotton white,
Whispers of history, rich and deep,
A symphony of voices, day and night,
Their stories, secrets they forever keep.
From the Mississippi's mighty flow,
To the bayous of Louisiana's sway,
The South unfolds its vibrant show,
A place where time dances, come what may.
Sweet tea and pecan pies delight,
Soulful melodies in the humid air,
Gentle drawls and "y'all" unite,
A sense of kinship, ever there.
Majestic oaks with branches wide,
Provide shade from the scorching heat,
A refuge for dreams to safely reside,
Beneath the canopy, life's rhythm beats.
Oh, Southern belle, so fiercely strong,
With grace that knows no bounds,
You've endured, and you belong,
In this cherished corner of hallowed grounds.
So, let us raise a glass up high,
To the American South, a cherished place,
Where history, culture, and love's reply,
Reside in hearts with Southern grace.
A stone hard imprint
Apologies
No need
A storm to never blow over
A heart
To continuously bleed
A way of life
Out the window
Are values taught
The right way
Please
Thank you
May I
How would it feel
To live in a time
When everything can add up to nothing
When life can teach one and reveal
So silently I speak
Pressing hard through the struggle
When we live in an age where I'm wrong
Because my feelings don't count
I sit and ask myself
If I do right
To what does it amount
Questions I bury within the bayous of my mind
I give to God a silent whisper
I pray the answer
He will find
Snow melting, icicles dripping from the eave
Hint that winter’s frigid air may soon leave,
Replaced by warm breezes from the south
In swampy bayous return the cottonmouth.
When mulberry buds are ready to burst
Buttercups turn upward like they thirst,
My lawn will glow with sweet dandelions
In nature the colors change like chameleons,
Spring flowers present as a lovely bouquet
While the hibernating animals come to play.
The meadowland beckons me for a stroll
And a newness of spirit refreshes my soul.
written January 19, 2022
submitted to "A STRAND" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Brian Strand
Way down south near the marshlands,
near the bayous, and close to the lake.
There is a city with its old wonders.
A place where no one barely sleeps.
Parties move up and down the cobbled streets.
The brass bands play that swinging jazz music.
That smell of the creole and cajun food wafting in the air.
Muggy with that southern heat,
History and legends made this spot worldly known.
With the stories of vampires and voodoo,
and hauntings that frighten the people who visit.
Pirates that came and left their mark,
and a voodoo queen who ruled it all.
Food, festivals, and fairs bring everyone here.
That mixture of blood and culture.
African, French, and Spanish.
The cajun rhythm makes them dance.
Deep down in New Orleans,
where Mardi Gras never dies,
the spirits you feel deep inside,
this site is one of a kind.
Cthulu lurks in the evil cabin in the words
Deep in the bayous
of Louisiana
sits an abandoned cabin
in the swamps
the cabin is inhabited
by an ancient evil creature
newly risen from the depths
of hell
He has taken over the house
deep in the impenetrable swap
he prepares to unleash
an evil upon the world
calling upon the dark demons
of hell to emerge into the light
and lead an army
of the undead zombies
to take over the world
and make the old ancient one
Cthulhu the undisputed
king of the world
evil overwhelms the cabin
in the woods
and the smell of evil
seeps out into the surrounding bayous
the end times are near
the old demon in the cabin
summons the dead
the zombie armies arise
they begin to march
out of the swamps
unleashing hell
on the sleeping world
Within the bayous of muck
and mire there is a tale
of the mud monster who
appears at front doors
in the dark of the night
covered with thick mud
begging to come in
and visit for a while
to chat over a cup of
coffee and tell you
his tale of woe how
he drowned in quicksand.
2/24/2020
Dimly lit, I sit
in a Mexican kitchen
near the Tropic of Cancer.
A TV is tuned
to inane noises;
dogs at my feet,
oranges in a bowl
on a table:
a specific place and time.
And I am dreaming --
dreaming of Louisiana
in twilight hours --
dreaming of short winter days and
summer's green, bright mornings.
Country time, mostly empty,
was quiet, seldom interrupted
by human utterance;
but my busy brain
was full of fantasy
and subterfuge.
The world was new, big,
and yet to be explored;
possibilities seemed endless.
Oak and cypress,
willows, pines -- and magnolias --
were all around, and cane fields
stretched for miles.
Change was slow in coming
and childhood lasted long.
The bayous that had always been there
were there still.
I dream now of Louisiana:
poignant vignettes... dreamy glimpses...
all those slowly fading
recalled moments
of the past...
GENTLY MY MIND PORTRAYED
AN EMPTY SADNESS WHILE I'D CRADLED
THEE NESTLED THOUGHT
LEAVING THE INFAMOUS BONDARIES
AWAITING THE VIEWING
OF THOMAS MANN'S QUIET SETTING
BETWEEN THE SOLID STRUCTURES
OF STILL RUNNING WATER SEEPING
OVER THE GOTHIC STONERY
THAT CARRIED SILENT WISHES
BENEATH THE FOUNTAINS CORE
TRAVELING BEYOND VOSS SHORE
WHILE CRAVING TATTOOED SMILES
THE UNSEEN GESTURES OF MINES
THROUGHOUT THE GALLERIES
OF INDUSTRIAL SOLITUDE
WHY I'D BEGAN TO OPEN PACKAGES
OF MEMORIES SAFELY TUCKED AWAY
BESIDE HOPE AND CHARITY
WHY I FOLLOWED MADNESS
CREEPING THROUGH THE FOREST AGAIN
AWAKENING SUDDEN EMOTIONS
BOTTLED I SUPPOSE GRAVELY
DANCING TO THE TUNES OF BROKEN
FOLKLORES TALES WHISPERING
THE SONG OF POVERTY CATERING
TO BAYOUS OF HASTE
WHERE SACRED GROUND OPENS
EXPOSING THE VALLEY OF DRY BONES
MY SOUL HAD MASTERED A QUICKENING
BALANCE A MEANINGFUL GATHERING
HOLDING ON TO COPENHAGENS
SECRET TUNNELS WHERE KOFF
DESIGNED BLUE PRINTS AND PATTERNS
CAPTURING MY EMPTINESS OF REMEMBERING
THE WHITE LAB COATS THE CRYING LAMBS
WRITTEN BY
YOLANDA NICHOLSEN
3/9/2013
FROM MY HOSPITAL BED
IN TAMPA HEART ATTACK
Not suicidal my vitals are strong, I reside in the bayous of pain for too long,
I wish the earth would consume and resume me,
so the hurt could leave spirit as you will assume free,
see the effect of tears is like this,
for to have cried is first to have bliss,
you were here now you’re gone I'm still dying through song, I knew you would kill at first kiss.
I'm still waiting debating the notion, to resist the existing commotion that runs now in my head only saying I’m dead, self-destruction is not my devotion.
I know better then
to be here. I've
been told.
Things happen here.
Bad things.
Yet I am drawn. No.
More like willed.
I have not the power
to resist this place
I smell the decay.
The rotting stench
Windfall trees
laying as if in wait
My tread but a
whimper in this wood
Why am I here? What
do I seek?
The darkness
thickens as I move
forward
Unsteady now, steps
made with
trepidation
I sense movement. I
am not alone
Something sinister
awaits me
Whispers. Jumbled
sounds. Hollow
Seem to have moved
closer
Dare not look behind
The grip of fear
engulfs my body
A light. Did I see
a light?
There. So bright.
Blinding
On my neck, the
stale breath of
death
I cannot breath. My
terror is too great
It is too late. I
did not listen
I have found the
alter of the damned
I know better then
to be here
Things happen here.
Bad things
11/20/2011
I once took a trip
up some of the
bayous in Louisiana.
It was getting dark
on our return and
every once in a
while, you would see
a light in the
trees, in the middle
of nowhere. That
was the inspiration.
The rest I made up.
gently we measured
our compassionate realm
I was takened by the mental storm
of quiet gestures beckoning
the calm bayous the sinking earth
of hanging moss craving darkness
while seeking lights inner most hues
catered to the wild eyes of daintiness
and empty sorrows kindered between
a bias immortal sphere within thee eternal
wrath folded beyond di Vaticans core
beneath the rubble of solid structures
formed from masses of rotting flesh
and the bindery of soiled stained
souls of cold shattered existances
beyond the robe an awakening era
permitted silence among
the sheepcotes again
through a weakened weariness
reaching clawing clinging to a timeless cradle
a quickening naught of emptied virtue
while death had resided in me
underneath a slab of raw gravel
apon the holy see
Broken “Perfect”
Blowout Preventer
Billowing Petroleum
Burning Profusely
Bodies Paining
Burning Peeling
Bleeding Pleading
Buried Passing
Blighted Preserve
Bayous Profaned
Beaches Polluted
Biosphere Poisoned
Banned Products
Boats Parked
Businesses Pinched
Breadwinners Penniless
Beleaguered President
Bluntly Proposed
“Billions Promptly”
BP Provided
British Petroleum
Blind Profiteers
Bloody Pumpers
BRUTAL PERFORMERS!
British Petroleum
Broke Permits
Betrayed Public
BRUTAL PERFORMANCE!