Long Martin Poems
Long Martin Poems. Below are the most popular long Martin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Martin poems by poem length and keyword.
What if you were an inhabitant of a world
Where there's no hate, greed, jealousy, envy, and pride;
And one is not enraged by the prosperity of another?
What if conceit and enmity are erased from the course of history,
And malignity is perpetually swallowed in the deepest of pits,
Sinking to rise no more?
What if your subconscious ideate a world
Filled with love, peace, and harmony?
What if Seven Billion human beings could live together under one canopy,
Tending to and upholding high esteem for one another
As benevolence becomes the ultimate act,
That reigns over all timelines?
What if we put aside the destructive comparisons and competitions,
And every individual follows his or her own path
While uplifting all others at the same time?
What if the promotion of individuality and self productivity,
Was the niche of every human —one to another—
And every gift and talent was equally consequential to society?
What if there was no lust for power
And political leaders as well as government officials,
Assume offices not to seek their own selfish interests
By misappropriating public funds, and embezzling state owned belongings to enrich themselves?
What if they had the sincere dedication
To ensure the welfare and security of the state and its citizens?
What if this world was a sanctuary of peace with the nonexistence of violence,
Where nations were aimed at building, rather than destroying one another?
What if unity becomes a compelling force
That binds the Earth to its core,
And compassion remains the lifelong element
That keeps the Universe in motion?
What if the globe was entirely void
of racism, prejudice, discrimination, and partiality;
Where each and every human was afforded equally the same opportunity
Regardless of their race, sex, ethnicity, culture or nationality?
What if we could finally dwell in a word once dreamed of by Martin Luther King Jr.,
Where "humans will no longer be judged based on the color of their skin, but by the contents of their character"?
There is an extreme power in these questions!
But what if they were a reality, can you imagine what we could all achieve?
What if you allow that imagination to create pictures of transformations?
What if you act stepwise from these unceasing questions,
And give it a chance to become a momentous action,
To make this Planet a better Creation?
Pretty like the crystalline canyon rocks -
Fair like a deer wandering in the morn' -
With the Great Spirit as a faithful witness
A baby girl named Red Feather was born
And for her onyx eyes and ruddy cheeks
An angel was sent with kisses to adorn.
Her misery began with John Martin -
A white trader of uncouth demeanor
Who took one day a Navajo woman
As payment for whiskey and gunpowder
And soon his bride realized an inheritance
But in so doing died young in labor.
Red Feather lived - lived with a cruel father
Who cursed her and of her did not boast -
Withholding not his friends who laughed at her
And was ignored by passersby the most -
Irretrievably lost between two worlds
That scorned red highlights and native clothes
Until one day when grief overwhelmed her -
She ran away - against the blinding tears -
Where else but to the village of her mother
But discovered that they too made jeers
At the sight of her and there enslaved her
And instead of love - realized her worst fears.
But solace found Red Feather at moments
When she'd steal away to Spirit Canyon
To gaze upon the weathered petroglyphs.
Silence touched her heart every now and then
As she'd sit among the lonely rifts
And consider the Earth with the heavens.
There among them was one where an artist
Told of the wish of an ancient warrior
To jump the cliff and join the gentle spirits
That captured Red Feather's awe in particular
And since the life ahead held not her interest
She soon desired him and her mother
So it happened during one nice spring day:
The wildflowers breezed as she took the path -
Eagles circled above her at midday
And Red Feather stood on the edge with wrath -
Embraced the sky and Sun and leapt away -
Seeking what the next world might have.
Since that time many a wayward Navajo
And traveler alike claim to have seen
Red Feather come to them - white with glow -
And swear wholly it was not of a dream
But that she lives - she lives as a ghost
Wandering along the cliffs and beneath.
So should you come to Navajo Country
Look sharp - Red Feather's spirit takes flight.
She may run silently with a clan of coyotes
Or dance in the shadows of your firelight.
She may be the breeze that blows softly
Or the silver mist that rises at night.
I don’t think I shall quite forget the name Camilla Martin.
She’s the teacher of me grandson at the local kindergarten.
No question she’s a lovely lady; dedicated through and through,
but the lesson that she learnt this day is one that I learnt too.
It just happened on the day I drove young ‘Gaz’ to kindergarten,
there’s a special birthday happening - it’s his teacher Mrs. Martin.
I wondered why young Gazza had this present all wrapped up,
so after telling me the reason, he whispered “It’s a cup.”
It was a special morning for all the Mums and Dads were there.
I was the only Grandpa but young Gazza didn’t seem to care.
There’s a birthday cake with candles, lollies, hats and lemonade,
and the kids all brought a present … and I’m glad I overstayed …
To see the look upon the faces of the kids who held their gift,
as Mrs. Martin stood up at the front to give these kids a lift,
by waiting to receive each offer as presented one by one,
and she really liked the cup handed to her by me grandson.
And the other little children were quite interesting as well,
as they stepped up to the podium with a similar tale to tell,
when Mrs. Martin made predications to what the wrapping held,
for she knew the parents business thinking that their gift has gelled.
She’s spot on with Jenny Damon whose family own a florist store.
Mrs. Martin beamed out “Flowers,” and Jenny smiled, “For sure.”
When the local milk bar’s Billy Cann stepped up beaming bright,
Mrs. Martin said “This must be chocolate,” and Billy nods “That’s right.”
Mrs. Martin waited patiently for ‘Ginger’ Roberts from the hotel,
who stepped forward with his gift that she thought that she could tell,
because it appeared somewhat a shoebox that did have an ominous sign;
it appeared a bottle’s leaking and she gathered it was wine.
Mrs. Martin put her finger in the liquid but the taste to her is strange,
and for a joke she said to ‘Ginge’, “Is this not Penfolds Grange?”
‘Ginge’ answered “No” so Mrs. Martin tried to guess again,
with one more taste upon her lips, she asked, “Is this champagne?”
‘Ginge’ shook his head when saying “No”, so Mrs. Martin gave a sigh,
“Well I give up,” she smiled at ‘Ginge’ “No, I’ll give it one more try.”
So on her lips goes one last taste to resolve this gift of grog
as Ginger interrupted - “Mrs. Martin … it’s a little puppy dog.”
A Man of Strength and Courage
(A Man Of Beauty And Respect)
A True Story
Who was he? He called himself the
unknown Poet, my great great great
grandmother's uncle Joe. He lived
a long exciting life, loving one woman
in time of war.
A Martin Trapper he was, an artist of fine
design, a poet in his time, a fine gentle
soul of the universe capturing each
thought writing them down in journals
and poetry.
If you should ask him what he believed
in! he would say; “I believed in God, sounds
of nature, love of mankind, love of words
anything to do with nature is where my
heart roams best.”
He was true to his own beliefs, a man
of heart, determination, a man who
would walk a mile in another man's shoes.
He was the heartbeat of the land, a
true mountain man of the wilderness.
He wore leather, long hair, beard a loving heart
for all animals including the bear, he grew
closer to as he traveled the mountains
year after year doing his Martin trapping
for food. He was a God-fearing man
of courage and strength all his own.
He was truly remarkable, who
fought with George Armstrong Custer
and the men of the 7th Cavalry where
they met their fate and the Sioux on June
25, 1886, at the Battle of the Little Big
Horn'. Uncle Joe was sent to get
reinforcements at the age of fifteen
when he returned, they found them all
mascaraed. Including (George Armstrong
Custer).
Many of his journals, poetry and
sketches were burned in a trailer
fire, but to this day, still remember
at a young age trying to read his poetry
I do remember seeing some of his sketches
he had sketched with pencil by candlelight
in his cabin in the winter in the Canadian
Mountains.
One sketch I remember well was of
a lovely lady dressed in a long gown
with hair piled high upon her head
she looked lovely.
That winter was long and cold and Joe
never returned home from his trapping
the Royal Mounted Police found him dead
next to the creek by his cabin. He died
of starvation.
This is just part of his story my great great
great grandmother told me of her uncle Joe. I
wish she would have told me more about his life.
I want to pass this on to my family so they can keep
passing it down from generation to generation.
Copyright ? DerenaBree( All Rights Reserved). Publishing ? Man of strength and Courage®( All Rights Reserved.)
If I could write the perfect poem
I’d write it high above,
The stars would be my letters
And the first word would be love.
Love because it brought me here
And has never let me down,
Despite the many struggles
And trials that came around.
The love of parents, siblings, friends
And people far and wide,
If I could write the perfect poem
I’d say, love truly does abide.
I’ve known romance and learned to dance
Over mountains, rivers and streams,
Sailed the oceans and prayed devotions
From Delphi to The Maldives.
I’ve planted seeds and pulled the weeds
Around roses, petunias and Liliam regale,
As bluejays, bees and dragon flies
Flew by without fail.
And if I could write the perfect poem
I’d write it in a prayer,
To the Maker of this universe
Whose proof is everywhere.
In snow and rain and joy and pain,
In daylight, darkness and shade,
In every atom and spec of space
Our Great Maker ever made.
In all our tears, struggles and fears
From the cradle to that spirit-filled night,
Every song we sing, every gift we bring
Every glimmer of a wrong made right.
And my poem would be a testament
To the freedoms I’ve enjoyed
Thanks to those who bravely fought
In far too many wars.
From Bunker Hill and Yorktown
To the Civil War and more that followed,
Too many to name, too many blood-stains
On battle fields deep and shallow.
And I’ve been uplifted and paradigm shifted
From Apollo and Heracles,
To Plato, Shakespear, Emerson and Frost
And their thoughts, ideas and philosophies.
I’ve run and lost races and found a few traces
Of history lost in the past,
In statues, graves and monuments made
In shades of shadows, they cast.
I’ve witnessed sunrise and sunset
By land and ocean breeze,
And counted stars in the darkest nights
And watched comets flying free.
And listened to the sounds of the ocean
In a seashell held next to my ear,
And watched chaos and commotion destroyed
Whenever Beauty came near.
I’ve laughed and cried and watched time fly
Faster than an arrow set free,
Climbed a few mountains and found the true fountain
Of youth inside of me.
And if I could write the perfect poem
About the meaning of life that abounds,
I’d say I’ve been blessed and do attest
To all the Goodness that surrounds.
© Terrell Martin, 02/09/2025
A Saturday morning in June on a sunny day,
three hundred villagers were in the town square today.
For two hours, all the children, each man and his wife,
made a choice amongst themselves to sacrifice a life
While the grass was growing green with the flowers in bloom,
one person in town would soon be encountering doom.
Some big piles of stones were gathered up by every boy;
Bobby Martin, the Jones boys, and Dickie Delacroy.
As mixed conversations percolated all around,
Mr. Summers and the black box were soon to be found.
This object was very old and showed much splintering,
after being used many years for this offering
Mr. Summers asked the town for a new edition.
They turned him down, not wanting to break with tradition.
With much of the ritual forgotten and not clear,
little slips of paper were placed in the box each year
Old Man Warner, the senior citizen living here
said to Mr. Adams who was standing very near:
“Seventy-seven years I’ve been participating
in this lottery for which everyone is waiting!
I tell you there’s no other way; it’s needed in June.
We sacrifice life for the corn to be heavy soon”.
Mr. Summers called by name, heads of each family;
all in alphabetical order from A to Z.
Every head of household chose individually;
beginning with Adams, and ending with Zanini.
When every man had a slip of paper in his hand,
“Open up” said Mr. Summers with modest demand.
“The paper with a black pencil mark will indicate
its holder is the sacrifice we all designate”
Along came Bill Hutchinson’s wife Tessie running late;
shocked to see her husband holding the paper of fate.
Mr. Summers asked “How many in the family?
Bill replied “Five. Three children, my wife Tessie, and me.”
Mr. Summers took the slip and put in four blanks more;
back into the black box after opening its door.
Then each of the Hutchinsons was told to reach inside.
The one holding the paper with the mark would decide.
Mr. Summers checked the papers and said with his voice:
“We have our sacrifice! Tessie Hutchinson’s our choice!”
“It isn’t fair!” Yelled Tessie, crying loud and frantic.
The people grabbed stones with Tessie running in panic.
They all caught up with her in the middle of a field,
and stoned her to death without any apparent yield!
Based on the short story "The Lottery" by the late Shirley Jackson
Should Be Done
If you want to have much fun
Here is what should be done
If you data used is empirical
Write some sounding satirical.
So much for my rhyming. Now
for my formidable blank verse
format.
What should Democratic party do.
They should start having a daily
presentation of negative Trump
ads every day of his existence
while he is in the White House.
Show the Gold Star Family,
handicapped person made fun of
and women grabbed by crotch
as examples of what I mean.
Trump doesn't mind tweeting
out negative comments about
anyone else. He needs to start
receiving some of his own medicine.
What you give out is what you
are supposed to receive back.
If you criticize, condemn and
complain, you should receive
the very same thing in return.
His favorability rating for being
President is at an all time low.
He deserves it and has done
exactly everything to earn it.
As usual, America will have to
suffer from all of his stupidity.
He thinks that all he has to do
is waving his magic wand and
every thing will fit in place in
his staff and support system.
Was it Martin Luther King who
said only fools dream on not
taking any action. Trump is
truly a man of action riling
up everyone.
God is supposed to be saving
the Queen and our new President.
Sure hope we can trust Him to save
the rest of America as well. Some
may be saving for a rainy day but
what about the good ones we all
prefer to have? They may have
disappeared with Trump and are
beyond all recognition. We sure
do hope not How about you?
Can you no longer find any of
them either. Search to your
heart's content> You have
Trump supporters to thank for
putting him to office. Don't
blame me for the pit we are
about to fall into. I would
not have hired a medic to
do my open heart surgery.
That is what you did when
you elected Trump. In America,
we have the freedom to express
our own opinions regardless of
what criticism we may receive.
As far as I am concerned, the
same thing also applies to
Poetry Soup. We have a lot
of great poets who currently
exist within Poetry Soup. My
last thing I have to say and
write is, "God Bless You'll."
Sorry my Southern accent
got in the way.
James Serious Mysterious and
also Thesarious Hilarious Horn
as applicable depending on the
occasion I am writing poem about.
Part of the speech of Martin Luther King
Bless Him for seeking God and better life
Song by Blind Boys of Alabama
I have a dream that one day down in Alabama with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, one day right down in Alabama little Black boys and Black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today.
I am from Alabama and was born about 10 years after his assassination. I went to a mixed school and I am so happy this was achieved.
To be able to look past color and all just want to get along. The Love of God flowing through MLK to want to achieve this dream should leave one in awe.
That he just seeked to be equal. To show love to those who hate.
And I wander how this ever came to be from future generations before me . This hate one day has got to be seen it's source is Satan, that is out to destroy, cause division and kill.
I am sure MLK would be happy in the progress
which has taken place. But now we even have bigger problems it seems with black on black, white on white, black on white. every race , religion I can't leave any out, even down to own households and most importantly oneself.
If one has hate dwelling within for anyone really, they should seek the source from within that is out to destroy ones soul. I saw alot of hatred growing up but something inside within could not go along with it. I have found it's the promise of the spirit from Jesus all our souls are longing for peace ,love and joy. When this love comes within you will just love all and pray that another could be transformed into a Child of God. If God could just dip this earth in the living water all at once and give this world an awakening to start over. Surely, I can't be the only one thinking this. This whole world in a whole is out of chaos. Let's pray for the spirit promised pours out across this earth that's available in this moment for a dying world. We just need some walking around for other to say I want what's it this one within.
Seek Jesus to separate old self and place that in the grave to receive new spiritual body.
We can not be good in our own will but when we give up the fight within we shall find rest, peace , love and joy in abundance.
Put away childish things
yet keep the childlike wonder.
Though dreams be rent asunder
our wishes still have wings.
Put away childish speech
but not the constant queries
that question rooted theories
which reason cannot reach.
Put away childish ken,
though artless ways of seeing
in any age of being
will find a poet’s pen.
Put away childish thought
yet not imagination
which sparks our inspiration
beyond what we are taught.
Put away childish things
but follow deepest desires.
Those secret innermost fires
burn brighter as hope sings.
Put away childish whim
yet not delight in playing,
then when the world’s dismaying,
our days won’t seem so grim.
Put away childish fears.
Nonetheless, through thick and thin
hang on to the child within,
the laughter and the tears,
all the livelong years…
Put away childish things.
While our dusty death is nigh,
the utter self shall not die,
and karmic kismet clings.
Put away childish things,
though then in mirror darkly
we face our image starkly,
plus suffer destined slings.
Put away childish pain
yet not sensations tender
for sunset’s golden splendor
or soothing thrum of rain,
therein the simple joys remain…
Nor questing spirit ever lose,
while on the pathway that we choose,
neither from love refrain
which makes a heaven of earth’s domain.
Still, throughout, with faith unshaken,
seek enlightenment to waken,
thus the bliss supreme to gain,
plus not to live and die in vain…
Put away childish things
but hold to yearning youthful
to grasp the learning truthful
which timeless wisdom brings.
Put away childish things,
and embrace the peerless state
of illumined grace innate
wherefrom great fortune springs!
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
The following well-known quotation provided the initial literary inspiration for the poem…
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face.”
1 Corinthians 13 ~ The New King James Version (NKJV) translation of the Bible
Further inspiration derived from the teachings and writings of Nichiren Daishonin, as well as Martin Bradley’s interpretative writings about them…
The refrain was so soft I almost didn’t hear,
When the essence of WOMAN sighed in my ear.
“It’s safe to go back” were the words that were said,
And they roiled in my head while I lay in my bed.
So I gave my mind over to this quiet assurance,
Passing backward through drapes of practiced endurance.
It’s safe to go back.
It’s safe to go back.
Silently slipping through descendant days,
The 90’s and 80’s, a booze soaked haze.
The 70’s and 60’s, with no place of my own,
Finally the 50’s and my grandmothers home.
From a place so unique, empowered, serene,
I cast a new sight on the places I’d been.
It’s safe to go back.
It’s safe to go back.
I saw the men strike out in unrighteous rage;
And others doing things, so wrong at my age.
There is my mother with her alcohol breath,
With a pillow on my head, romancing my death.
Stern faced women in stiff, white wimples,
Me in plaid, burgeoning breasts, and pimples.
It’s safe to go back.
It’s safe to go back.
There’s my grandmother, with switches and belts.
There are my legs, all bruises and welts.
There’s Cousin Nancy, who thought I was grand,
And Grampa, the one who could stay Grandma's hand.
It’s safe to go…
It’s safe to go …
At last to a time, so long ago,
Before shame and guilt and the pain I would know,
A time I believed in a god in the sky,
And Mary Martin convinced me - I really could fly!
It’s safe to…
It’s safe to…
I lay there and saw this and breathed it all in.
I melded my past and purged away sin.
Love rushed in during a quiet, night hour,
And Acceptance took away all of fear's power.
It’s safe.
It’s safe.