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Benjamin J Martin Poem
Who are we but our practices,
Our ancient food and songs,
Who are the chosen few that we meet in the beyond?
Where are the lines beneath,
From order to chaotic press,
Defined by time and creed it seems devoid of holiness.
If all glory be to G-d, is that to yours or mine,
The differences seem minor through translations over time,
Drawing ever closer and yet further apart,
Is it what’s in the book, what’s taught or what’s in the heart?
If I will start over and trade the Matzo for the date,
Would my love be any different, would my humor or my hate?
Would I grow up wanting for the festival of lights,
Or look forward to a month of eating with family by candlelight.
Would I miss the songs of my homeland or the wine,
Would I learn new songs and sing them with my brother’s side by side.
The similarities between us cut deeper than the land
So, there for the grace of G-d go I
With my brother’s hand-in-hand.
Copyright © Benjamin J Martin | Year Posted 2023
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Benjamin J Martin Poem
A man-made lake,
The surface shimmers like glitter in the sun,
Idyllic surroundings boast of trees and grass,
The water is clear, crystalized with perfect visibility.
A near-perfect replica indistinguishable from a distance,
Only when you draw closer can you see its imperfections.
The water is shimmering but, with vanity and filter,
The trees and grass are hiding violence, hate and the death of culture,
The lakebed is a window into humanity’s desire
The simultaneous picture of perfect beauty and of fire.
To auto-generate your surroundings is to live a second life,
One by choice and by addiction designed for fight or flight,
Using our impulses against us to conquer and divide,
Protecting us from thoughts coming ‘from the other side’
This illusion of a safety net draws us into harms way,
Learning our behaviors, our triggers and politics
As we feed it everyday
Never before has it been more relevant to question our free will,
Is it us or the machines that are ordering us to kill?
Copyright © Benjamin J Martin | Year Posted 2023
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Benjamin J Martin Poem
Where are you really from?
An all-too familiar question,
One which I quite detest.
Often looking for simple answer,
This I cannot give, too awkward to tell the truth,
I can only say, not quite English, not quite like you.
My skin is not quite white,
My eyes not quite blue or brown,
Turkish, Greek, Spanish…?
He’s from somewhere out of town.
I have an English accent,
I was brought up in the South, born close to London too,
However not quite English, not quite like you.
I simply avoid the answer,
And I’ve never known quite why,
Especially considering the millions who have died.
I just say I’m English, although not quite like you,
To avoid the awkward pause after I say I am a Jew.
Copyright © Benjamin J Martin | Year Posted 2023
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Benjamin J Martin Poem
Creative
Some days I am a thinker stuck in a worker’s world,
A pontificator and procrastinator with no clear sense or goal,
I am lost in my thoughts, unavailable for meetings,
Even when I am in one.
Some days I am a dreamer stuck in a sleepless night,
I’m lost and tired and weary, blinded by office lights,
I long for open mountain passes, highways or infinity,
Not a wooden desk.
Some days I am a runner chained up to a chair,
Both longing and exhausted for a road at which to tear,
I am privilege and luck though this does not comfort me,
Even when I’m running.
Some days I’m a musician or poet playfully,
I am the embodiment of passion, love and feeling free,
I need to make something out of nothing to survive,
I am a creative.
Copyright © Benjamin J Martin | Year Posted 2023
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