Details |
Marvin Snell Poem
This morning I noticed the fence leaning,
a tired spine under the weight of years,
its wooden slats splintered, soft as my knees
after too many trips up the attic stairs.
The body, I mean, not the house—though both
seem to sag in the same quiet defeat.
But look at the yard: crabgrass and clover
have staged a coup, their green fists punching
through cracks in the patio’s old concrete.
Ants march in neat rows, claiming the crumbs
of my breakfast left on the wicker chair.
Nature doesn’t care about my stiff joints.
I tried to pull a dandelion once,
thinking I could tame the chaos with a tug.
It snapped, left roots grinning underground,
as if to say, We were here first.
My heart, that old pump, skips a beat or two,
while the weeds write their novel in the dirt.
I sit by the window, counting my aches,
each one a plot point in a story I’d rather
not read. Yet the vines keep climbing the shed,
their leaves a bright defiance against rust.
Maybe that’s the trick—not to fight the green,
but to let it grow, wild, over my bones.
Copyright © Marvin Snell | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Marvin Snell Poem
The robin sings
Each morning
Right outside your window—
But you're scrolling,
Scrolling,
Scrolling through your phone.
The clouds make shapes:
A dragon!
A sailing ship!
A giant's face!
But you're looking down,
Down,
Down at the sidewalk cracks.
Your dog wags his tail
Wag-wag-wag-wag-wag
Every time you enter—
Pure joy on four paws!
But you're thinking about
Dinner,
Laundry,
Bills,
Tomorrow's meeting.
The stars come out
Twinkle-ific!
Spark-tacular!
A whole universe
Winking hello—
But you've already
Gone inside,
Curtains closed,
Lights on.
And love?
Love taps you on the shoulder,
Whispers in your ear,
Leaves notes in your lunchbox,
Remembers how you like your coffee—
But you're too busy
Being busy
To notice
You're noticed,
To hear
You're heard,
To see
You're seen,
To know
You're loved-loved-LOVED
Every single day.
Copyright © Marvin Snell | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Marvin Snell Poem
I think it was a Friday when I first noticed
I had wandered off the map of myself
and into some unmarked territory
where the street signs were written in my handwriting
but I couldn't remember putting them there.
It's like when you say a word over and over—
"fork" or "elbow" or your own name—
until it becomes just a sound,
a collection of syllables that have forgotten
what they were supposed to mean.
Except this time the word is you,
and you've been repeating yourself so many times
you've worn away the definition.
I imagine this is what happens to mirrors
when they spend too much time looking at themselves,
which of course they can't help doing,
being mirrors. They must get tired
of their own reflections, the same silver face
staring back with that blank expression
that could mean anything or nothing at all.
Some people get lost in the woods.
Some people get lost in cities where every street
looks like the one they just turned from.
But I got lost in the hallways of my own thinking,
took a left at a memory, a right at a regret,
and suddenly I was in a room I'd never seen before
even though I'd built it myself, years ago,
and apparently had been living in it ever since.
The funny thing about getting lost in yourself
is that you're always exactly where you are.
You can't call out for help because you're the only one home.
You can't ask for directions because you're supposed to be
the one who knows the way.
So you sit down on the floor of this strange familiar room
and you wait, I suppose, for yourself to find you,
which is a bit like waiting for your shadow
to come around the corner and apologize
for following you all these years
without introducing itself properly.
Copyright © Marvin Snell | Year Posted 2025
|