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Martijn Van Luijn Poem
Today is a perfect day to build a tiny boat.
Out of paper or an old milk carton.
I’d say do not choose paper
since it might not float for long.
We run outside and find the perfect curb
and crouch down on our knees,
at the fastest rapid releasing our ships
in the river of melting snow.
This is the perfect spot for our boats to sail,
each searching for its magical path.
Racing their way through the rushing stream,
to see which one will win.
Not a word is spoken between you and I
as we each hold our breaths,
to witness our tiny boats
get swallowed by the drain.
My boat wins, of course it does.
I practised and built all winter long.
As a champion I look up to the sky
and let the sun edge a smile on my face.
We high-five. Spring has finally sprung.
Copyright © Martijn Van Luijn | Year Posted 2026
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Martijn Van Luijn Poem
Finally home.
It’s been a day.
Full of doodads
and thingies,
screws and solders
clangs and boinks.
The work in Santa’s workshop
is never done.
But especially now
it’s busier than ever
and they have yet
to wrap.
The old man lives alone and
tis the eve before Christmas.
He misses her as
she smiles from the mantel.
Tomorrow he will celebrate.
A day off, with hot cocoa
And candy canes from the boss.
Copyright © Martijn Van Luijn | Year Posted 2025
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Martijn Van Luijn Poem
Who would’ve thought that
the rain tapping the window
would harmonize so well
with the rude honesty of my morning alarm
.
My brain negotiates with the day
and I stagger forward,
faithless and naked,
toward the coffee maker,
sliding my small ceramic cup
beneath the steaming spout of joy,
waiting for something warm to arrive.
The grinder growls through its duty,
as the scent of a French roast
slowly threads its way
into my fogged-up thoughts,
I sit and I sip and i smile
until the day, slowly and unbothered,
finally comes into focus.
There is nothing in life
so plain, so unassuming,
that inspires my senses quite like
a morning cup of coffee.
Copyright © Martijn Van Luijn | Year Posted 2026
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Martijn Van Luijn Poem
I wonder what will happen,
when I can no longer understand.
And in the midst of all that is happening,
you say “here, hold my hand”
Will my words be clear or will they be muddled?
Will I feel cold or will I feel hot?
Will there be peace and quiet?
Will I be nervous or perhaps not?
What I do think will happen, I hope,
is the gesture itself will stop time.
And makes the world feel safer for now,
when your gentle hand touches mine.
Copyright © Martijn Van Luijn | Year Posted 2025
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