Poetry by Alan Martin
JUST TOO MUCH
It isn’t right for me,
the torrid year of ’22.
I prefer the indifferent times
that might have been expected
when decadence brings unconcern.
No, too much, the blaze of guns and sunshine.
I will do what I know,
retreat into smallnesses.
I adjust the venetians
to subdue the starkness
of merciless rays
so to lift my comfortable murk
with an acceptable glow.
Good – just right now inside.
I am a creature of twilight and moonbeams
cooler airs and nocturnal praises.
Too much outside,
the first leaves fell mid-June.
The land now tired and dusty white,
hushed in foreboding.
It is the time of the reckoning.
It has been too much.
We should be contrite.
Carw Aug 22.
Hope
In the occurrence of no hope
there can be acceptance and a shrug.
Ambition is a bomb-shelled husk.
I wander, depleted,
marvelling at unstriving nature,
reborn every second.
Pollination happens
when a bee happens by.
There is nothing to be done.
Hope has an agenda
as long as infinity
but soon we will get there
and then we’ll be free…….
Not for me,
I hope only to trust.
Life is implicate order.
Love has your number.
Why do we even bother?
July 22.
Alan Martin is a Pembrokeshire native who has worked in several UK locations as an engineering inspector. He now lives on a smallholding in mid-county with his wife and son.
Absolutely brilliant!