Poetry by Alan Martin

 

 

PEACE OF WORK

 

At the surcease I wash up on the strandline,

I am nobody, a bleached identity,

all struggles ended, at peace now;

and listen… there is the quiet of acceptance,

there is no psychic energy

for the undead memories of foolish acts.

So many, so often.

 

So that’s OK then,

I needed decluttering,

like a dusty attic crammed with junk.

 

Why did I strive for status, and not work through in grace?

Isn’t that the cultural norm these days?

So often, so many.

 

The upswing line will write my life,

but suppose that I could stand aside

to watch me being built,

or see my life in giddy spin

from a point in outer space.

Suppose my earthquakes come and go

on a screen inside my head,

a vantage imperturbable

but actual it’s said,

available to anyone…..

 

Well only then there would be peace.

 

 

 

EVERYONE AND NO ONE

 

Who is woke;

you, me, he, she or it?

Probably we.

I think I might be you know,

when sensitivities impell,

or empathy.

 

And what is its opposite?

Boorish, crass?

Think I will err on the lighter side.

 

It’s a label of course,

a slap-on sticker,

and a complex human

is reduced to a word. How satisfying…

 

But words convey

if they are worth the utterance

so for whom to impress,

this flip piece of gobbledegook?

Well, one’s own constituency,

one’s pals, one’s mates.

 

So be sure when you hear from

this wielder of words,

that they apply the same label

to their own silly heads.

 

Carw   Jan 23