Time to fly – poems by Brendan Martin
Poems by Brendan Martin
Time to fly
Even the dearest that I love the best
needs a gentle push to the edge of the nest,
and encouraged to shake and tremble with nerves,
and then to jump; into all it deserves,
owning the skies in directionless flight
seeking the heavens, adorned in the light
of the evening sun, before it can set
over the waves, as it barely gets wet.
A swoop and a dive, a rise and a fall
as my loved one embraces the thrill of it all.
Life in its glory is awaiting a touch,
a small understanding – never too much.
Success or failure, matters not, once you try;
it is always worthwhile, for a loved one to fly
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Distant Fields
On distant fields where furrows lie,
And corn and oats and wheat are high
As meadows green, and cocks of hay
Where horses sleep and children play;
Where men build ditches, and walls of stones
And others pray for buried bones;
Where cows have worn their milking trails
when morning calls and sunshine pales.
I used to walk through fields of green
And jump the ditches in between;
While going towards a trout filled stream
Observing threshers belching steam;
Rolling through the lush green grass
Where rabbits, hares and foxes pass
On daily trips for daily meals
Which every distant field conceals.
Yet elsewhere there are barren lands
which no one truly understands;
The sight of sand, and scrub and brush,
An oasis, tree or single bush;
Not for them what Irish nature yields,
The verdant beauty of distant fields.
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Dictation Test
Where is that place that I used to go
To see all the people that I used to know?
Where are they now, my friends of the past?
who answered the questions, that I always asked.
Who do I go to, to give my command?
Where in the line should I now stand?
How will I get there, it’s so far away.
I can’t go tomorrow, it must be today.
Where is my freedom, to go as I choose?
How can I win when I always lose?
Where is my future, what will I be?
How come my shadow is running from me?
I hide in my memory, deep in my soul,
Pretend to myself that I have control.
I run to my hideout from where I can see,
Nothing is safe, especially me.
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Beside the white chickens
Beside the white chickens
pecking by fences
the soil slowly thickens
invading their senses.
Rain. Rain. Thunderous rain;
their small wooden coop now looks so inviting,
for two legged lovers of grit and of grain,
this weather for feathers, was never exciting!
Brendan Martin is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am in the Annebrook House Hotel, Mullingar.