Winning?

Winning?

Looking from her window,
she struggled
to understand
how it had come
to this.
Fighting against
the tide of emotion
that had;
engulfed her;
drowned her;
had worn away
the last remnants
of survival,
she had fought,
and survived.
Until now.
Her window on the world
revealed a planet
in turmoil.
Existing,
as she once had,
on scraps of hope.
Tearing itself apart
at the seams.
Disintegrating.
Shattering into schisms
of uncompromising
delusions.
Falling slowly
into the darkness
that once consumed
her soul.
Reflected in the glass
was a face
she did not
recognise.
Eyes that once
shone brightly,
now dulled
and unreachable.
Slumping in her
favoured recliner,
eyelids drooped
as thoughts raced.
Heartbeat pounded
incessantly.

A sigh and
a thin-lipped smile,
as the heartbeat
faded away.

The note,
on the coffee table,
Read simply:

Winning?

© Fergus Martin

Nov 2018

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The Angel’s Kiss

This time of year is always a particularly rough period for me, having lost a number of friends in recent years to the conflicts of today. I always try to write something appropriate, and this year is no different.

The Angel’s Kiss

Brothers, friends and boys;
Fathers, uncles and workmates;
all strode cheerfully down their streets.
Overjoyed to be playing their part.
to be standing up to be counted,
in nearby foreign fields.

Through Passchendaele and Mons,
Ypres and the Somme,
they fell to the blood-drenched ground,
in numbers unimaginable.
Over the wire and through metal hail,
they pushed for every inch.

It will all be over by Christmas,
but the guns raged on.
And with every wave of anticipation,
the ships returned with the fallen.
As soldiers fell on Flanders field,
the dead and the wounded came home.

She guides me with patience to my bed,
leans over, kisses me,
and smiles.
I cannot see her,
But I know she is smiling.
For today,
the guns fell silent.

© Fergus Martin
Nov 2018

Rural Reality

I live in a rural area of Highland Perthshire. This is our current reality.

Rural Reality

Withered leaves droop limply on the vine,
unpicked berries lie rotting on the ground.
Fields lie unploughed in the summer sun,
fallow memories of golden harvest.
Plastic avenues, once full of movement
silently echo with northern winds.

Old man sits silently at the table
as he listens to the lambs crying.
Coffee stained papers litter the room;
he stares vacantly at angst filled parchment.
Decisions to be made become harrowing
as the walls that surround him crumble.

That which was gained is now lost.
The land that was sown will be barren.
Mouths that were fed will now starve.
Futures once certain moved on.
As the clock winds slowly to midnight,
time will run out for some.

F Martin
© Oct 2018

Deja Vu

Deja Vu

Growing up,
I believed the tale
that peace and harmony
would triumph,
and the world would be safe.
Glasnost and perestroika
would allow east
to meet west,
and usher in
a brave new world.
I fought for that truth,
I believed that tale,
I was wrong.
It was a lie!
In 60 years,
nothing has changed.
The Bear,
The Dragon
and
The Eagle
still play their games
of war and one-upmanship,
as the world sits
in silence.
The never ending chess game
continues unabated.
As the players position pieces,
the audience watches on.
In fear.

F Martin
Aug 2018

Black Hole

Black Hole

Cohesion,
like the splitting of an atom
divides into polar opposites.
Never being brought together,
unless by forceful collision
to work as one.
With positive balancing negative,
without which there is nought;
but emptiness.

F Martin
May 2018

Butterflies And Bowlers

Butterflies And Bowlers

Fusillades ring out in the night,
fireworks light up the moon.
Orange tipped stars race skyward,
deliver fiery gifts from the heavens.

Huddled together in their tin can,
like cattle headed for slaughter.
The stench of sweat and fear prevails,
camouflaged in false bravado.

Exploding from their steel cocoon,
chrysalis combatants emerge.
Butterflies fall in the killing fields.
There is no beauty in this birth.

As you fly towards death or glory;
remember the oath that you took,
remember the life that you offered,
remember the promise you made,
remember the days full of hope,
remember the lies you were fed.

Another flag drapes another cocoon
as father hides in the shadows of pain.
Mother shoulders the sadness of sorrow
and remembers the days full of hope
As the minister offers his prayer,
the bowler hatted brigade turn their backs.

F Martin
Feb 2018

Democracy Is Dead

Democracy Is Dead

Democracy is dead.

Bought and paid for
by complicit charlatans.
Auctioned for the rights
of the paper powers
of the morally corrupt.
Sold off to the highest bidder,
with the lowest ethics.
Destroyed by the desire
for a seat at the table,
and a gold-trimmed mansion.
Ransomed at gunpoint
to the religiously impure.
Betrayed by worshippers of vanity,
on the altar of privilege,
for the souls of the innocent.

Democracy is dead.

© Fergus Martin
Feb 2018