Jeffrey Alexander Martin

If you're writing a story without a plan, and you're writing it with someone else, you never know which way it's going to go. After I finished my class with Tima I sent the story we had written to a friend. She read it and responded that it is a "terrifying story", and she's right. Tima went a little wild, and I let things escalate. - - - - - - - Jed sat upon the mountain cliff, looking down over the thick treetops below him. And saw there a big and bad bear. Jed remembered the words of his father, "If you see a bear, take out your knife and kill it." But bear already had his own knife, and attacked. This bear was a terrorist. Jed dug his feet into the ground, adjusted the knife in his hand, and then leapt forward to meet his destiny. At this moment he slipped and fell into the mouth of the bear. And the bear ate Jed. Arnold the bear put his knife away. He always wanted to use it, but never seemed to need anything other than his claws...

From one perspective you see a thing. From another perspective you can see the same thing, and it looks completely different. This applies to all of existence, even in total. (For those who want more on that, you can read this poem, and you can also lookup Viktor Frankl's concept of dimensional ontology.) Read it, then I'll explain, just a little. - - - - - - - I have seen many moons, or rather; Fortuna has opportuned me, with such a possibility. But I, in my infinite imprudence, have largely failed to notice the passing. Worlds turning, Time's twisted fate, weaving a single thread, from disparate fibers all asunder. Chaos in the details, and order above, or rather; I have seen many moons. - - - - - - - Many moons refers to the passing of a lot of time. Fortuna is the ancient Roman goddess of luck, and a lot of time is a lucky gift. If we're not consciously aware then this time passes us by. Planets turn, whic...

Our minds and souls are mysteries. To others, yes, and even to ourselves. There are different ways of penetrating that veil. They often involve peering through our own darkness, to symbols hidden within our depths. One day, laying alone in bed, I had an unusual vision of a tree. There was obviously something special about it, something magical, but I wasn't sure what. So, this poem popped out. - - - - - - - I saw a tree at night, not with my eyes in some failing light, but bright with dark illumination, in my mind, a thing both eerie and ripe with divine inspiration. But, what kind? A world tree, giving birth to both you and me? A tree of knowledge, taking us to the brink of wisdom's edge? A tree of life, giving us the gifted opportunity of confronting strife? Or a tree of good and evil? Symbolic mysteries abound, rising up around us, rising up within us, why do we force them down? Revelations are revealed, if we look with unseeing eyes, thro...

Words are magical. They can transport you, inspire you, crush you, revive you. They communicate love and hate. And they communicate the experience of love and hate. You can live another life in a book, you can experience an entire range of emotions in a poem. This is a fun poem about experiencing a book. - - - - - - - I went for a walk in a book, over fields of description, and forests of exposition. Narration lulled my sense of unease, metaphor and analogy played and did tease. I took a wrong turn at alliteration, lost my way at rhyme and had some hesitation. Two devices I did see. They distracted while dialogue took a bite at me. I flashed back in time, and sprung forward again. I was dazzled by sensations, tickled by character revelations, and thrown by the thrills of plot innovations. To walk through a book is no easy task, the point is not the finish. The point, is to bask. - - - - - - - There are two basic sets of devices that you can think ab...

This poem is literal and metaphorical, concrete and abstract. And there is one line that is debatable. I read this poem to my mother. She liked it. But that last line, well... she wasn't so sure about that. I'll let you read it and see what I mean. - - - - - - - I went searching in a field, for a small piece of happiness. I watched as the light shimmered across the waves of grass. I watched as the wind rolled across crests of golden froth. I watched a bird on the wing, flying free. I watched a rock, immovable. A butterfly, unpredictable. A sun untouchable. Air ungraspable. A future unknowable. I went searching in a field for a small piece of happiness, and found it there, unsavable. - - - - - - - Oh yeah! I know there'll be questions about my use of commas. I intentionally put the commas where I did. They are to indicate pacing. The sets of lines that do not have commas are read toge...

I was chatting with a friend online a couple of months ago and they mentioned that it must be difficult for me, having some of my health issues and such. I wrote a poem to comfort her. I think it helped. - - - - - - - Do not lament, the burdens thrust upon me by life. Examine the ledger more closely. Seek to find the common denominator, and the balance will reveal itself to you. These things that bind me, are mine. When or where it was begun, was not my choice, but ever after, was. The accumulation of life, the revelation of personal limitation, is the thing itself. - - - - - - - This poem thought about continuing. - - - - - - - I do not lament, my non-pursuit of wealth, my failing health, ... - - - - - - - But I crossed that off and left it as is. ________________________________________________ If you like this, check out  JeffThinks.com  or  JeffreyAlexanderMartin.com

I have a confession. Sometimes I write poetry. More often, it tumbles through my mind without me writing it down, and it simply fades away. When I do write it down it's usually on random slips of paper that end up... somewhere. And when it ends up in a notebook, still no one usually sees it. Every now and then I send some to people in private messages. But rarely. Last year I did a small burst of going to open mic nights and doing readings. It was fun. But for some reason I really just seem to write poetry for myself. I had a girlfriend about a decade ago that I used to text love poems to every now and then. She liked them, a lot. But she never believed that I had written them. She thought they were too good. Probably a good indication of a bad future for that relationship. Both the girl and the poems are lost to the devouring maw of time now. For instance, here's a little poem that I did last December. I happened to send it to someone, and that's the only reason I have a r...