Fergus Martin's Blog

Not Today

I encountered a man

the other day

Who smiled benignly

as he came my way

A familiar smile,

but much was wrong

The figure was weak,

but had been strong.

Where eyes had sparkled

hollow caverns lay.

As he got closer,

I whispered;

“Not Today”

I turned as we passed

And the corporeal figure

Dissipated in the mist

And I whispered again

“Not Today”

© Fergus Martin

May 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

Birdsong

I hear the birdsong in the morning

of a summers day.

I see a magpie on a windmill,

hear it calling me.

And I remember,

the morning that you broke away.

Birdsong in the morning,

humiliating me.

And I recall,

we had it all.

Holding hands in lovers lanes,

The twilight kiss;

and subtle smiles.

Enigmatic moments

in the endless game.

And I remember,

cannot forget.

Whispers in the classrooms,

and the jealous stares

The baying of the wolves

on the hallways stairs.

The poison pen that shattered

my neon signs.

Twisted words that came

from the sharpened knife.

Unleashed in verbal onslaught

They dropped like fallen soldiers

in the free-fire zone.

The weapons of insecurity,

condemning to obscurity

And so the warrior leaves this battlefield.

With a battered crown and shattered shield.

Whilst the birdsong whispers goodbye.

© Fergus Martin

Feb 2018

End of Days

Dawn creeps despondently through the gaps in the ragged curtains. This is not the bright shining sky of enlightenment, but cold dark shadows of a world imploding on entitlement.

A world seeking instant satisfaction

betrays itself with each needy action.

Differing opinions create visceral reaction,

tides of division lead to waves of inaction.

Like-minded souls swarm to their faction.

Lives torn apart by the friendly assassin.

And the man in the shadows hears your lies.

Devoid of soul and imagination,

world today provides no inspiration.

For those living now or next generations,

lives lived out in trepidation.

A day without fear, a mere sensation,

one step away from degradation.

And the man in the shadows sees hope die.

Belligerent voices causing commotion,

as acolytes kneel in devout devotion.

Ruinous plans set spinning in motion,

financial destruction that succours the chosen.

Across many lands and over the oceans,

escaping disaster a fanciful notion.

And the man in the shadows hears souls cry.

Dinosaurs gorge on their fossil solution,

gold in the pocket trumps planet pollution

Turning back to the past, a hopeless regression,

as ritual progress turns to reverse evolution.

A flick of the switch sparks the final regression.

A dystopian world from a nuclear obsession.

And the man in the mirror has sad eyes.

© Fergus Martin

Feb 2018