Poetry

my head held high 
my stance deliberate 
in order to command upon the sea 
the destination that this vessel seeks 
I wear my confidence arranged and bold 
a Monarch’s gown bound 
tight around my heart 
embellished with embroideries of gold 
with skirts the fall 
to sweep the heavy deck 
I cloak my battle wounds in quarantine 
my thought and plans 
my agonies and tears 
protected by the armor of a Queen 

with silks and linens lifted from my skin 
and my defense undone I disappear 
an Empress only visible adorned 
and no pride for the princess deep within 
my past will soak the pillow and my mind 
will lay there questioning 
how I should dare 
to claim to be an heir inheriting 
the right to name my journey after me 
yet I will point 
my compass on a star 
and dress myself in my authority 

before the night 
there blooms a buoyant day 
behind the sails 
there leans a lusty wind 
beneath the hull the frothy sea is cold 
and there is turmoil in the wake of dreams 
but I possess the garments of a Queen

Martina Franklin Poole 
©2021

I am not breathing on a mountainside.
My hands are not at rest, nor is my mind. 
I did not choose this time to step away 
from life so I could meditate or pray 
or listen to myself in silent thought. 

But Monday morning finds me at my desk 
and managing my life as best I can, 
with bills to pay and groceries to buy; 
too much to read and meetings to attend; 
colors in my sketchbooks I must blend; 
notes to take and journals that need filled, 
to document myself in solitude. 

For living has become its own retreat. 
The lines that mark this lot that holds my home 
are those that now define my safest place, 
and when I must defy this boundary 
a mask obscures the half of every face 
and people move out of each other's way 
while longing for the voice of company. 

Yet someone I've avoided for so long 
now stretches and expands inside my skin, 
and while she is aware that I have not 
pulled back from life in search of clarity 
(but life has pulled away outside of me), 
she tells me I can use this quiet place 
to learn to know myself as I am now. 

I've met a person I have barely known 
and recognized her heartbeat as my own.

Martina Franklin Poole 
©2020

Semi sheer in curtained courses hang
fluid narratives of my crusades,
softening the scarred impediment.
Once the daughter of a refugee 
found it a safe and quiet place to play 
and to shelter her identity.
Early morning sun transitioning;
warm already on this cloudless day.
Here I dance within the shadows formed
by the light of this contentment, while 
proving restless by my expertise,
I reconcile anxiety with peace.

All the habits that a lifetime made
faded while the world had stepped aside.
I find little motive to comply
as it pushes back into the race,
striving to advance and to replace
intense pressure of conformity.
Curtained in my fortress of content,
I have found another place to stand
and contemplate the strata of my soul
mirrored in the eyes of lost friend.
Rest allows my mind to look again,
watching as my independent child
turns to face responsibility.
There was never quite enough of me 
and so half of child and half mature,
she will have a head start while I learn;
guiding my own hands as I create -
threads and colors, branches, seedlings, stones,
words and stories told with my own voice -
through transitions only just defined
during the transitions in my mind.

And Oh! I can assemble mighty walls!
Do not force retreat to rise in me!
A woman will be my sweet progeny
for longer than I ever held the child.
Stronger bound by histories we share,
I will change and she will still be there.

Martina Franklin Poole
© 2021

My body opened
Introduced 
all its fibers in 
sweet chorus 
and wondering if 
emotion
 - amniotic and 
unhindered - 
might rush ahead 
announcing

I birthed a strange babe 
in my dreams 
bared my breasts, nursed it 
without shame 
felt pleasure in 
the comforting

Unprejudiced the 
morning broke 
Stretched the early air 
with longing
My body opened 
my labor 
sprawled across the bed 
I wanted 
to feel cool water 
on bare skin

Martina Franklin Poole  
© 2023

she remembers you 
my playmate, my sibling 
my intimate adversary 
my unquestionable friend 
my earliest memory 
- you should have been 
we were supposed to play 
to run and love and read 
and dance 

my childhood 
went with you - lost 
before my memories had found 
the pathway to my mind -  before 
my voice discovered eloquence 
you changed Unplanned into Resentment 
journaled in abandoned pages 
with emptied envelopes and the 
collected observations of strangers 

putting them (and pushing me) away 
she fought to keep you close 
anticipation failing to give birth 
they had to steal your watery grave 
but they couldn’t reach the wanting
 
so my loss grew with me 
a grief postponed and ravenous 
lonely for your mother 
and for you - the child 
I don’t remember

Martina Franklin Poole
© 2023

More than a voice sounds out this cry
but a childish heart repeats the line
and two pale hands in movement try
to reflect the call in each gray eye.
These eyes, this heart, these hands are mine.

I press my palms against the glass.
The windowpane is cold and clear.
Outside, a forceful rumbling mass,
the river cuts the earth to pass
I've found my question hidden here.

Dim morning light has reached the sand.
The restless night is almost gone.
Holding pain in my outstretched hand
I think the river will understand.
I watch with eyes the color of dawn.

I've looked for somewhere to belong
and pondered who I wish to be.
I've heard the river sing its song,
peaceful, powerful, steady, strong,
more than a voice will answer me.

Martina Franklin Poole
© 1993

beside the sea two stones in the sand
one jasper warmed within my grasp
restitution never reimbursed
the verdict is mine, my accidental life
is claimed by me

ghostly and ungraspable man
shrouded from reality what have you done
relinquished trust and signed your name
in ruthless disregard cold-blooded and unjust

an agate washed clean of volcanic skin
- that fiery womb that hardened cold 
and unforgiving -
my existence held up to the light
irregular and lovely and unshared

I speak this pain and she responds
semi-precious words in her warm hands
this tug of war is not a game
with teams of hearty men 
or teams of laughing children
my idea of what defines a man will fight
mismatched against the power of who you are
until you are completely gone
perception smooth and fixed in my palm
your death like amber 
honey colored and imperfect

she finds truth for I have grieved 
it in advance the man I lost
before his child was ever born

Martina Franklin Poole 
© 2023