PETRICHOR
A cool breeze seeps in
through the patio screen at the speed of
smoke during a summer dusk
as the distance wraps itself up—sleepily
in a vapor blanket
rumbles lowly, spills out
over olive colored hills on its way
into the room I sit dryly inside of—shielded from its weeping
emptying myself, setting free
the musty ruminations of the day
dissipating into plumes of vacant static
collapsing the scaffolding inside me
to make space in my lungs for that sweet, stony liquid
as I quietly pass away at will
pass away
the lie that I feel
so bad.
CHOPPING
I heard my father chopping
out back
that ancient Maple in the center of the yard
the helicopters dropping
with every sticky thud;
I shuddered.
The tree we used to hide behind
home base in our games of tag, I
had to keep it standing, so
I scurried to its aid.
I looked up at the leaves
as muffled sunlight dripped between
its yellows and greens, the cracks in its face
heavy swaying shadows swallowing the yard
outstretched fingers. Sap scented arms
and he hollered, “Joshua!”
unsettling my gut
his eyebrows raised, his dirty gloves
handed me an axe. I took a swing.
I FELT THE BREATH OF APRIL
I was stuck
in the throat of the backyard path
as the dampened breath of April rushed
over and along-side the shoddy tin shed
tugging at the buckthorn branches
that thwapped and scraped against its hull
at dusk
holding me—distracted
while my dainty kid sister slipped
out through the sliding screen door
calling me to supper, skipping
taken, too, it seemed,
by the warming winds that wet
the winter’s frozen tongue
on their way out to me,
afraid to lift my feet
and be whisked away with the leaf scraps, the cold
the hopeful un-bloomed bulbs.
THE LIGHTS AT FARRINGTON
We would take the ghosted road
just past Hoover
gravel paved past the power-box gate
pebbles strumming the bumper
as we rumbled snugly into the shallow glade
we’d make our way to the far corner of the lot
finding some dark to park in
under the rusty lamp we
broke with a stone when we were small
croaking Mr Mojo Risin’
through the burnt tea-smog
torpid, torch lit faces
quieted behind sandblasted glass.
The hiss of the reservoir rolling
slowly over the dam
leaked in through the windows, only
slightly cracked open—hoping for something fresh
just to settle for and old familiar musk
and we sat in that spot, highly inspired
eyes stirred in the thick of nimbus mists
blind to the sickle moon, the sky and time
shielded by steel from starlight, still.
ON GREEN STREET
Walking back from the Belgian, suf-
ficiently limbered with a wobbly strut until
I stumble on a slab of sidewalk jutting up
lifted by unruly
roots protruding through and
I’m reminded
of the hurting and malnourished earth and
dirt beneath the concrete
the stony parts we plucked
for prison walls and churches
the wildness we whittled toward submission
the weeds we squeezed into medicines and spirits
now reaching between the breaches and
uglying up my street
squeaking for my sympathies but barking
up the wrong tree, so to speak, since
their putrid superfluity and
inhuman fumings are buried for a reason.
Bio:
Josh Martin, born and raised in central NJ, is an Italian-American poet writing since he was 15. He received a BA in Communication at DeSales University, where he was a frequent contributor to the campus literary magazine, and was a two-time winner of the annual campus Battle of the Bands as a solo rap artist. Josh currently runs a monthly Poetry Workshop in Fairmount, and his poetry has been featured in The Philadelphia Secret Admirer and The Weal.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 