Poem: 5 pages and 4 maps.

Poem: 5 pages and 4 maps.

(186 words) 15 October 2018

By Steven R.A. Markin

will the crown prosecutor take my side into consideration
and be reasonable?

5 pages and 4 maps
I stayed away from it,
for as long as I could.
it had been burdening me
obstructing my work
not painting
not writing poems
not focusing
hard to sleep,
so I dug deep and brought it out.

I cried.

I could image the day in the spring in May,
vividly.
I have thought of this day
over
and over
again
and again
for over 4 months.
I wrote
and done so, honestly,
concisely,
and detailed.
my side of the story
non-fiction.
the most important story I have written,
but not the hardest.

2 charges.

my mom’s suicide attempt
was much harder than this.
staying inside scared for nearly three years
was harder than this.
losing Uncle George,
harder than this,
losing Maxwell,
harder than this,
losing Uncle Ray
losing Grandpa
all harder than this.

prison,
or no prison?
I am me.
forever me.
not who they think I am,
I am me.

5 pages and 4 maps of a day I can’t take back.
but I am still me.

poem: retribution

poem: retribution

(113 words) 12 Sept 2018

by Steven R.A. Markin

 

i don’t mind the rain,
and not having heat to stay warm.
or the restless nights
and the early mornings that follow.
i don’t mind being alone
in my room,
or in the library,
or in my backyard,
working endlessly on a computer
making nearly nothing in return.
a head overwhelmed with ideas
too far back,
and never fast enough.
without a division of labour,
just me
and i’m used to it.

this isn’t about motivation,
or driven to succeed,
or making money,
fuck money,
this is about me.
retribution.
you misused my name,
and you will know that you did.

i am still a nice guy
and i am gone for good.

poem: your new screensaver

poem: your new screensaver

(171 words) July 2018

by Steven R.A. Markin

paint covers the black canvas.
blotches on the side of my hands
underarm,
and fingers.
supplies scattered throughout my room,
my fat cat sleeps in the corner
on a bed sheet,
snoring,
and the music plays low.
the products have yet to be painted,
the book has yet to be completed,
the skills have yet to be improved,
money invested,
and all nights,
i paint, and i write,
to 4 or 5 a.m.
and when i sleep,
i dream in colours
mixed, brushed
and illustrated.
the banks aren’t kind,
the bills don’t stop,
interest rates increase,
fees,
and student loans,
and no word from the lawyer.
you tell me about your new screen saver,
a painting,
i painted
and sent you.
if this world wants to ruin me,
i will paint the bleak canvas,
i will write on the walls,
and i will be the one
no matter what,
slouched over,
broken to pieces,
and old,
crying,
with pride.
do your best,
i will not give up
for you
and you.


My acrylic paintings for sale

poem: looking at a failure

poem: looking at a failure

(226 words) July 2018

by Steven R.A. Markin

i don’t like the idea of who i am.
i can’t stand my reflection
looking back at me
with those sad eyes
that i’ve heard about
many times
from beautiful people
close
and strange.
i can’t stand the sight of my own
broken smile
unable to fake it
unable to convince me.
how many of them realize the truth?
looking at myself knowing that
each endeavour in life
that had excited me
thrilled me
that i had planned
and looked forward to
all had failed.
i learned at a young age
that plans are like lies
and adults lie,
and they are so damn convincing.
they taught me to smile.
i hate standing here
in the dim light half naked
a while past midnight
with paint on my hands
and ink on my fingertips
a sore neck and lower back,
i hate the effort i put in
all to fail.
work can be unappreciated
unappreciated is why i am alone
and single
and a failure.
well,
i wasn’t born a failure
but I had to learn and to grow
as i don’t fail in the same way
each time.
No.
i learn, but i can’t seem
to get it enough right
like them,
like the ones who have real smiles.
but i am not afraid to fail
unlike them,
at least i try
and i wouldn’t dare stop.

 


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poem: a loose tooth hangs

poem: a loose tooth hangs

(161 words) July 2018

by Steven R.A. Markin

 

a loose tooth hangs
from his mouth.
the other teeth are perfectly
inline.
he wiggles the tooth and pulls it,
still attached to inflamed gums.
trying to ignore the stinging
and the nuisance of the tooth,
he carries on walking
on a sunny Saturday
afternoon.
a black bus with tinted windows passes
as he walks the sidewalk.
screams of cheer,
younger voices,
like the ones, he goes to school with.
the bus turns into a gas station,
a couples guys exit,
blue jeans and black shirts,
staggering.
more guys looking the same,
walking much the same,
following,
inline.
a few females,
and then a few more,
skirts and booty jean shorts
all in plaid shirts
tied at their waists.
all the same
all inline,
still screaming with cheer.

the man pulls on his tooth,
detaches,
a little blood,
a little sting.
“i never did fit in,” he said gripping his tooth while walking up a hill listening to the cheers quiet.

 


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poem: uncle george

poem: uncle george

(339 words) July 2018

by Steven R.A. Markin

my photo album knocked over, and pictures fell to the ground
memories scattered on the floor,
and one stood out
that I haven’t seen in years,
and sadly,
I haven’t thought of you in a long time.
It is from ’88,
i was two-years-old sitting next to uncle George.
You had both of your legs in the picture,
a large gut,
and you were looking at me smiling.
I am smiling and looking away.
My hoods up,
and your jackets not done up,
we were in Edmonton
on a bench.
You use to take me to the falls
we would feel the water mist,
and hike,
and climb,
as high as we could.
sometimes we would take my cousin, Candice,
but we know you loved me the most.
Did I tell you that she nearly killed me
by kicking a boulder down the mountain,
well, it bounced over my head,
she bought me bags of candy to keep quiet.
whoops.
don’t worry,
she also tried to teach me karate
to fight off my bullies.
honestly, though,
I can’t seem to remember much,
I remember each time you visited,
you went from a cane with one leg,
then to a wheelchair,
with no legs.
I recall you being lively with your words,
fun and energetic when I was around.
Dad says that you were a bullshiter,
who lied, but meant well.
I think you owe him 20$.
I remember us getting the phone call,
and we got in the van and drove to Edmonton
from Calgary that very day.
We didn’t do that for grandpa,
Ray,
or Grandma.
I remember the room being dim,
Auntie stood next to the bed,
and Candice.
I was young, but they all said you haven’t spoken,
not a word from your mouth.
You looked at me, and Auntie said
that was the happiest you have looked.
I walked over
and you spoke.
I never heard what you said,
and it has bothered me.
But maybe Uncle George,
that was the point:
now I listen.

 


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poem: purple

poem: purple

(132 words) 25 June 2018

by Steven R.A. Markin

i was told that purple represents passion
i respond by saying, once it goes purple
you know you have been passionate.

passion resonates deep within
an energy that needs to be attended to
properly.
an inclusion to the world
an intra-
and inter-
connection.
we would be so much better off
than having more than just a month,
June
to celebrate.
the streets are celebrated,
the lives are celebrated,
the lives matter; they have always mattered
and will always matter.
there is more to life than what we have been told
allow the energy deep within
be proud,
be bold,
and celebrate
each and every day
much like in June,
allow the passion
not hate
to pave the way
like rainbows to gold.
so each and every person
can walk,
dance,
and be included.
there are more colours than just purple.