Selected Poems From Some of Mark's Published Works
(Hence, his "Poetry" license plate!)
I think of her
amid stales sounds
of dreams left stagnant.
Toying with my time,
she'd take my spirit;
Rising from her sleep,
she'd softly touch my neck.
Times whistles weary tunes,
as mourners mourn
and lovers love.
Air strangles me;
leaves me grasping,
gasping for my past.
The snake sheds his skin,
while dreamers leave theirs on.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
The seed of our love
was tenderly planted.
We watched it;
Watered it;
Sprouting, it grew
to the Oak of
our love.
Now leaves
are slowly falling,
bark is torn;
roots are worn.
Years have taxed a toll;
still, we love as though
the seed were just planted.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
One light electric spark
streaks through unlit lips
to a swishing, sloshing pleasure
that comes when tongues blow
the fuse in the circuit of love.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
The foundation of our love
was cemented so silently,
that when the walls went up
we found they were between us,
not around us.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
Once, I tasted
the sweetness of your smile;
breathed
your breath.
Now,
the sweat has dried
and love is lost;
my arms only hold
the memory of you.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
The sweet scent of your smooth,
soft surface sweeps in the breeze.
Men turn their heads to take
long loving looks
at your tanned beauty.
One day,
when you grow old,
the breeze will stop
and men won't bother turning anymore
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
Love drifts through
my open window;
the shade flies up
and leaves me naked.
I cower in a corner
conscious of leery eyes;
my mask discarded,
lonely,
with no disguise.
The moon of my misery rises,
my ego's sunlight sets;
costumes crowd my room,
as my soul shivers.
Greatness walks away,
Humility comes near;
The facade of my self's
taxi has faded,
leaving me to pay the fare.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
Towers are giant wrestlers,
powerful arms
stretch for my throat.
The street is my
bed of asphalt;
the sky
my blanket.
Time is mind;
urges rules me,
chemicals burn me.
The sun rises;
I squint, yawning.
The night can't
be done.
Sleep still
haunts me,
overpowers me.
My body is on
the runway again.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
The aged teacher sits in class
and stores stale words and moldy thoughts
for attics in the children's minds.
They'll learn in the streets.
The party starts;
joints make their
way across the smoky room.
Abstainers become users in the
pressures of their peers...
pills bring thrills you'll
remember in later years.
The street man selling ice cream,
deals in white powder, too.
Ten kids sell death for him
at the school.
Minds are burning;
no one is learning.
A peaceful man strolls leisurely
through the noisy playground,
his sixty years of life well spent.
Razored-rocks like hungry vultures dive
and shred his skin to soggy slices.
He won't lead the Cub Scouts anymore.
A troop of rowdy schoolchildren plan
the night ahead,
deciding they will borrow
some American bread.
A lovely innocent child,
gas can in hand,
has spent her last cent
for Exxon Supreme.
The children decide to make a human torch--
no one hears the scream.
The young boy stops a girl bent with fear,
demands she commit an act
she cannot even dream. She frantically fights.
His bright blade glints beneath
the dull street lamp. Tearfully, she nods,
getting the point.
The semester never ends.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author. This poem was written during the crisis in the Boston schools in the mid-70's and was published by the Boston Globe.
Dedicated To The Memory of Tom Fraiola*
A sports car
clings to a torn tree,
in coital embrace
Screaming shreds of glass
dance beneath the weeping
streetlight.
Blue lights flash
and stop. A heart no
longer beats.
Passerby fight for
a better view;
minutes are hours,
hours are days.
Red-coated men trudge a
bashed body from the bloody scene;
a girl utters a piercing scream.
Time shudders at what's ahead;
a life was young, now is dead.
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author. This was written when a car accident took the life of Tom only days before his Curry College graduation.
Sad faces limply remind me of past days,
when life pumped through my petrified bones.
The Rabbi tells the sleepy congregation he knew me,
but everyone knows I never went to Temple.
My father says, "He never was what I expected. In fact,
he was useless, nothing like me."
Grandma says, "He never made me proud. I doubt he ever could have."
She's right you know.
Sister says, "He treated me like dirt. I'm glad he's gone."
Won't they be surprised, when I bang open the lid,
and say,
"You all bored me to death."
* From "Feelings" (c) 1977 Poetry Press of Boston
(c) 2002 by PMPnetwork, Inc. All Rights Reserved. May not be reprinted, published, or cited without written permission of the author.
A LIMITED NUMBER OF COPIES OF "FEELINGS" ARE AVAILABLE! To order an autographed copy of the book, send $10 (includes shipping) to: PMPNetwork, Box 639, Randolph, MA 02368. Please specify what name you want inscribed.
BOOK SOLD OUT!
SnydersStoughton.com Success:
OVER 10 MILLION HITS
in the past Seven Months
(details)