Maynard Hartman Poems

He slammed the hood down,
was like a judge with a gavel.
I felt the tug of my string—
beginning to unravel.
...

The best part of that day in May,
was laying on the fresh cut hay.
Breathing the fumes of meadows fruit,
I rolled around…I stained my suit.
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Show me your thing
I’m traveled and lonely
and I’ve lost my spy ring
The professor sits high
...

One— is for the head, to be placed on the bed.
For that is the only way to make sure that their dead.

Two— is for the lips, to be placed with a kiss.
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A world of strife.
A battered wife.
So much to see,
this dying place is for me.
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A spirited debate, a silly argument.
Left alone now, out in the field.
The day, a beautiful display;
me and my love stranded in the hay.
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First to pull the stars,
from the sky.
Another day…
You found another way,
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she said it was a sticky thing
I laughed, it always is a tricky thing
watching as they pack away
like they’ve been on holiday
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Tumbling southward
Chasing the sun
Too Many lovers
Fighting the urge to run
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For once its brush gleans the cheek,
the lines on eyes begin to speak.
Of merriment.
Of sorrow.
...