Biography, Martin A. Bojan
I’ve been writing poetry since college, graduated, and became an attorney. I fell in love, and have loved writing ever since. Born in Brooklyn in 1945, my poetry often follows the experiences of baby-boomers thru the years, to now, aging. In addition to poetry, I have written several plays, and short stories. My last short story was published here in El Ojo.del Lago.
Forever Young
Ajijic, high above the lake,
a day’s no more than what you make.
A hotel on a cobble street,
a lady there, I chanced to meet.
Her villa perched upon a hill.
An autumn day can fan a chill.
An afternoon, a brief repast,
a time to rest, respite at last.
A cup of tea, a room to hire,
discourse beside a roaring fire.
Two glasses, a smile upon a tray,
a lovely way to spend a day.
A bottle uncorked, to decanter,
an afternoon, two souls to banter.
A lady of classics versed and learned,
language, letters deservedly earned.
Immersed in art, and well pleasured
evinced well read, qualities treasured.
Phrases turned with style and grace,
her simple dress, linen and lace.
Her face a façade, so abiding,
wondered what she might be hiding.
Each a special tale to tell,
a deep dark pit, a wishing well.
On the mantle a frame of white,
in its hold, her picture tight.
Drawn a stare, so deep so dark
visage unsettling, emotion stark.
Eyes spoke volumes, expression cast,
a tunnel to a distant past?
Her youthful face, there her yearning,
foreboding smile, sad yet burning
Eyes, pierced, black as night
seared, emitted a blinding light!
A story unwritten, not yet told,
a hidden history to unfold?
And so recounts the years gone bye,
her face aglow, hear her sigh.
Smile ablaze, her youthful glory
she narrates a wondrous story.
Her life, her love, her heart’s desire,
tales of passion, lust and fire.
Desire’s a weight that’s not abated,
pierce the veil that time’s created.
Embrace her life, hear her story
rejoice, rejoice celebrate her glory!
A song to be forever sung,
an old woman now, forever young.
*****
Song of the Sea
The sea’s song reckons,
its cadence, it beckons.
Entreats and cajoles,
sours and roars,
its force implores.
It calls and demands
by nature, commands.
The sea’s song reckons,
its cadence, it beckons.
Stretches far, reaches high,
a canopy of stars,
a home for gods.
Cradles the heavens,
it summons, it beckons.
Sings and entices,
by force as it rises.
A cadence it beats,
compels and entreats.
It roars and sours,
allures and assures,
by force it implores.
The sea’s song reckons,
its rhythm, it beckons.
Calls in song,
a tune not wrong.
“Come to me,
come and be!”
A sirens cry cannot deny.
Sail thru the sky,
see a ship fly.
A good song it reckons,
hypnotizes, it beckons.
Repeats and haunts,
it’s ageless, it taunts
Sung by sages,
the melody of ages.
Night or day,
sail away.
Near or far,
the brightest star.
Far off places,
strange new faces.
Ancient, and yet,
somehow new,
chart your course,
find your due.
The sea’s song reckons,
its cadence it beckons.
*****
The Amber Amulet
Shadows flicker on a wall
reflect a time beyond recall.
Aside a looking glass cast,
a moment frozen from the past.
There imprisoned in its hold,
a time ago, a long-lost fold.
As it was once, still today,
a tune that will not fade away.
What was then, still forever,
one instant, one prized treasure.
Spirit caught, eternally true
ancient and yet strangely new.
Priceless, neither bought nor sold,
valued deep, a velvet hold.
But, unlike that, locked up tight,
a yellow globe held to the light.
One essence, forgotten never,
what was it, your greatest pleasure?
A hapless fly in sticky sap
twists and turns, an amber trap.
Capturing those that sleep,
holding tight, a moment deep.
Try it may, it can’t tear free,
held fast to that very tree.
Crypt in that curious way,
caught forever and a day.
Imprisoned on a moonlit bright,
an instant caught, and held so tight.
Locked in time, fixed in space,
buried in a hidden place.
Till one day, born anew,
a sunlit orb, for all to view.
Once gone, now, forever home,
a cherished memory, a favorite poem.
A flower, a gaze, a deep-felt sigh,
a promise never to say good-by.
A smile, a touch, a kiss, a glance,
given to love, taken a chance.
What occurrence would it be?
The very first day, you and me?
Where we were, that magic place,
when first, I gazed upon your face.
The moment you first touched my soul,
The instant realized; I was whole.
Sculpt eternally, fixed and set,
caught inside that sticky net,
Two glasses held deep into night,
a sonnet read by candle light?
Magically, that it did capture
two lover’s moments of pure rapture.
Somewhere in these hapless rhymes
is a heartbeat locked in time.
What was your dream, your desire?
What once set your soul afire?
Your deepest wish, it come true,
encapsulate in that swirling hue.
An actor, forever plays a part,
one captured scene, deep in his heart.
Oh, what a joy it would be
forever there for all to see!
Tomorrow, always and a day,
the golden amber amulet’s way!
*****
Time in a Bottle
Stroll along a quiet beach,
so far away, so within reach.
What treasures find her craggy shore,
what mysteries from her sandy floor?
A ship falters, a treacherous season,
a crew is lost, a godless reason.
Washed to shore where mangroves bake,
what does she give, what does she take?
Bobbing in the foam filled surf,
tangled in its weeded turf,
a buoy flashes in the night,
a diamond sparkles oh so bright.
A bottle floats up to her shore,
a silent call knocks on her door.
Drifted from a far-off land,
a hapless course, or guided hand?
Preordained, the hand of fate,
found its way, this moonlit gate.
A story told, tale unfolds,
floating beacon, mystery holds.
Fate and currents oddly shift.
an ancient tale took to drift.
A land forgotten, long ago?
Time in a bottle moves so slow.
A nameless tribe, a plaintive cry,
a plea to gods who only sigh?
What’s about to be revealed,
that which centuries concealed?
What profound thru the ages?
Worldly knowledge, penned by sages?
Stoops the gatekeeper in the sand,
with baited breath held in hand,
trembled fingers, he unfurls,
its rolled verses he uncurls.
Awash in anticipation,
an ancient time, a long lost nation?
Peers by glint, reflected light,
to fix his gaze upon a sight.
What for years, set afloat,
now appears, this little note.
“Out of doubloons and cannot buy,
without a drink soon, I will die.
So, if someone finds this bottle kindly,
fill with rum and send back timely.
Peruvian Pete,
April 2, 1733
P.S. Please hurry!”
After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
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