Poems – Anton Martin Smith Writer

“An Embarrassing Mishap at the MIDCLAPS” (Prose).

January 12, 2026January 12, 2026Posted in UncategorizedTagged Books, Bukowski, Humour, Mainstream Poetry, poem, Poems, Poetry, Satan, social commentary, writingLeave a comment

By Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Envelope was delivered to the smartly dressed compere.

It was a ritzy affair, all paid for via legally stolen cash (of course).

The compare had a blank face even more blank than a blank page,

That was about to be filled with soulless blank copy-cat words,

From one of the many blank-headed nominees.

You know the ones – the ones that put the B in Banal, just as much as they put the ANAL in bANAL.

The compere’s smile was at least as fake as a Politician’s or a Real Estate Agents, or a Dentists for that matter.

He opened the letter slowly & with the accompanied ‘tinny’ drum roll sound playing from a 5 watt speaker.

And then his cold flappy bloodless gums started to flap, with sound coming out.

“And the winner this year …Of the Stock-Standard Middle-Class Poetry Awards, aka the “MIDCLAPS”… is…as it has been every year since inception…It Goes to….

Yes me Zombies! – ‘The Anti-Poetry Non-Truth Factory Poetry Division Collective’ strikes again!

And yes, I’m afraid to say they have one it for the 100th straight year!

Ain’t ‘Rigo-nomics’ grand folks!

They’ve won with the exact same poem, but they’ve slightly rehashed it!

Ooooh! This is so…so…anti-surprising, isn’t it?!

Let me read it to you, as I know you’re all dying to hear it.

Wintery Forest Leaves

As the wintery leaves fell through the dense windswept forest,

The agile birds swooped between the trees,

Like a thread going through a needle,

Their spirited cries echoed though the valley gorges,

And reminded us of our long ago forgotten home,

Which had the strange but stylish hyphenated name of: I-coonta-fookin-recalla”

WAIT A MINUTE DEAR AUDIENCE!

SOMEONE HAS ILLEGALLY INTERFERRED WITH THE WINNERS ENTRY!

THEY’VE FALSELY ADDED AN EXTRA THE LAST LINE OF THIS POEM!

They’ve made it interesting and/or witty and/or unique and/or truthful!

They went BIM BIM BIM

When it was BLAND BLAND BLAND we wanted!

THIS IS ILLEGAL POETRY MY FRIENDS AND WILL NOT BE TOLLERATED!

The MIDCLAPS Awards are on hold indefinitely pending an investigation into this travesty!.

For who knows dear audience & sponsors? –

Perhaps there is a coup going on inside ‘The Anti-Poetry Non-Truth Factory Poetry Division’?

If we don’t nip this in the bud ASAP where will we be hmmm?

Meaningful, Witty Unique & Truthful poetry will abound about the world!

‘The Masses’ will surely un-enslave themselves!

‘The Evil One’ won’t like it!

Yes, Yes Yes, calm down now, take your seats…quell your murmurs…I know we cannot have that folks.

Yes Yes Yes – to the Doctor Sir standing up, I can understand that – Yes ‘we cannot upset Satan’, I agree that ‘it’s against our oath’.

Yes Yes Yes to the madam Lawyer standing up, I agree ‘it’s against our mandate’ – to ‘keep all that’s good in the dark’.

Yes Yes Yes to the Real Estate agent standing up with the for-sale sign on forehead, I agree it’s against clause 6-66 of our constitution ‘Good people cannot be allowed to have good things’.

Don’t worry folks leave it with me and the good folks at the Anti-Poetry-League-Limited aka APOLE

You good folks can rest easy now as you know as much as I do:

SATAN himself – our CEO – would never let anyone take a bite into APOLE and get away with it.

Please enjoy the snack buffet on your way out.

“No Clocks , Nix Hearts” (A Poem)

January 10, 2026January 10, 2026Posted in UncategorizedTagged Challenges, Endurance, Love, Poems, Stoicism, The Human Condition, Time, writingLeave a comment

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The social equivalent to burnt toast? –

Something simple wasn’t done carefully and as a result everyone got singed.

No one likes ‘burnt offerings’, but sometimes that’s all anyone has to give.

Sometimes that simple thing not done was simply ‘no-love’ or it’s close cousin ‘no-time’.

No Love, No Time

No Clocks, Nix Harts.

A family of two that cuts in half?

A game they play called ‘pop-up life’?

Where endurance is the only winning strategy,

And having your heart stolen is bad.

“The Disease that Was Killed with a Slogan” (Prose)

January 8, 2026January 9, 2026Posted in UncategorizedTagged alcohol, bars, Books, fiction, Gen X, Gen Z, Humour, life, mental-health, Poems, Reproduction, social commentary, Wowser, writing1 Comment

I walk back from the place & see my neighbour.

They are Gen Z – about 23.

We’ve Been Neighbours since he was born.

I am a young Gen X – I’m 47.

I haven’t ever really said much to the young fella,

Probably because neighbors these days avoid each other in general.

But he knows I’m his neighbor & vice versa (of course).

Anyway, so I’m walking home.

He sees me from about thirty meters away he’s walking towards me.

And so he doesn’t have to interact with another human being,

He sells a dummy & pretends he’s going to the other direction.

But I’m on to him – he’s bad at executing.

As I walk pass him, not five meters later, he veers back to his original plan and direction.

Proof he’s gone out of his way to avoid me, because it obvious that a passing nod is all too much for him.

If this is the future of our species WE have no hope.

They try to avoid all stress – even the smallest tiniest piece of it.

Thinking more deeply about it, this is surely the behaviour of an endangered animal that is inevitably soon due for extinction.

Let me illustrate the point with a wildlife analogy.

If it was a nature doco about the small endangered ‘Furry Zwapzwap’ of Gonkswania,

The narrator would say:

Sadly the small furry Zwapzwap has become so reclusive over the last century, that it has given up entirely on the stress of communication at all, & is now mute. It is now unable to make it’s former muffled warbling sound. This also means it has tragically lost it’s mating call. It no longer reproduces at all, except by accident when one furry Zwapzwap falls over onto another member of the opposite sex. The Gonwanian Zwapzwap is so now shy it only ventures out when it has to eat, and only eats the minimum so to the reduce stress of being outside to long outside its safe warm underground burrow. Sadly, with all this lack of vitality, Furry Zwapzwap numbers have fallen dramatically to the point of-no-return where even a ‘massive accidental copulation event’ will not stop their total extinction by the year 2075.

The world needs to realise that the under 35 crowd- aka the species future hopes – are the f*cking weak afraid-of-livng furry Zwapzwaps that are breeding themselves and ‘future us out’ of existence.

And p.s. I don’t really care about us aging Gen X’s – we’ve done ‘the tour of duty’ – we’re allowed to start slowly fading away. It’s the Future that matters. No one should start fading away at age sixteen, twenty three, thirty one.

I think we need a new ‘Manhatten Project’ to stop all this ‘scaredie cat’ nonsense.

I’m not saying this is the best strategy option – but perhaps the following scheme easiest way to save future extinction:

Cheap Rent,

Cheap Alcohol,

Lots of late night shitty meat-market bars re-open,

A shitty but guaranteed job for every and any dopey schmuck loser.

I call this theory by a very interesting name:

“Roll back the Wowsering, Roll on the Partying”.

And I reckon you’d win an election with it as a slogan.

If I come up with a less based, more refined way to save us all – I’ll let you know.

But I have a sneaking suspicion there is none.

Hopefully by the time I am 125, I trust someone long ago with more energy than me will have read this prose as a young man or woman, & then championed my idea in the real world of high Politics.

And then perhaps all going well, I will be reading a History book of the Twenty First Century just ended that has a chapter called:

Roll back the Wowsering, Roll on the Partying: The Disease that Was Killed with a Slogan.

But if not we’ll certainly go the way of the Romans, which is sad but probably fitting – given that we are technically the last remnant of The Roman Empire anyway.

If this latter case is the case, I’ll be the last Human on earth age 125, casually reading a dirt-salvaged History book with the chapter:

No One Rolled back the Wowsering, No One Was Partying: And Isn’t It a Pity That We’re All Now Extinct

“If The Results Are Good” (A prose Poem)

December 11, 2025December 12, 2025Posted in UncategorizedTagged Blow-Ups, Books, coffee, Customer Service, fiction, Flat White, Hot Chocolate, Humour, life, Poems, slice of life, social commentary, The Human Condition, writingLeave a comment

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

A Gas-station coffee run it is.

“I’d like a flat white please”, I request.

“Do you wan’t sugar?”, she queries.

“No honey”, I say cheerily.

“If you keep talking like that you’ll get it served in your face!”

She is serious.

Her face is contorted, pained.

She’s in her 50s she has grey dreadlocked hair, a face lined by a share of hard times.

Up until that moment our customer to customer service relations had been friendly enough, perfunctory.

Aiming to quickly diffuse the moment I apologize.

“Oh sorry I didn’t mean anything by that, I didn’t mean to offend…I must be getting old”.

It seemingly half works – after all scolding hot coffee has not hit my face, has it not?

“Would you like a marshmallow?” She says in a as-per-standard-question way.

“No thanks” I say, wondering why she is offering marshmallows for a flat white.

She finishes & hands the coffee over.

I matter-of-factly pay, & leave to my awaiting vehicle which with my ‘ troublesome coffee’ in hand.

As I drive away wearing sunglasses, I glance in to see the counter area.

I’m ascertaining the body language after the unsavory event.

The other staff member that had witnessed it all is looking at me black faced – I take that as a minor win.

The one who served me is obscured.

As I post-mortum the situation – my internal narrative is of two strands:

One is self serving:

“Geez some people can’t control their emotions at all, why no sense of humor – especially in that role”

The other is of a negative bent:

“Oh no you’ve put your foot in it again – why did you say that you fool – ‘no honey’…Geez!“.

As I drive away to my home, I take a sip of the “troublesome coffee”.

I now know why she offered a marshmallow after I ordered.

The sweet taste is sickening.

It is very much a hot chocolate, & not a flat white.

So she has either intentionally or unintentionally punished me on the spot.

I do half a u-turn & then I think better of it & abandon the u-turn.

I’m again driving home.

I’m feeling a little mentally deflated about it all – not that it’s a big deal or anything.

When I enter my driveway I park & disembark & I suddenly perk up a notch.

“Ah…This is good writing material!” I have suddenly realized.

“Thank god I took up writing!” I say to myself with relief.

Writing really has added so many silver linings to the blackest of social thunderclouds that abound.

Of course the worry about this phenomena is that you will create drama in order to write about it.

I wonder – Am I already do this without knowing it?

the problem is of course. as they say – an old chestnut – but is it good or bad?

Well, I cannot categorically answer that – as the answer embodies a conflict of interest.

But as an imperfect, rough & contaminated answer I will say this:

If the results are good…

“Bells, Burgers, & Language Instruction ” (A Prose Poem)

November 27, 2025November 27, 2025Posted in UncategorizedTagged Burgers, fiction, food, Humour, Language, Poems, slice of life, social commentary, travel, writingLeave a comment

by Anton Martin Smith

It’s midday.

“Shall we get pies or burgers” I say to my elderly mother.

The usual ‘bought lunch’ is a ‘chicken & mushroom’ pie for mum,

And a ‘Mince & Cheese variant for me from the ‘servo’ –

along with other incendiary items:

Classic Big Orange Drink that comes housed in a Plastic 2L ‘Milk Container’.

One Coffee for me either in a can or barista – depending on the weather.

“Yes let’s go for burgers” she says with a half energetic thought.

So the good but not really good servo pies are out today.

In my car I go.

I go to the asian eatery – where I have become a novelty.

This is because I like to engage with the staff – who are of various levels of ‘broken english’.

So Burgers now ordered, haggle over a ‘cash price’ done & negotiated.

While waiting I talk to the ‘most broken english’ staff member – the husband of the best talker.

He reminds me of the kind of foreigner that is working too hard to be able to learn the language.

This is not a criticism – just an observation – for we westerners are glib at how hard it is for a ‘far flunger’.

But this time he is keen for an ‘impromptu lesson’.

I see a ruler on the counter – I pick it up & say slowly, demonstratively the word ‘ruler’.

Of course ‘r’s’ & ‘l’s’ are impossible to pronounce, & this word has a double does.

After the as expected bad pronuncial result – I chastise myself for choosing that prop.

I see the counter bell

I say again clearly, teacherly drawn out, demonstrably & repeatedly

“Bell”….”Bell”…”Bell” as I finish it I rung the bell a little.

Before he has the chance to reply comes a disembodied from the back kitchen voice:

“I’M COMING”

We both laugh at this unintended consequence.

Isn’t it great? – the language of physical comedy needs no teacher.

The lesson ends as the now embodied voice comes in & hands over the burgers.

“There’s Extra beetroot for you” what a delight I think as I say my friendly goodbyes.

These little ‘slices of life’ are quite uplifting.

NB: I can report that at home the burgers were well received.

“Editorial: Todays Barbarianism To Civility Ratio ” (A Prose Poem)

November 7, 2025November 8, 2025Posted in UncategorizedTagged australian-writer, Barbarism, Books, Civility, history, Humour, nz-writer, Poems, Shakespeare, writingLeave a comment

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com

An national economy should have a ratio of ‘Barbarism to Civility’ –

Yes the “B.T.C” should be quoted in the same revered terms that “G.D.P” is.

A high ‘B.T.C ratio’ should be of great embarrassment to a nation.

In fact – far more so than a ‘Low G.D.P’ is.

For we can all agree that it is better to be poor but gracious,

Than a marauding, unthinking brute.

One day I hope to sit down at a cafe with newspaper in hand,

With the big front page headline booming:

“Barbarianism To Civility Ratio Crashes 27.7% : Spontaneous celebrations fill the streets everywhere!”

& when we open the next day’s paper perhaps we may see this updated report:

“Unfortunately due to the previous days ongoing unbridled celebrations that then turned into a melee –

There was caused a near instantaneous boom in the Barbarism to Civility ratio,

Resulting in a sudden reversal of fortunes,

Thus wiping out yesterdays very happy losses.”

Shakespeare in Titus wrote the line

“Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous”.

But yet he knew & we all know how barbarous the Romans were.

And since we are merely a scattered smoking remnant of the Roman Empire

Do we not today still deceive ourselves in exactly the same way?

We are indeed a well shaken cocktail of Barbarism & Civility.

But let us step towards the silver linings, away from our clouded & foggy minds.

Let’s give a Roman ‘Ave’ to the advent of the ‘Barbarism to Civility Ratio’, printed daily.

Sure I know it wont work, but as a late era Roman I have a love of empty platitudes,

Bold face lies, & abject pigheadedness,

& getting blindly drunk on highly-dubious-philosophic-alcoholic-elixirs.

It is the merely the Late-Era Roman way.

“Cafe Produced Warblings” (A Poem)

November 1, 2025November 1, 2025Posted in UncategorizedTagged Books, Cafes, Coffeehouses, poem, Poems, Poet Laurette, Poetry, social commentary, writingLeave a comment

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

I had just finished listing to the old ‘Poet Laurette’ and was on my way out.

A spare coffee was needed for the usual night’s work – that is, writing.

For sipping a coffee while trying to be original certainly helps matters.

< Digression: >

Isn’t a pity that we if being truthful now have to say “excuse me for my keyboard clacking awaits”,

Versus yesteryear’s romantic “Excuse me Sir/Madam my quill & parchment & fine hardwood desk awaits”.

Yes it is a pity, but I remind myself that it’s the writing that matters vs the input method.

< Digression Ends >

“What do you do” said the coffee girl.

“I do some Carpentry & Handyman-ing, but that’s only half my life…

….the other half is sitting in front of a computer at night – ya’know – writing”.

I wasn’t sure if she respected the arts, but I was tired of hiding today,

And with the new owners – the cafe was now becoming more of an arts hangout to.

“Oh”, she says.

it was hard to decipher if this was a “good oh” or a “bad oh” or a neutral “oh”.

As I left the cafe she says “have fun in front of your computer!”

It sounded a little like a “jab” but we types are touchy on such matters, aren’t we?

As I was literally half out the door I reposted (in good humour of course).

“You never know – I might write a poem about you“

The 70-something Poet Laurette who was sitting quietly at a table laughed as he overheard.

“I hope not” she said.

“That’s why they say ‘the pen is mightier than the sword'” I doubly retorted.

Again, the Poet Laurette chortled.

And as I walked home on that perfect sunny day, I thought to myself:

Ah these trips to the cafe are getting better & better.

They are even beginning to foment material.

Why is it always true that the life-sliced-words have a certain ring?

Because they’re the freshly filtered words emerging from the ground.

That’s why.

Long live the cafe-produced-warblings –

For much like ourselves, we would all miss them had they not been there.

“Damn The kooks That Threw the books”. (A Poem)

October 28, 2025October 30, 2025Posted in UncategorizedTagged Barbarians, Books, Nouveau Riche, PoemsLeave a comment

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Zombies have arisen swiftly,

The ones that fear the page,

The ones that are tremble-weary of the wisened word.

These walking dead have taken over the halls of power,

With minds of pewter, & clothes of gold.

Like schoolchildren they’ve scribbled empty platitudes on all the walls,

The walls that border the town squares .

By now the charletans have triumphed through all the worlds arches.

They’ve never tried Shakespeare,

& think ‘King Lear’ was a guy who got meetoo’d.

They think Dickens was probably a dick (for he liked books so),

& Chaucer simply a sorcerer (For he loved words didn’t he).

They think Keats was a brand of jeans (For they hate Poets),

& Byron they’ve confused for a beach (They love Jetskis after all).

They think Milton is only a dud town (They’ll burn for that),

& Samuel Johnson just some retired English football player (For Ignoramus Pro Sportmen are their Gods).

Though it is true they have been known to use a book,

It is only to usually to throw or perhaps to stand upon,

To see something over a fence that they are not meant to see –

Probably someone getting changed with drapes open.

These are our new leaders – the ‘new anti-book-barbarians’ – the N.A.B.B.’s

Unlike the Nazi’s –

They have no need physically burn the books – they’re to lazy for that.

They simply ignored the books metaphysical raison-de-tre entirely.

If anyone said “Look at that book” they’d look squarely at it & say….’where???’

For the N.A.B.B’s have always loved the ‘boldface lie’ – call it a hobby of theirs.

And so of course this couldn’t end well – the Earth & all its skies did soon fall.

The sound was like a table full of wine glasses suddenly tipped over by a drunk reveler.

For we let the barbarians – the N.A.B.B’s – through our too flimsy psychic fortifications,

Thinking for too long that they were not an enemy,

Because they had sneakily swindly-snuck up from the deepths – our depths.

They ‘faked it’ but we let them ‘make it’.

And so naturally, everything had to become ‘completely fake’.

And when the end did finally come,

With the falling & crashing of the skies above,

The few hiding-readers-still-alive did but shiver-shed a single ‘encoldened’ tear –

For with their foresight, they saw it all coming but did nothing –

They had never left their rooms.

For their tall overflowing bookcases, comfy chairs, & violin & piano filled spaces,

Were all far too enchanting to unshackle themselves from.

Doubly so, during those last few anarchic years.

And this legend does tell of the Earth’s last ever Reader.

& you ask ‘what dying words were ‘mumurously’ said?’:

“Damn the kooks that threw the books –

The barbarians at our door.

These blames I take for my own self –

For their unworded parrys I chose to ignore”.

Beards, Pitchforks, & Drays (A Prose Poem)

October 18, 2025October 23, 2025Posted in UncategorizedTagged AI, coca cola, dystopia, Poems, social commentary, technology, The Amish, The Future, Warnings of AILeave a comment

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Some days I think of ‘Donkeys & Drays’.

& Not becasue I am a ‘freak’ – that is beside the point.

I am musing of the the many mega-foibles, of our medern technology

For The Amish were right,

They said no to the Model T,

& kept their horse & cart.

Once ridiculed as luddites,

They are now looking like geniuses.

For the biblical ‘apple of knowledge’ warning is true:

The idea that Tech will bring forward ‘Utopia’ is probably a sly illusion.

Now that we are about to be enslaved by smart robots,

We are starting to finally get it.

Yes, there will come a day when you trade in your ‘Tesla’ for a ‘Dray’.

You will pick the dray up from the Amish folk,

And The Tesla will be given to the ‘smart robots’ to drive away in.

But because you are wiser than most, you have moved early to become Amish-like.

It’s always wise to be an ‘early adopter’ anyway – is it not?.

For soon you will have no choice:

For while the catch cry of “technology is the future” was true once,

Long term – It was not true for us, it was true for them…the futures artificial beings.

Our future will be full of:

Ridiculously Long Beards,

Dowdy clothing,

Garden-grown food,

Rusty Old Pitchforks,

Campfire musings,

Donkeys, Horses, & Drays.

And we’ll be really surprised that for all of this – we’re all a lot more happier for it.

While pitchforking away the mountains of hay, we will turn to our ex-cubicle workmate & say:

“The Amish were right all along – I’m having a blast, why was I a cubicle-techno-sucker for so long?”.

To which your now long-bearded or long dressed ex-cubicle workmate will say:

“I totally agree, but I do miss coca-cola just a tad”.

To which you will reply by pointing & shouting.

“JUDAS!”,

While still privately thinking they are correct,

Within the privacy of you own mind…

This article is owned by Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ). If you are a person or a small non-profit please read or reproduce freely. Commercial Users or NGO’s: If you want to purchase for reprint of this work for a commercial project to reach a wider audience – then contact me via martinantonsmith@gmail.com to gain written legal permission.