Literary Yard

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‘Resignation’ and other poems by Mark Tulin

By: Mark Tulin


Don’t worry about me.
I’ve wasted too much time
investing in your company,
making your profits,
building your dream house,
watching the shares of your stocks rise
while you get a new Mercedes every year.

I don’t want your money.
I like myself too much
to shut myself up in a cubicle
and exist in working-class limbo
without any intrinsic reward.

You don’t have to worry,
I have a nest egg in the bank.
I intend to paint landscapes
of flowers and trees,
write poetry of wispy willows
and ocean vistas.
I’d much rather watch cloud formations
and take yoga by the sea
than wallow in your corporate purgatory.

Don’t worry about me.
Keep your severance pay.
Hold onto your 401K.
I can find a better opportunity
with more appreciation and dignity.


Soapbox Hero

The soapbox hero witnessing
on the street of spurious claims,
preached faith and transcendence,
promising miracles with each dollar
dropped in the collection bucket.

He gave simple answers
to life’s complicated questions
into one magical moment,
wrapped in a neatly-tied bow
and delivered to your front door.

Believe in how the spirit works, he says
as he gives you the same line,
the same worn-out phrases
that he dished-out yesterday.

He claims to be a partner
with the all-knowing,
a six-figured salesman,
who thumps the podium
with a lunatic’s conviction
without caution or delay.

He’s a rainmaker
who can’t form clouds,
a fisherman
who’s never cast a spinning reel,
and as much as he says he can save souls,
he could never touch mine.
My soul is as vast as an ocean,
and he’s too shortsighted to believe.



Standing and eating a hoagie
while figuring out what to do next.
Deciding who to trust, a lower or higher power
to save me from a terrible fate.

Waiting for the snow to stop falling,
flowers to bloom, the puppy to grow;
Waiting for the quake to break,
the lights to come back on,
the tsunami to drift away,

Stuck in a steel box with holes on top.
Changing status, changing clothes,
switching partners, switching passwords.
Impatience is the cloudy day on the beach,
waiting for the sun to rise,
the teenage girl to blossom into a woman,
the boy’s chin hair to mature into a beard.
Impatience is the insomniac lying in bed,
looking out the window, waiting for sleep to arrive.


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