Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Of He or She Who Hears It...






A slope soft-snowed with daisies and a lazy brook beneath
A summer-stroll while bitter cold strews stars on winter’s heath
A tempest, primed and potent in the steady, ready eyes
Of he or she who dares to dip a quill into thought’s sighs

A truth too keen to utter in the noise of stuttered speech
A hill soft-green where winter’s lean, blue late-day shadows reach
A world not fully fashioned yet within the stalwart gaze
Of he or she who dares to probe thought’s spark into full blaze

The baritone of low-flung cloud above mist-shrouded dell
And, oh my love, the telling of a tear that stilly fell
Where the hand is a Maestro and the silence like a sea
In he or she who wills the quill to spill in poetry

Who knows what touch will render; ah, a pen holds more than ink
As it corrals the splendor of thought-pictures, bronze-gray-pink
Where what is not yet written presses hard against the bones
Of he or she who bears a dam of waiting-to-be poems 

© Janet Martin

...to survive the ages; to be the little, brittle but dearly-loved book,
takes time.
A dream that did not die, birthed into book!
so, to the would-be-book-builder, don't give up!




2 comments:

  1. Ah, this is lovely and speaks to a poet's heart. "a pen holds more than ink," yes!

    ReplyDelete

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