Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Poem...







As tender as the hour when dusk fills the wooded hill
And friendly as the flower on a winter window sill
Bigger than a belfry of books and smaller than a sigh
Ah poem, you are like a laughing brook, a butterfly

…a girl of half-past three or baby wee, you steal the heart
And ease upon the mind’s eye sentimental works of art
Like seasons swept to simper in the solace of the soul
Poem, you vex, you tease and please with syllabic cajole

You scoff at time, you touch but not with finger-tips, soft pink
Passion in every form smolders in storms of static ink
And in life’s racket cold and hurried you draw us aside
Poem, the darling of the pen, you fill meek men with pride

The way you move through they who pause to glory in your springs
Makes monarchs of everyday ‘us’; turns beggars into kings
A soulmate to the drifter, ageless lover, how you touch
Poem, a kindred spirit in a world that talks too much

A mentor when desire torments eyes with pomp and show
You teach the mouth to murmur, feet to stop, or at least slow
Modest, first glance can never guess by your plain dress of ink
How poem, humble poem is pen’s Masterpiece, I think

© Janet Martin

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