‘Where do they (the poems) come from?’, asked
my friend Richard on Sunday morning, as he remarked at the amount of Another Porch titles
in his in-box.
They come from beneath, all around, overhead
As night to the light of a new day is wed
As new day unravels in blue, gray and gold
And colors the whispers that run through our hold
To cover with kisses and wishes the sigh
That flushes time’s clime with hello and good-bye
In constant outpouring of moments un-moored
They leap from a wellspring of Love Reassured
…or the clippety-clop on the tarmac of morn
From a four-horse team headed to fields to plant corn
From ‘peekaboo, baby’ and ‘how do you do?’
From cups made of lily all shiny with dew
From the how and the what and the why of this life
From love-lessons rendered to husband and wife
Where oft we embrace grace-lent blessings and such
Simply to feel them dissolve ‘neath our touch
They sparkle on raindrops that mirror the sky
They flicker on feather of finch flitting by
Or flutter like butterfly, buzz like a bee
Or sing like a hymn in a soon-memory
They croon in a pale halo-moon lullaby
They smile, giggle, weep, lilt, murmur and sigh
And taunt the poor poet haunted by the sound
Of an almost-poem wafting soft, all around
They splash in the dash of feet following us
As they try to tame adult hurry and fuss
They skim like a swallow and brim from bud-eaves
To lavishes bare limbs with the music of leaves
These precious word-rubies, these diamonds and pearls
Put on pretty dresses, sparkling eyes, golden curls
And sing ‘Jesus loves me’ and ring heaven’s bells
While over and under us poetry swells
…and spills from the hills green with spring, autumn-red
Or pristine with winter, or pink-clover mead
They tumble from heights where white clouds bumble by
They shimmer in whispers of willow-July
And beckon from bracken-swept hollow, they burst
From the echo of ages that sleeps in in its dust
And oft on the dark side of day they appear
To hush-a-bye mother and comfort her tear
They groan in the undertow stealing to naught
That which demands and commands utmost thought
They long like a lover or the wolf as it wails
And nobody answers save the wind-stricken dales
…or the flagstone of petals where flowers are lost
To the moody atonement of time, hour-tossed
In yellows and hellos and mourning dove coo
They come from ten-thousand pens primed with adieu
The yen of years, oh, and the laughter of lips
The tug-of-heart hunger and fond fellowships
They drive from our bearing the fear that would be
If not for the poem to keep company
In the nest of lark, in the dark of the dawn
In lattice-work lace on a sun-shadow lawn
In the ache of landscapes, November brown, bare
Or handshakes worn, frail and tender with time's care
Where do they come from and how, oh my
A well-spring of ocean, a belfry of sky
A river that runs through a quiver of days
Where Poet must seek to preserve it in phrase
While, all the while Time in svelte season-attire
Drums up old-new Wakening for pen to sire
Where do they come from, these poems that be?
Why, they are the offspring of God’s kind sympathy
© Janet Martin
This poem runs in the same vein as one written a while back entitled
Twilight With Tea
