A Poet's Lot

We do not ask for this

Beautiful torment

This dangling distraction

Of vowels and consonants

But we are lured and lavished

With their mystery; we are stirred

As we hunger to be ravished

By the perfect blend of word

And we cannot stop the whisper

Or the taunting of their mien

Are we servant; are we master?

We care not; but we are keened

For the taste of ink-filled fire

Ravaging the mundane blue

As we dance with the desire

Just to pen a line or two

Or three or four or perhaps twenty…

Look; who’s counting? matters not

As we strive to spill on paper

The hard-copy of our thought

As we dare to spill on paper

The hard-copy of our thought

This is our belov-ed labor

And it is the poet’s lot

This blessed, begging torment

To be word-smith to a thought

© Janet Martin

Somehow when I dip my hands in the sink, the scrub-bucket, the washing machine I pull out…a thought! This is the first day of ‘quiet-house’ all summer.