Conception of a Poem

If left un-wrought its weightless weight

Becomes to heavy for my thought

So I must spill its mystic thrill

To see what becomes of its jot

I cannot tell its mind or mien

But oh, it presses deep inside

Nor can I quell its aching swell

A rollicking and restless tide

The sky so blue, the thought of you

The dawn, the aftermath of storms

The wooing of a turtle dove

The memories that living forms

The holding on, the letting go

The love of mother and her child

The secret bliss of passion’s kiss

The midnight wind lonesome and wild

These are the drops that culminate

Until they cannot be suppressed

And I must heed where whispers plead

And pound the walls beneath my chest

And then, oh then with humble pen

The world unfolds beneath its quill

As agony and ecstasy

In poetry its longings spill

© Janet Martin