Tuesday, June 18, 2013

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

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