Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Of Almost-Poems

Ah troubadour, vexing the schemes of pen
You dangle unformed; vainly we beseech
Your laughter drifting just beyond our reach
A madrigal taunting the dreams of men

Almost, the wind combing the moon-brushed hill
Unravels your mute, mystic revelry
We glean the quiet, poised in poesy
But you evade the ink-breath in our quill

Elusive lover; will we ever know
The sweetness of your nectar, fancy-spun
A sparkle on the sea in glints of sun
A rush of vapor-ocean ebb and flow

Ah, troubadour of thought-blood left unshed
The compositions in your phantom sigh
Evokes a hunger in the poet’s eye
For all the rivers that remain unbled

© Janet Martin

Does it drive you crazy too...reaching for that thought that cannot be spelled?

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