The Poet and her Pen

 A comfy chair, coffee, lake and a pen in hand; who could ask for anything more?

When she is gone from you

Or you too far from her

She bears its quiet blue

Without your written word

But still she craves your touch

For she cannot exist

Without the fearless recklessness

Of being almost kissed

You force no obligation

And she with tempered ease

Runs searching fingers over curves

Of want and memories

No chancellor condemns her

No jury sits in wait

Beneath the tune of shimmered noon

Sleeping on silver lake

She slips from dogged hours

And rigid rules of Time

As thought treads bracken-bowers

And sea-song’s rushing rhyme

She does not still the passion

Perplexing Duty's ream

Nor stems its tide; somewhere inside

She dares to dance and dream

When she is gone from you

Your absence keens the deep

Of farewell rending echoed deaths

Where formless poems sleep

Ah pen,what worlds you veil

She craves your humble due

For she is only half a girl

When she is gone from you

© Janet Martin

My family laughed long and loud when they saw my 'farewell' posted a week ago; 9and that farewell is there because when busyness compels me to withdraw I will, for a little;) But the truth is... I see and breathe a little more freely with a pen in my hand;  whether this is a curse or a blessing I cannot say.