Somewhat Like Morning...

 The landscape sprawls like a blank page, waiting for thought to spill its ink...

I sit and stare

This page is bare

Waiting for ink-curls

Shaped in word

Then word relays

Its gold and grays

As touch unfurls

Where heart is stirred

And hidden thought

Curves to the jot

Of trembling

Vulnerability

Whilst others read

What fingers bleed

Of want and need

In poetry

I’ve touched within

Time’s half-breath grin

The ‘almost’’ of

Discounted dreams

The have and hold

Of moment-gold

Is but a penny

In life-streams

This restless quill

Can never fill

Thought’s hungering

Mortality

Yet, ‘was’ and ‘is’

And hope’s kind kiss

Bleeds broken bliss

To poetry

I cannot stare

Too long; the air

Devours hours

Shamelessly

This barren page

Extends its stage

Soon touch will spill
In memory

Time's self-same star

Gleams where you are

And shines its little

Light on me 

I sense your lips

And fingertips

As ink-thought drips

In poetry

© Janet Martin