When You're a SOYP Writer

Sometimes it’s the trees or the slant of the breeze

Or the shape of a shadow’s fall

It might be the moon or the baritone tune

Of rain on a late-autumn wall

Or, sometimes the fire is lit by a spire

Etched hard on the soft-dying day

Perhaps it’s the mist on a morn purple-kissed

Whispering nighttime away

It might your grin or that dint in your chin

The mutual touching of eyes

I’ve felt its spark when the room was full dark

Save for the brush of your sighs

It broods in the blue of dusk’s musk-avenue  

It leaps from the quick-fall of youth

Or sometimes the smile of an innocent child

Slams us with unblemished truth

Sometimes we are stirred by the slur of a word

Teasing and twisting the air

In shovels of dirt you revel; in hurt

You slide down night’s arabesque stair

Sometimes you wait on the old garden gate

Sometimes you roar like a fighter

That’s just how it is; poised on imminent bliss

When you’re an SOYP writer

© Janet Martin

They say there are two kinds of writers; the organize/plan mind or the seat of your pants kind.

I tend to be the latter,

but it doesn’t matter

‘cause it’s nice to exist

poised on imminent bliss!